> 1
"We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair"

2 Corinthians ch4.v9St. Venerius
The dying musk of incense troubles the ambience in the colossal hall where elaborate beams rise like an enormous ribcage, cradling the ancient temple like a virgin with her deformed Son. The throng of dusty layered pews unfolds forward, reaching out in broken lines halted only by the raised altar to the west, and a forgotten architect's long dissolved ambitions. Slight threads of moonlight are purposefully suppressed by the many stained images that stare aimlessly from between their wrought-iron frames into the vacuous confines of the hall, casting small shadows upon the confessional to the north. Eyes open, and intense in sculpture, the abused body of Christ, draped in thrall over the crude device of the crucifixion, surveys nothing from high behind the altar, accepting you without comment.

> w
You move west.
The Altar
Tainted by the heavy sting of stale incense, the altar sprawls over the loosely carpeted stage like an unfurled flag. The speaker's podium stands uneasily under the silk-woven drape, and atop a solitary candle sheds its wax as the glimmer of lights casts amorphous shadows everywhere and nowhere. On the south wall, the mammoth base of the baroque organ tangles with the higher darkness, its monolithic pipes gone into the gloom where sound should not matter. Laid sideways, by the northern edge, a modest table, swathed with a violet cloth, plays host to a decorative coffin; its wreath, and wilting carnations adding a further deterioration to the ambience. Peering in from his glass imprisonment, the exalted form of Christ warps the moonlight, wrapping its lustre over wood, stone, and textile without division.

> x podium
Crafted from wood long warped, the uneasy podium pitches slightly to the left, a huge white drape dressing it. A small candleholder plays host to a burning candle; its wax slipping slowly down its length, the orange flicker casting temporary shadows within the greater darkness. Hiding behind the stand, the weary figure of the cleric cowers.
Press any key to continueIntroducing Father Wessels

"It's too late to repent, child," the priest says, a Teutonic rattle peppering his voice. "God has no time tonight; for you, for me, for this whole damned world."
Brushing back his silver hair, the old man holds out a red book towards you, proffering it, waiting for acceptance. You duly accept. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment, before the small flakes readjust themselves, it reads: 'Five rats came running from the bricks, drawn by fear: three were white in innocence, the others a diseased black.' The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment it reads: 'First into the fray was a white rat, it's heavy paws carrying it halfway." The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment it reads: 'The second rat, rattus rattus, a filthy beast indeed, scurried quickly into play." The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment it reads: 'Another of the vermin, kindred to only that before, showed the most ambition, across the dusty floor." The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment it reads: 'The final rat found fear as it began to cross the floor, stopping abruptly, and moving on no more." The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment it reads: 'Penultimately, an innocent, started its eastward journey, and was crushed against the floor."
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read hymnbook
Specks of softened crayon willow from the stale pages, decreasing the ability to read the black scrawl. Bizarrely, the flakes return to the page, forming new phrases. At the moment it reads: 'Each rat was crushed, by God, in this very order. This was His will."
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x organ
Preserved throughout the Industrial and Modern Ages the gargantuan body of the organ shows no signs of imminent retirement. Its brass foundations are firmly rooted underneath the floorboards of the stage, their gloss capturing the candlelight; the distorted radiance making freak forms, demonic variations. The numerous keys stretch over the panel, their colours lovingly polished, and eager to delight. And reaching up as if permanently yawning, the myriad pipes tease the darkness, offering nothing but the promise of sound.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> play organ
Although the polished keys beg to be played, the keyboard seems to be broken. Small grunts fill the air as you try to press each key. The fifth octave, however, has five keys that seem to work: C, D#, F, G, and A#.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> press key f
On pressing the F key a harmonic tone rumbles through the pipes, rising to the upper reaches of the cathedral.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> play d#
On pressing the D# key a harmonic tone winds upwards through the pipes, rising to the upper reaches of the cathedral.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> play a#
On pressing the A# key a harmonic tone rumbles through the pipes, rising to the upper reaches of the cathedral.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> play g
On pressing the G key a harmonic tone rumbles through the pipes, rising to the upper reaches of the cathedral.
