Lit only by the moon, and a handful of eternal torches, the catacombs open into what had become known as 'l'endroit de repos'. This was an age of darkness......fear....and death. Only a few remaining blood stains bear mute witness to the horrors which were bestowed upon the catacomb stones.

Only those who belonged to an elite order were ever allowed to be audience to the many hundreds of death sentences which were carried out over the duration of the catacomb's activity. A lone priest stood silent in the shadows of the grand inquisitor and executioner. Quielty the priest would pray for the rapid and painless passing for each prisoner. Quietly, the grand inquisitor would pray for the onslaught of blood, which seemed to only fuel his desire to rid the realm of those whom he constituted as herretics.

With the l'endroit de repos being the central go-between from the dungeon to the gallery, it was all too easy for patrons of the gallery to over-hear the bellowing echoes of those souls about to be claimed by the other realm. Cries of mercy, pity and forgiveness fell only onto immortal deafness. Ire and rage, fueled by obvious injustice, were met head on with the cold icy metal blades of the executioner's battle-axe. From the dungeons below, whispers of prayers could be heard wafting up the stairwell....from the arched ceiling above only the ghostly fluttering of wings could be felt as the resident bats would startle with each swipe of the axe.

Life flowed forward....blood flowed downward....wind swept inward.....all is now but a terrifying past, locked in a chamber of frigid iron and stone.