Father Ariandel was resting over his bowl; head hung low. One of his frail arms were cut; the crimson blood oozing into the golden basin. "I see flame, flame, flickering, once again. Not enough blood yet shed. My flail... Bring me my flail." He called out in a rough yet tired voice. He lifted his head to gaze upon the stranger who approached; one he had not seen before. "Ahh, oh. Bring Friede to me, please. Canst thou not see? The flame, flickering once again. Soon will it surge. I can see it, feel it..."