It was twenty feet tall and equally wide, rendered in oils so dark and potent, they seemed to absorb the ambient light.
The central figure was a man— a Templar—clad in crimson armor that gleamed with the hue of fresh blood. His helmet was held in his offhand, revealing a face that was both beautiful and terrible, with eyes that burned with the light of utter scourge.
In his other hand, he held the severed head of a demon by the hair.
The demon's head was enormous, easily the size of a man's torso. Its flesh was black and pustulent, covered in hundreds of eyes that stared in every direction. Even in death, even rendered in paint, those eyes seemed to watch with boundless hatred.
The gaze of a true fiend.
The man's expression was one of triumph and madness in equal measure. Blood covered his armor, his face, his handguards...
Beneath the painting, carved into the stone altar, were words in the old tongue: "Through change, strength. Through strength, salvation."
