Alma marched slowly on, listlessly following the same road she would tread every time she would go visit her sister. The difference being that this time, she would be taking a small detour on the Church grounds. There was a darkened path away from the public areas that was seldom visited by any living soul, the end of which opened up into a spectacularly dreary cemetery. Hundreds of headstones decorated the grim graveyard, the place where all of Malachias buried their dead. An ornate ivory building rose up among them—the gorgeously macabre mausoleum where clergy and royalty alike find their final resting place. It was this building that Alma had been directed to. Guardian statues of Macha’s night-gaunts stood watch at the gated entrance to the cemetery—blank-faced, winged creatures of myth that roam the dark skies of other planets. Macha is said to have a personal cadre of them at her disposal, but no one is sure as to exactly what she does with them.
The three walked the path past the gate in silence. Alma ignored the deathly air around them, pushing past the hundreds of bodies buried in the ground without even a second glance. Qu’l-Nia looked around with a strange sense of curiosity. She hadn’t thought about it, but it had been so long since she had any sort of sense towards mortality and now it seemed to be an almost daily occurrence to her ever since she arrived. It was a complex thrill that she couldn’t decide whether to affirm or deride. Hwalín, meanwhile, had seen death so many times in her life that it was just another ordinary step in life. She knew that every elf she’d ever known would all always be waiting for her in the Beryllands.
According to Hwalín, the wake had been held inside the church before her sister's empty casket was transported down into the building. Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to travel along inside as entry was forbidden to non-immediate families. The two had watched from afar as Alma's parents descended deep into the building along with other members of the Church. Now, Alma had reached the cold, marble doors of the mausoleum where she braced herself before entering, leaving her two companions to watch from afar once again. Rows of room and marble plaques lined the wall, guarding the bodies of the dead devout—priestesses that went on to Cockaigne to sit in Macha’s embrace. Alma wasn’t exactly sure where to go within this sepulchral vault, she had been told of someone that kept watch here that she might ask for directions. She refused to peek into any more of the rooms around her after having been met with strange, stone monuments and statues the first few times she had decided to peer inside. Black, stone figures of miniature pleurants in hooded cloaks carrying the petrified body of some unknown religious figure filled the center of each room. It was enough to creep out the young ex-soldier, forcing her to pick up the pace as she rounded the corner to the entrance of the longest hallway yet. In the back amongst the shadowed backdrop, she could barely make out a figure standing guard. She had taken it for another statue, as it seemed to stand completely still but as she moved closer, she had gradually begun to recognize a soldier of the Sacred Seven. It was the Raining Hound, Tiberius.
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“S-Sir! Hello!” Alma awkwardly saluted him. “Y-You’re Master Tiberius, sir! I’d recognize you anywhere!” She chuckled nervously. "What am I saying? Of course you know who you are. Why am I telling you? It’s just such a surprise to see you here. To come face to face with a Sacred Seven in any sort of capacity. It’s an honor. A privilege even!”
He stayed silent. Whatever expression was hidden behind the veil around his face was a mystery. She marveled at his imposing frame, unmoving and unwavering. The technological marvel in the shape of a trident gripped firmly in his hand. A hardened, stoic representation of Malachias’s might.
He’s so cool!
“Guarding the old catacombs, eh? I guess they couldn’t give the task to just anyone. Who else but the descendent of the architect of the damn thing! Anyway. I’m looking for my sister’s tomb. I can’t find it anywhere around here. Her name was- is Zulema Mesial. Her funeral was held yesterday. I was told she was taken here where they lay the priestesses to rest. Maybe you can point me in the right direction?”
An eerie silence hung over them. Alma stared at him, trying to discern his intent while simultaneously admiring the scarlet tinge of his armor while she still had the chance. After a few moments, he moved aside and inserted his trident into three spherical locks embedded in the door behind him. A dank, musty odor escaped from the pitch-black corridor that had just opened. Inside, a set of moist stone stairs led downwards into the catacombs of the mausoleum.
“She’s down below?” questioned Alma. “I don’t understand. I thought my sister was just a regular priestess. I had heard the catacombs were reserved for sisters of some renown. What was Zula not telling me?” She saluted the man once more before descending down into the dark of the stygian crypt.