Darkness dripped from the cave's ceiling into the hands of the waiting priestess. There was no hesitation as fingers better suited to praying raised the liquid to lips that had never known a man. She drained the water in one gulp, and cave juices dribbled down her dainty chin to soak the neckline of Reah's once-white robes.
This is so impure. She thought.
For a maiden of her order to consume such unsanctified waters was unheard of. For a high priestess of Thorolund to do so was sacrilege. But Reah of Thorolund—in her life considered for sainthood—didn't care (at least, not until she escaped)! Reah knew that she would need all of her strength to break free of this Tomb of the Giants, and drinking the sinful water of pagan alignment was preferable to nothing at all. When her thirst was satisfied—when the needs of her body were met—she allowed for herself to return to its true and intended purpose: prayer.
Supplication was what she was created for, and the forsaken woman took part in the silent communion of her belief that fed the mind and filled the soul. The Gods would hear her.
But she was alone.
Legend stated that the Tomb of the Giants contained the Right of Kindling, some great miracle of old that possessed the capability of renewing the dying magic of the land. It was for this reason that Mother Church had sent crusade after expedition after team after suicide to these caves. It was for this reason that Reah was here today.
There was no light.
The powerful cleric could have any plea for illumination answered, for she walked in truth. The malevolent creatures of this place did not share that sentiment, however, and she feared that such a miracle would only invite death. Reah of Thorolund was not unacquainted with the lord of this domain; He had visited each of her traveling companions in turn, and precious tears fell to the ground as the young maiden remembered.
Vince Vanderbreet.
Reah lowered her head in reverence of the great warrior. Vince had been the most experienced of her expedition; his knowledge of Lordran was paralleled only by a deep understanding of scriptures. The priestess remembered when she had first been granted leave of the monastery of her youth. Vince of Thorolund had been assigned as her vicar, and welcomed the wide-eyed child with open arms.
The ever-increasing secular populace had only recently lost the Second Uprising, and dear Vince taught Reah how to construct the temporary shelters that all too quickly quickly became an established presence outside of the walled cities.
Nico Kinderoc.
Even his name elicited a giggle from the stoic cleric. It was a sweet laugh—an innocent laugh— that belonged to the same species of sound that drove men insane with desire. The gesture was entirely foreign to the forgotten cave. It echoed off the walls and brushed the dust of centuries from their perch in the sky, shaking loose tiny waterfalls of dirt that fell around the white figure. Reah's eyes flashed in the darkness, and she covered her mouth like a guilty child as the priestess was transported to the enchantment of a treasured memory.
Nico was beyond furious. His portly frame rumbled in displeasure as he shouted at the figure that occupied the opposite side of the campfire.
"What do you mean, 'better?"
Vince took the unsteady breath of a man who was fighting to maintain his self-control. His forehead was beaded in sweat, and the cleric was drawing in great gasps of air. The look was identical to when Vince had engaged—and lost—a lengthy theological debate, and Reah knew that he had grown tired of the argument.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'BETTER?" Nico topped off the scream by pointing an accusatory finger.
"What happened?" Reah interjected. "Why are you two fighting?"
"This man—this creature whom lacks tastebuds—thinks that boiled red moss is better than blooming purple moss tea!"
"Now that's a silly argument. Two elite clerics of Thorolund…fighting over a drink?" Reah giggled. "What could have possibly started this tragedy?"
"It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion." Vince started. "Red moss tea can fortify vitality and prevent—."
"But it tastes terrible!" Nico interrupted. "We were drinking moss clump tea. I was drinking blooming purple moss tea, and Vince was chocking on red clump tea. I told him that my purple tea was better than his red tea, and he got pretty mad about that. He loves red tea. But I don't care. I know that purple tea is better, and I will always agree with myself. Purple tea."
The two had both passed out long before the night was done. Vince and Nico dared each other that they could drink the most of the other's preference of tea, and Reah had presided as judge while the two filled their portly bellies with the venom of a dare made in friendship.
That was exactly a year ago. Reah noted.
It was of the time when the Holy Constellation aligned, the highest of holidays in Thorolund. The first of the Gods were born on this day, and it was rightly dedicated to be shared with the institution second only in importance to the Church: family. Like all priestesses of the Way of the White, Reah had been dedicated as a youth. She never knew "family" of a literal sense, but the maiden possessed an abundance of love in in the relationships she enjoyed with the other nuns of the monastery.