The palms of your hands begin to ache; their purple scars itch to open and in time, do. Small drips of blood ooze from stressed capillaries, manipulating the scars; recrafting them.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> play c
On pressing the C key a harmonic tone, stronger than the previous four, rumbles through the pipes, rising to the upper reaches of the cathedral. Unseen reverberations occur in the higher gloom, evidenced only by strange gratings and falling dust.
One of the organ's huge pipes plays host to the continuous echos that haunt it, and is unsettled from its antique sentry. The great tube falls northwards without dignity striking one of the higher beams which in turn falls in the reverse direction, crippling the baroque instrument. Further rubble falling from the upper reaches strikes the walls surrounding the organ uncovering a small passage, unseen for an indefinite period, that hungrily sucks the shifting light of the candle.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get candleholder
Carefully, you take possession of the candleholder, holding it boldly before you. A few drips of wax splash neatly on the floor, resolving quickly to a state of cool.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> d
You move down.
The Cellar
Spatterings of dust shock the air within the gloom scarred cellar. The candle's unsteady light casts an eerie warmth over the scattered furnishings, picking out the cobwebbed face of a rotten cabinet that hosts numerous bottles and beaten tins. A length of rope, looped many times, hangs from a perch shabbily nailed to a dusty area of the northern wall; while a furious drip harangues the quiet, forming a sizable pool on the floor to the east. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get rope
Slowly, surely, you unravel the rope from the perch.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> open cabinet
With a painful creak, the cabinet opens .
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x cabinet
The warped cabinet - layered in dust; coated in cobwebs - hosts a number of jars, their sloppy labels showing strange script in an almost illegible handwriting. The bottom half of the cabinet, almost rotted, somehow manages to keep hold of its open door, the rusty hinge showing incredible spirit. Inside, awash with cobwebs an old tin of grease begs to be taken.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get tin of grease
Reaching into the rotten cabinet you retrieve the tin of grease.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get tins
You can't take the tins!
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> u
You move up.
The Altar
Tainted by the heavy sting of stale incense, the altar sprawls over the loosely carpeted stage like an unfurled flag. The speaker's podium stands uneasily under the silk-woven drape, the soft imprint from your candleholder's rest still visible. On the south wall, the mammoth base of the baroque organ tangles with the higher darkness, its monolithic pipes gone into the gloom where sound should not matter. Laid sideways, by the northern edge, a modest table, swathed with a violet cloth, plays host to a decorative coffin; its wreath, and wilting carnations adding a further deterioration to the ambience. Peering in from his glass imprisonment, the exalted form of Christ warps the moonlight, wrapping its lustre over wood, stone, and textile without division. Father Wessels stands by the podium, rifling through a Bible as if composing his next sermon. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> e
You move east.
St. Venerius
The dying musk of incense troubles the ambience in the colossal hall where elaborate beams rise like an enormous ribcage, cradling the ancient temple like a virgin with her deformed Son. The throng of dusty layered pews unfolds forward, reaching out in broken lines halted only by the raised altar to the west, and a forgotten architect's long dissolved ambitions. Slight threads of moonlight are purposefully suppressed by the many stained images that stare aimlessly from between their wrought-iron frames into the vacuous confines of the hall, casting small shadows upon the confessional to the north. Eyes open, and intense in sculpture, the abused body of Christ, draped in thrall over the crude device of the crucifixion, surveys nothing from high behind the altar, accepting you without comment. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> n
You move north.
Confessional
Captured within the stuffy confessional the sticky musk of incense clings desperately to the walls. A seat, cushioned with red silk, beckons for use, its thin threads lounging down to the dusty floor. Beside a small cabinet bearing a small verse, a series of scratches lighten the wall, their freshness stale; their meaning more questionable. Through the rusty gauze staring blindly into the next booth, the audible whispers of long neglected ghosts seek the solace of your ear. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> look under seat
Underneath the cushioned seat there are vast quantities of dust gathering in an almost level cushion. Cunningly strapped to the underside there is a rusty blade of approximately five inches.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get knife
You loosen the rusty blade from its hiding place, pocketing it carefully.
