More Yharnam elevators. Morgaine couldn't bear the weight of the world pressing down on her as she ascended further. Although she couldn't really see outside of the vertical tube through which they traveled, she could certainly feel the sensation. Her body knew that she was being lifted, and knew that it was wrong. As swiftly as they went, it was hard even to keep standing. She instinctively went down to a crouch, before realizing how absurd she looked and standing straight back up. Dietrich mumbled something to her, but through the din of the gears scraping together she could barely hear it, only getting the impression that he is somehow displeased. Not peculiar, she supposed, nodding in response and pretending not to be confused. He hasn't been pleased at all since they arrived at this place. Now thinking about it, he hasn't been pleased at all at any time in which she knew of him. What a sad existence that must be. Not that she couldn't sympathize, trapped in here watching tiny flashes of light zip past them, disappearing below the floor after the brief seconds in which they arrived.

Eventually, the ride ended and the pair of them stepped out into a grand and amazingly long hall. Amazing was certainly the right word for it; all of this replaced the austerity of a church for the opulence of a palace. Red velvet carpets, beautiful statues wrought into the shapes of tortured people, and everything in between gilded in gold and glittering in the faint moonlight that entered in from above somewhere. The light itself seemed to bend and twist unnaturally, or at least, not by any metric of nature that Morgaine had come to know. It was even warm in here, the first time she'd felt some actual warm air since she'd stepped foot into the city. Is this the only pleasant spot in Yharnam?

"Oedon, look at this," she drawled, doing a full turn around to look at everything. Would that she could stay longer, but alas. Dietrich led her purposefully across the hall, not even taking a second to admire their surroundings. All business as usual, she supposed. Mayhaps he'd seen it all before. 

Through twists and turns they traveled, in grey stone walkways leading this way and that, barely illuminated unlike the previous hall. Finally, they emerged, into a beautiful field of flowers. They swayed gently, despite the presence of any wind, but strangely, that didn't seem strange to her. In the midst stood a frail old man, dressed in a more accented white garb than the monochromatic white of the Churchmen. Morgaine was struck by how apt Dietrich's earlier description of Vicar Harold had been. He was a nice old man, and she could trust him.

"Err, good day. Master Vicar, sir," she called out to him from her place on the walkway. Her voice carried over in a soft echo that emanated through the walls itself, it seemed. "I'm happy enough to be as well. This here is lovely, your garden. Do you grow these yourself?" She felt like she could talk to him, more than she could talk to anyone else. Even her provincial accent came through stronger.