The Sanctuary. A Half-Plane.
On a relatively solid, milky-white cloud platform, Noe VII sat meditating in a traditional ascetic posture.
His plain white linen robe was spotless. His frame was gaunt yet straight as a pine, his hands forming a seal as they rested on his knees. With his eyelids lowered, his breathing was long and almost inaudible.
Even trapped in this eternal, lonely cage of clouds, even with the Papal throne long since passed to another, he adhered to his inner discipline and practice, just as he had for decades in the meditation chambers of the Church Court.
Just then, an incredibly faint voice slipped into his ear—or more accurately, echoed directly in the depths of his consciousness:
"Noe VII… great Holy Throne, a prisoner 'invited' to 'meditate' by your own loyal Cardinals… Can you feel it, too? That nauseating scent of change from the outside world… The knowledge of Wizards is defiling the holy land of Oriane…"
