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Lore posted:

Watch them. Watch as they climb up the burning ash. Watch how they crawl like hungry beasts. The ash swallows them one by one, insatiable. Such is the faith that the Miracle stirs in them. It makes them climb towards the Turned Throne by promising them a communion that will, indeed, happen, but not in the way they expect. Soon, when all of them have been swallowed up, they will be reborn, filled with a faith that neither you nor I will get to comprehend.

The Works and Graces of the Sorrowful Miracle, Second Verse posted:

The wind blew strongly through the fractures of the cathedral that the Great Tree had originated, lifting the ash creating dense gray clouds, hiding the whole Mother Church and drowning her in a deep darkness of lead. The ground began to tremble. Then a terrible cry was heard from the depths of the mountain of ash. And that cry was joined by more and more. Guttural screams, animal roars, monsters, and one which was heard above all: the scream of an old man, which resounded gravely, as out of the throat of a giant.

Lore posted:

The master gathered us all together, like every morning, and said: "A genuine genuflecting pilgrim must never divert their eyes from the earth they walk on. For this is our rule."

Lore posted:

The ashen grey air lashed us. We could hardly breathe, and remained locked up in the parish, placing damp cloths on the doors and windows. We were suffocating. Then, one fateful night, there was a knock on the door, and I could see a woman who, without a word, had placed on the floor a cloth with patches of pearly moss on it. I stared at her in disbelief, as she appeared to have smeared the moss on her nostrils. Then, turning around, the woman left. Hopeful, I recounted what I had witnessed to the brothers, and we decided to spread the substance on our noses as she had done. It wasn't long before we were able to breathe normally, and we waited without fear until the ashy, leaden sky would regain its blue colour.

Lore posted:

Captain, We have been in this black fog for what we now believe to be five days. Nothing moves, nothing lives, nothing breathes here. All is echoes and shadows. Not even the boat creaks or sways on these oily black waters. And nor is there any sign of the Serpent. We feel as if we are slowly sinking, for the reflection of our tired and emaciated faces on the waters surface seems, with each passing moment, to be even closer. This will no doubt be our grave, there is no way back. We pray that this message in a bottle reaches you. It has been an honour to serve under you. May the sea have mercy on us.