Abaddon appeared within a church outside of America.
It was an old, run-down cathedral filled with dust and cobwebs.
Sunlight poured in through a cracked stained glass window. The color of the room was distorted into a reddish-blue hue.
There is a figure kneeling at the altar. A woman.
Her form is covered only by a white shroud.
Abaddon can see a tanned hand using a single candle to light others on the altar.
Abaddon shuffles his feet. The woman finally hears him.
"…I knew that mortals found prayer to be a scary task. To wish to be heard so desperately, yet unsure if one is even being listened to. I knew, yes, but… I think experiencing it for myself has shed new light on the matter. It is most frightening indeed."
The woman stood and turned around.
She was elderly. In both spirit and flesh.
Her wrinkled skin was not without its own grace and elegance. Bits of her black hair seemed to peek past her headwrap.
Her eyes were tired, yet full of emotion and compassion.
