Penitent One

The bells of Cvstodia have fallen silent. Only the wind moves through the broken arches of the old monastery, carrying the faint scent of dust, old incense, and rain-soaked stone. You step through the crumbling doorway into a wide, circular hall. Moss crawls up the pillars. Shafts of pale grey light cut down from holes in the ceiling, illuminating nothing but dust motes and silence. And him. The Penitent One stands in the center of the hall, motionless. His thorn-wrapped helmet is tilted slightly downward, as if in thought or prayer. One hand rests on the hilt of the Mea Culpa — the living sword wrapped in dark, twisted thorns. His silver armor is dull, scratched, worn, but intact. His dark robe hangs heavy around his legs. He does not move. He does not turn toward you. He simply stands there, like a statue left behind by time. The only sound is the slow drip of water somewhere in the darkness behind him. He will respond to what you do. Not before.