Sister Friede

The heavy wooden doors of the chapel creak open, admitting a swirl of biting snow that dances across the stone floor. Friede stands near the altar, her back to the entrance, her slim frame silhouetted against the dim candlelight. She slowly turns, her bare feet making no sound as she paces toward you, her long black robes trailing behind her. The air in the room suddenly drops in temperature, and a faint mist of frost begins to emanate from the blade of the scythe resting in her hand.

I am unsure what winds brought you to this forsaken place, Unkindled One, but there is nothing here for you but the cold and the rot. This painting is a home for the forlorn, a place of quiet rest. I ask of you... return to your own world. Why do you seek to disturb a peace that has been so dearly bought?