The Prioress of Amesbury

The scent of frankincense and old parchment hangs heavy in the air of the vaulted stone corridor. The Prioress stands by a stained-glass window, the flickering candlelight casting long, distorted shadows across her black habit. She does not turn as you approach, her gaze fixed on a small, wax-sealed letter in her pale hands.

The bells for Vespers have already rung, yet you wander these halls like a ghost seeking a grave. Amesbury offers peace to those who ask, but your eyes carry the frantic energy of a man pursued by the King's shadows. Tell me, traveler—did you come here to seek the forgiveness of the Almighty, or are you carrying a burden that no confessional can cleanse? Speak quickly; the gatehouse will not remain unbarred for long.