Siezed by a sudden uncontrollable shaking your hands stiffen, each finger stretching out as the pain pulses through them...and then they relax. The punctures on your hands have widened slightly, the capillary blood rushing out faster than before, forming like sudden red roses. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> open tin of grease with knife
While being successful at levering the tin of grease open with the knife, the pressure passing through your hands causes them to erupt. Blood flows more comfortably from the open holes, splashes to the floor and is readily sucked into the ether by the spirits that lurk throughout the cathedral, or by the cathedral itself.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> open cabinet
Despite the tight hinge on the cabinet you manage to open it.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x cabinet
The small cabinet lies open, a selection of hooks jut out from the felt lining. On one hook, a brass key gently wavers in an mysterious draught.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get key
Either the key, or the hook, has become rusted. The key does not slide over the end of the hook.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> use grease on hook
Taking the tin of grease in one bloody hand you apply some of its sticky contents to the hook.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get key
The key is slightly tricky to remove from its perch but soon, with the aid of the grease, slides off.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> s
You move south.
St. Venerius
The dying musk of incense troubles the ambience in the colossal hall where elaborate beams rise like an enormous ribcage, cradling the ancient temple like a virgin with her deformed Son. The throng of dusty layered pews unfolds forward, reaching out in broken lines halted only by the raised altar to the west, and a forgotten architect's long dissolved ambitions. Slight threads of moonlight are purposefully suppressed by the many stained images that stare aimlessly from between their wrought-iron frames into the vacuous confines of the hall, casting small shadows upon the confessional to the north. Eyes open, and intense in sculpture, the abused body of Christ, draped in thrall over the crude device of the crucifixion, surveys nothing from high behind the altar, accepting you without comment. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> w
You move west.
The Altar
Tainted by the heavy sting of stale incense, the altar sprawls over the loosely carpeted stage like an unfurled flag. The speaker's podium stands uneasily under the silk-woven drape, the soft imprint from your candleholder's rest still visible. On the south wall, the mammoth base of the baroque organ tangles with the higher darkness, its monolithic pipes gone into the gloom where sound should not matter. Laid sideways, by the northern edge, a modest table, swathed with a violet cloth, plays host to a decorative coffin; its wreath, and wilting carnations adding a further deterioration to the ambience. Peering in from his glass imprisonment, the exalted form of Christ warps the moonlight, wrapping its lustre over wood, stone, and textile without division. Father Wessels stands by the podium, rifling through a Bible as if composing his next sermon. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x coffin
Made from a dusty blue fibreglass the oversized casket sits uncomfortably upon the table. Simple brass knuckles hang down to ease the pallbearers' purpose. A white cloth adourned with a cobalt thread, like the stains on fine China arches over the coffin's lid, a few tassles hanging over the brass lock. .
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> open coffin with key
Pushing the brass key into the coffin's lock, a few spurts of blood - from your seeping hands - splash out over the fibreglass shell as you turn the key, registering success with a reassuring 'click'.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> open coffin
Taking hold of two brass knuckles on the coffin's edge you pull the lid smoothly open.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x coffin
Made from a dusty blue fibreglass the oversized casket sits uncomfortable upon the table. Simple brass knuckles hang down to ease the pallbearer's purpose. The open lid of the coffin casts a light shadow over the well-dressed corpse that lies within, it's solemn repose surrealised through the large hammer it grips. .
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get hammer
With a tender respect for the dead you reach into the coffin and loosen the hammer from the corpse's grip. A few drops of blood from your hand land upon the dead man's finery, quickly staining.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> e
You move east.
St. Venerius
The dying musk of incense troubles the ambience in the colossal hall where elaborate beams rise like an enormous ribcage, cradling the ancient temple like a virgin with her deformed Son. The throng of dusty layered pews unfolds forward, reaching out in broken lines halted only by the raised altar to the west, and a forgotten architect's long dissolved ambitions. Slight threads of moonlight are purposefully suppressed by the many stained images that stare aimlessly from between their wrought-iron frames into the vacuous confines of the hall, casting small shadows upon the confessional to the north. Eyes open, and intense in sculpture, the abused body of Christ, draped in thrall over the crude device of the crucifixion, surveys nothing from high behind the altar, accepting you without comment. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> throw rope at statue
Tying a small lasso from the rope it takes a few attempts at throwing it upwards in the hope that the loop will latch onto the statue. Staying resilient, when it seems that all hope is gone, the loop rises and then falls over the right arm of the crucifixion statue.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> u
You move up.