Reah had been happy. Even in the obscurity of her current existence, she had but to close her eyes in order to enjoy the love and affection of a campfire long since gone cold.
Reah remembered the bond that had formed while waiting for the tea to boil.
Reah remembered the sharing of suffering that had allowed for her to come this far.
Reah remembered her courage.
The priestess braced herself against a stalagmite and commanded shaking legs to stand. Fingers better suited for praying clenched a small dagger in front of her, and Reah smoothed out the robes that had carried her so far.
Robes that will carry me farther! The woman vowed.
Reah of Thorolund knew—better than anyone—what the truth of a miracle would reveal. Nico's headless body had been thrown into this cave before her, and it was the priestesses' bodyguard who had cushioned her fall and imparted a last blessing upon her ivory robes. Vince had also been defeated by the demon that waited above, and Reah remembered cowering in terror as the monster feasted upon the flesh of her still-living companion.
"I resolve to do good deeds…"
The monastery's organs booms in Reah's ears. Once again she was the wide-eyed child, speaking as the congregation was weeping. 'Death! Death! Death!' the organs pipe.
"I resolve to follow the God's creeds…"
The tune inundates her soul with the melancholy of a requiem, and rises to a crescendo inside the priestess. Tears stream down the manifestation of beauty that was Reah's face. Unscarred. Pure. White. Beautiful in everything but its thoughts.
"I absolve darkness, Lordran's blight…"
Reah blindly strides forward. Her steps fall to the beat of humanity's last right of passage; she walks with the absolute confidence of the faithful. Today she will pass through her last fog door, and that is the portal of existence on this world. There is only one cost: mortality. Her soul is prepared.
"In the name of the Gods: CAST LIGHT!"
A hundred skeletons surrounded her. A hundred skeletons wore the smiles of the dead, and a hundred skeletons descended upon the poor, beautiful, rich, white, sinful, maiden that was Reah of Thorolund. Their bones clattered in the cacophony of a symphony, and ensured that the saint's impossible struggle would echo across the caverns. Then the dagger was sliced from the priestesses' hands, and Reah fell to her knees.
There was nothing the woman could do, and so Reah prayed. Fingers laced in the kiss of the clergy, and her ivory neck bowed in the humble admission of the faithful. Reah knew she was finished, but there were no tears, no frown that marred the perfection that was face, because she had been given the greatest gift of all:
Hope.
A giant skeleton stood above her. Its sword was locked in both arms. The colossus in life that was a colossus in death clacked its jaw in exclamation as its blade plummeted towards the exposed neck. The music that had been the backdrop of Reah's days in the monastery slowed to a trickle of notes. Low rumbles escalated to the high-pitched tunes of the angels, and the musical that Reah fought to screamed for conclusion.
The requiem paused. Silence.
The absence of sound was the most perfect thing Reah had ever heard. In that moment, Vince and Nico still sipped tea around a campfire. In that moment, the priestess continued to serve the Gods in the communion of prayer. She did not know what she was praying for, but Reah knew that the silence before her death was part of the answer. The silence was not like the absence of sound that was the void, but a lull in the conversation before lovers lean in for the kiss. The silence was not like the world without music that was this realm of death, but a great peace that settles when rival nations have forgotten of war.
The silence was not unlike a miracle.
By now the echoes of conflict had reached the farthest caverns of the dungeon. Reah was the last of the Way of the White, and the reality of her legacy struck a chord in the spirits of the priestesses' audience. For centuries, crusade after expedition after team after suicide entered and died in these caves. For centuries still they would quest for the ideals that were their gods, but that is not important. What did matter was this day, this hour, and this fight.
The blade continued to fall, and the organs resumed their playing. Music hummed in the stalagmites, and stalactites crashed to the floors as symbols in the great orchestra that had been transposed over the dungeon. The musicians were spirits of clerics old, bound to the struggle of an impossible quest, and their conductor was supplicating Reah.
The skeletal executioner's blade fell to the ground, and with it—the last notes of the requiem. Reah's Prayer, too, had finished, and the multitude of fallen souls thundered in applause.
The priestess was unharmed. The giant skeleton collapsed when its own sword shattered its skull, and the army of skeletons took pause. The hundreds of Undead had never known such a sound to exist. The thousands of monsters had never known such a light to exist. The millions of shades had never known such a miracle to exist, and Reah knew that they would never again know the truth, would never again hear the clause:
"Wrath of the Gods."