[center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7rxl5KsPjs][i]”All things eventually come to Morr. By one way, or another.”[/i][/url][/center]

[center][img]https://images.artistrunwebsite.com/gallery/img_2067541475566840_large.jpg?1475566871[/img]
[sub]Style of side-chapel described.[/sub][/center]

A raven entered his view, clouding his vision as he darted his pupils around. Black, grey, and white were all he saw for a silent moment that seemed to last forever.

At once he opened his eyes, breathing hard. His eyes watered, the sting of harsh incense and candles lashing against him. His heart pounded and he mustered a cough. He nearly fell from where he sat as he pushed to his feet, the bare feet clutching to cold, damp stone. His robes furled at his ankles, his hood hanging low and pinning the collar against his neck.

The Altar before him was no more than a stone slab and an effigy of rock, carved as a gaunt figure holding a scythe in his left hand. Erwin pulled the collar from his neck, turning to leave the small side-chapel he inhabited.

The service in the main Chapel was still ongoing, a morning mass to Morr. Their chanting could be heard throughout the Great Cathedral of the Mourners, the grandest Abbey of Morr in the Empire besides that in great Altdorf itself.

Erwin slipped into his shoes at the end of the hall, and made towards the open door to his right. Entering the dining hall, he found the table immaculately set, ready for the ascetics which were praying to satisfy themselves upon. Loaves of rye bread, low-quality cheese, bowls with oats made of grain fit barely for a cock. And he’d lived this existence himself, for twenty-odd years of his own life.

There was no desire to stick around, not with his reputation. Erwin descended on the table, swiping a half-loaf of the rye and stuffing it into his mouth. He chewed, and swallowed the sourdough-leavened bread, nearly choking on the dryness in his gullet. He stole a gulp of wine from a goblet and then turned to make his escape.

There before him was all six-feet-one of an aged, bald man. His face was wrinkled and contorted into an ornery expression, and he had no facial hair to speak of, simply a scowl which scrutinized Erwin’s very being.

“Greetings, Master Reine-.” Erwin greeted the Abbot with the customary salute of Morr, pulling his hand down his face and throat as to simulate the last rites of the dying or dead.

“Not staying for the morning meal?” A nasally, agitated voice spoke from Abbot Reiner, the master of the Abbey of monks which accompanied the Cathedral.

“No, Mas-”

“Good.” A voice interrupted, holding up a hand, palm-inward. “I was just about to ask that you get on your way. You are still on your ‘pilgrimage’, you know.”

“Yes, Master. I was just leaving.” Erwin replied, attempting to be polite as one could be with stolen sourdough bread and a goblet in his hands.

The Abbot looked him up and down, and scowled harder than before.

“No matter. Depart at once.” The Abbot turned and left without another word.

Erwin looked on, flabbergasted. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect this outcome, but this was perhaps one of the only stays he’d gotten at a place of Morr where he’d been able to leave unharmed and unchallenged. Before he could jinx himself further, he stuffed the remainder of the bread into his mouth and downed the wine, setting the goblet back, heading towards the side entrance and out into the Gardens surrounding.

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Erwin found himself on the streets of Nuln at just the right time, it seemed. At first the clouds above were light, then dark. First the rain began a drizzle, then a downpour. Men and women fled the streets as the rain came down harder, leaving the Priest of Morr in his soaked black robes to wander the pathways unhindered.

The odd shopkeeper who had an awning casted a glance. Bar patrons from inside their open-window places of gathering shared words, some kind, some benign, almost all motivated by inebriation. Erwin walked on, until a building at the end of the street called out to him. His pale green eyes fixed on its exterior, and he thought back to what he was told.

He entered and was welcomed, extending the kindness back to the benefactor he was told to meet. He met at the booth, where already a plate-clad man and the rotund noble he’d met at the door seemed to be sat. He made room for himself letting his hood down to keep its wetness from his hair. Of his order: simple beer. From their house keg, the best they could muster.