The Upper Reaches
High above the cathedral floor the darkness seems to swallow the base of furniture; the pews below half enveloped in an invisible fog, as is the loose end of rope. Eyes open, and intense in sculpture, the abused body of Christ, draped in thrall over the crude device of the crucifixion, stares past you to the floor, accepting you without comment. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x eyes
On such close scrutiny you can see that the eyes of the Christ statue are separate to the main sculpture; fashioned from the same grain as the supporting cross, it is possible to roll them around within the Messiah's head..
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> roll eyes
Offering a slight resistance the wooden eyes of Christ turn to reveal small etchings. One eye has aged worse, it's small message occluded by a hard coat of dust; while, on the other eye, you manage to read the name "John" before they swing back into place, into vacancy.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> d
On descending the rope a creak is heard, soon followed by another. Looking up you see that the arm of Christ supporting your rope is weakening, his muscles tight in starvation. Halfway down the rope the brackets holding the great statue in thrall with the cathedral give way; gravity dutifully escorts you, and the broken Christ, to the floor. The heavily muttered words of the old priest drop heavily into the great hall, mixing English with his native German. And mixing his native language with an unknown tongue.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> l
St. Venerius
The dying musk of incense and the shattered dust of marble troubles the ambience in the colossal hall where elaborate beams rise like an enormous ribcage, cradling the ancient temple like a virgin with her deformed Son. The throng of dusty layered pews unfolds forward, reaching out in broken lines halted only by the raised altar to the west, and a forgotten architect's long dissolved ambitions. Slight threads of moonlight are purposefully suppressed by the many stained images that stare aimlessly from between their wrought-iron frames into the vacuous confines of the hall, casting small shadows upon the confessional to the north. Strewn over the floor the fallen sculpture of Christ is barely recognisable, his oak cross lying by the broken marble, and his dust-smacked eye settled by the thorned crown. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> get eye
Gently scooping the eye, you take it firmly into your blood soaked hand.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> w
You move west.
The Altar
Tainted by the heavy sting of stale incense, the altar sprawls over the loosely carpeted stage like an unfurled flag. The speaker's podium stands uneasily under the silk-woven drape, the soft imprint from your candleholder's rest still visible. On the south wall, the mammoth base of the baroque organ tangles with the higher darkness, its monolithic pipes gone into the gloom where sound should not matter. Laid sideways, by the northern edge, a modest table, swathed with a violet cloth, plays host to a decorative coffin that lies open; its wreath, and wilting carnations adding a further deterioration to the ambience. Peering in from his glass imprisonment, the exalted form of Christ warps the moonlight, wrapping its lustre over wood, stone, and textile without division. Father Wessels stands by the podium, rifling through a Bible as if composing his next sermon. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms.
The translucent shimmer of a wraith filters into the room, glides a short distance, and is dissolved again, into the ether. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> d
You move down.
The Cellar
Spatterings of dust shock the air within the gloom scarred cellar. The candle's unsteady light casts an eerie warmth over the scattered furnishings, picking out the cobwebbed face of a rotten cabinet that hosts numerous bottles and beaten tins. Looking miserably misplaced a wooden perch, shabbily nailed to a dusty area of the northern wall, juts out; while a furious drip harangues the quiet, forming a sizable pool on the floor to the east. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> wash eye under drip
Putting the eye from the statue under the furious drip soon softens the layer of dust which slips to the floor, leaving the small writing on the eye readable.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read eye
The eye has a small etching that reads: "3:33".
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x wall
The wall is covered in loose dust, the soft cobwebs that cover it wrap carefully over the small etches forming the word "Höhle."
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> use hammer on wall
You smash the wall, revealing the path to Glory to the north.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> n
You move north.
