After the fierce confrontation on The Battlefield, our journey diverged. Seeking refuge and allies, we pressed toward an old monastery on the outskirts, hoping to find aid in its sanctified halls. Here, we encountered monks who had once thrived in peaceful seclusion, undisturbed by the outside world.
When these monks built their sanctuary, they intended it as a place of quiet devotion, removed from the realm of swords and bloodshed. But now, their isolation had become a peril. With undead forces inching ever closer, their prayers alone would not suffice. Against this relentless foe, the monks needed steel as much as spirit.
Our arrival became a lifeline. The monks met us with quiet resolve, quickly blessing our weapons, and even shared what little they had left from their dwindling supplies. Together, we readied defenses, our soldiers fortified by the monks’ sacred chants. As dusk fell, the first wave of the undead surged forward. The monks stood with us, chanting hymns that seemed to thicken the very air, strengthening our resolve as the undead clawed at the gates.
Battle cries mingled with prayers, and each clash of steel rang out with a blessed resonance, as though the walls themselves protected us. Hours passed under relentless waves, but as exhaustion began to weigh on us, a glimmer of hope appeared. Reinforcements from Rifthain arrived just in time, storming in to bolster our numbers and push back the tide. Together, we forced the final wave into retreat, leaving the holy ground untouched by the stench of the undead.
In deep gratitude for our defense of their sanctuary, some of the monks made the ultimate sacrifice and broke their vows to join our cause, swearing their loyalty. Blessed by the monks’ sacred rites and equipped with their last belongings, our company left the monastery fortified and invigorated, its prayers and relics now fueling our fight.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
