A contribution by soleil0

A long day walking in the rain awaited you, and you'd known it from the humidity in the air. Your wisdom, it seems, precedes you, and you dread being correct. The rain pours softly, yet stubbornly, lightening up as you walk beneath patches of clouds that seem to be thinly veiling the sun above them. As you continue on your journey, one you've been on for days, your feet dragging on cracked brick paths bathed in streams of water flowing beneath the downpour, you approach what looks to be an old, decrepit, crumbling monastery.

A monk silently greets you at the door, their eyebrows upturned in an expression that feels mourning. They smile at you anyway, opening their hand out to you and beckoning you indoors. You sigh in relief and thank them, following along as they guide you eagerly to a fireplace inside, handing you a blanket. Around you, there are monastics writing from texts, the books they reside in appearing as ancient as the building they're being transcribed inside.

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