What Guild-spawned vice, what illicit pleasure compares to the serenity induced by the Somnolent Mantra, by the intoxicating aroma of incense and the frescoes of the Eight Saints, by the sussurant drone of the liturgist as she recites parables from the Omega Gospels every action ordained, every response choreographed? Let the hermits go amid the wastes; let the Eskatonics plumb their brains alone in blackened cells. For me are the tenets of the Church, and the holy books, and the traditions passed from Pancreator to Prophet to disciples, and the blissful communion of a thousand souls united in radiant song.
