The atmosphere in the Abyssal, already heavy with the stench of death and demonic energy, curdled as the newcomers approached. Dracula, her pale features sharpened by the ghastly light of the summoning circle, watched the figures emerge from the gloom of the crystallized ruins.
"Pope? How come you could enter the Abyssal? And with your light and darkness saints." Dracula narrowed her eyes at the three, her voice dripping with suspicion.
The Pope looked entirely out of place in this graveyard of souls. He was an elderly man who radiated an aura of oppressive sanctity, holding a massive, ornate god-class staff that pulsed with a rhythmic, golden light. Beside him stood the two Saints—silent, enigmatic figures. One was draped in flowing white robes that seemed to repel the Abyssal mist, while the other wore robes of absolute black, their hoods pulled low to completely obscure their faces.