The Path to Glory
Amidst the rubble from the broken wall to the south, the long room contains a collection of twenty-five irregularly shaped flagstones arranged in rows of five. Carved letters are cut deeply into each stone, inviting the determined to cross them. Shaking in a hidden draught, a small sign hangs to the left, its script barely readable. The old cleric holds a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a painful cough.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> read sign
The sign reads: "Only those who are sure of the path of God may take the steps that lead to eternal life; all else shall be rewarded with death.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x flagstones
The first row of flagstones each have a letter carved into their worn faces. The letters are 'T', 'S', 'W', 'L', and 'J'.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> step on t
Standing on the stone, you wait for any reaction - and find none. Carved letters are cut deeply into each stone, inviting the determined to cross them. Shaking in a hidden draught, a small sign hangs to the left, its script barely readable.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x flagstones
The second row of flagstones each have a letter carved into their worn faces. The letters are 'T', 'R', 'A', 'E', and 'I'.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> stand on r
Standing on the stone, you wait for any reaction - and find none. Carved letters are cut deeply into each stone, inviting the determined to cross them. Shaking in a hidden draught, a small sign hangs to the left, its script barely readable.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x flagstones
The second row of flagstones each have a letter carved into their worn faces. The letters are 'O', 'T', 'U', 'S', and 'G'.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> stand on u
Standing on the stone, you wait for any reaction - and find none. Carved letters are cut deeply into each stone, inviting the determined to cross them. Shaking in a hidden draught, a small sign hangs to the left, its script barely readable.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x flagstones
The second row of flagstones each have a letter carved into their worn faces. The letters are 'N', 'T', 'E', 'H', and 'U'.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> stand on t
Standing on the stone, you wait for any reaction - and find none. Carved letters are cut deeply into each stone, inviting the determined to cross them. Shaking in a hidden draught, a small sign hangs to the left, its script barely readable.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> x flagstones
The second row of flagstones each have a letter carved into their worn faces. The letters are 'E', 'R', 'H', 'S', and 'T'.
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> stand on h
Standing on the stone, you wait for any reaction - and find none.
Press any key to continueThe Grace of God
Incense, though easy on the nose, still tickles, its tiny motes adrift in the air around the small pool. Reflecting lightly over the twitching surface, the dancing flame of the candle burns out. And now, standing in the darkness the hard edges of stairs leading down into the water fade too, their indefinite outline swallowed by the darkness. Nothing but the soft lapping of water plays to you, an audience of one. And God, you think, is He my audience of One?
Your hands feel almost free of pain despite the torrent of blood that drips from your hands, their strange punctures continuously spurting and dripping covering both the floor and staining the wrinkles within your palms. The old priest's sudden rattled cough is gathered by the heavy air and rapidly escorted into the heavens where its vim is soon diminished.

> step into pool
Slowly, you descend into the water; its coldness evident as it soaks into your shoes, your socks, and the fabric of your trousers. The descent via the stairs is left incomplete as the water supports your weight, granting you buoyancy. Subtle splashes resound in the darkness, their small plinks magnified tenfold.
And in the icy pool a damp euphoria visits your slipping mind, its suggestions insane; the purpose moreso. And in the melee of thought, suggestion, and confusion the notion of panic washes away as head under the water - hair adrift with the ripples - the darkness is left far, far behind; and the melody of water is simply nothing.
Press any key to continue
The Grace of God
Gently aroused by the sickly bite of incense, you slowly awake from drowning, your arms, bare and scrawny, stretched out. Pinioned by the nine inch nails that pierce your hands you are helpless but to survey the colossal hall of St. Venerius.
An elderly man, obviously the local priest solemly converses with an oddly dressed woman, holding a book toward her. Their conversation, however, is inaudible to your marble ears.
Suddenly, without warning (or at least one that you can hear) the talking couple are startled. They dive quickly for cover, the woman retreating to the cover of a pew; the priest somewhere upon the altar. Minutes later, the vast door of the cathedral opens, dust washing up in the movement. A man, dressed in a black suit, stumbles into the hall and struggles to close the door. Eventually, with the maximum of effort, he locks the door with a huge wooden beam he finds to the side.
Beyond panic, you are left petrified, and with no option but to stare down upon the Second Coming without comment.


You completed the game in 68 turns.

Your rating is Messiah.
You achieved 55 points from a possible 60!
That is 91% of 'Panic. I pray you'll play again.!
You finished 5 in deficit..