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Lore posted:

The abbey ceased to be a quiet place. Cries of pain coming from even cell pierced the walls. The old friar knew he would be next,so he got up from his cot, where he had been huddled, and glanced at the few items that lay on his table, most of them mementos from his life before joining the Order. He wanted to be kissed by the Miracle while immersed in those gentle thoughts. Triggering most memories were some small balls of wax, now covered in dust, that he used to enlargen by picking up wax from the candles during processions.

Lore posted:

His body was immobilised, and amid cries of repentance, his skin began to turn whiter and whiter until it finally became limestone. As he was about to become a complete statue, in a final sigh his tears softened one of his eyes that he managed to separate himself from the rest of the body by falling to the ground. Then we discreetly moved her rigid body from the lime from her cell to the lower parts of the archicatedral along with the other forbidden statues, we put a wide loom over her so that no one else would know that under her would sleep, punished by the Miracle, the Great Scribe.

Lore posted:

All those who have wanted to isolate themselves, all those who have freely locked themselves away as a chosen way of life, will have the blessing of the Miracle. No one can serve two masters: either you serve the Miracle, or you serve the world. When you are in this cloister, remember these words, sister.

Lore posted:

Well, I remember it with great sorrow. Engracia was one of us, born in Albero like you and me. She was peculiar, however, because every day, after a day gathering olives, she stayed in the mountains while the rest of us left. Some said they had seen her cry, and that's why she stayed among the olive trees, to be alone with her sorrow. Many years of drought razed the land back then, but although the other crops dried up and died, the olive trees on our hill would not: they remained the best harvests, to everyone's surprise. This gave rise to the rumour that the olive trees were being watered by the girl's very tears. One morning, we found the girl dead, leaning on one of the olive trees: whether she died of sorrow we will never know. We buried her in a small cave next to the olive trees where she cried. The next day, the olive trees has withered.

Lore posted:

As Gemino traversed the path of the Frozen Olive Trees with the rest of the damned, towards the terrible hollow metal statues where those that awaited would die abandoned, he stepped barefoot on a fallen olive that had not yet disappeared under the snow. Without drawing attention, he picked it up and squeezed it in his hands, knowing it would be the last thing he'd treasure.

Santo Credo, Verse III posted:

The door to The Mother will open if the three wounds were to be joined together. The Mother would suffer a crack. The enclosure would end up broken, and the forbidden would be profaned.

Confessions of Tirso, Part 6 posted:

Ever since then, our pious kisses have saved hundreds from the affection of the Miracle that ravages these lands, and from then on our congregation has been called that of the Kissers of Wounds.

Lore posted:

"Esdras, you say?" spoke the soldier, "That madman could not bear the death of his sister. He's still talking to her as if she were there beside him. Sometimes it even seems as if they were arguing. He's long gone and hasn't been seen since."

Lyrics to 'Saeta Dolorosa' posted:

"Let me grieve, let me suffer
For one wound on me is one less on you

Let me bleed, let me feel
For a cut on me is a caress for you

Let me cry, let me moan
As all of my tears are only for me."