The Cathedral Sanctus Septimus of St. Ena of Somni, as Sunday said, was a peculiar structure.
Structurally and aesthetically far removed from anything in the Golden Hour, or even the entirety of Penacony itself, it gave you the strange sensation of stepping several Amber Eras into the past. Pillars lined the expansive room, once a vibrant yellow but now rendered an unsightly brown by the ravages of time. The hard stone floor was coated in a thick layer of dust, as were the long wooden benches, which you learned were called pews. A gentle chill wafted throughout the Cathedral, and on either side, chromatic stained-glass windows adorned the space between the pillars and the semi-circular ceiling above. These windows were filled of vibrant colours, depicting somewhat abstract images of people and hands clasped together.
The most fascinating thing was the symbol at the end of the Cathedral opposite the wide main doors: of a man clad only in a cloth, nailed by his hands and feet to a wooden cross, with a crown of sharp thorns entwined around his head. In the seven minutes you have spent in here, the man on the cross stands out as the most striking aspect.
Hence, she had retreated into the shadows of the confessional. The darkness was infinitely preferable, as her role. Plus, any closer to the Nameless such as yourself, and there was an increased likelihood of her extracting relevant information. Exhaling loudly and deeply through her nose, she closed her eyes and leaned back into the confessional, rubbing her chin as she attempted to distance herself from the situation.
The sound of the second confessional door opening captured her attention, and the rising of the hairs on the back of her neck plus the broad shadow crossing the translucent screen that separated the booths told her precisely who had taken a seat across from her.
“Come to me, my Kinship. I have sought *THEIR* presence with us,” Sunday murmured demurely, before mindfully continuing, “as long as you are sincere, absolution will be granted.”