What once began as simply a seed of bone has blossomed into a bountiful garden of flesh. Arms sway where branches should be, roots beating to the rhythm of buried hearts.

"The Garden of Inheritance... Yes, I remember," spoke the hushed metal voice, "it had been a holy place, once, a place where man sought to live forever by planting their own being deep into the earth. Sown here were the limbs of past saints and kings, soil fed by blood and prayer."

Now, the garden grows free, and feral, and forever; malformed limbs outstretched for a heaven that will not accept them, quietly calling for a day of judgment that will not come to pass. Life had lingered far too long here; it had forgotten to die.

The body farm moved as one sluggish beast, dreaming itself boundless. Ribs of fallen trees were clad in vines, bearing fruits of a forbidden nature, their leaves trembling with each pound of the organ drum. The mist that entwined the forest was heavy, but sweet, akin to the incense of a chapel.

Beneath a pallid tree, where the sun dare not tread, lay a waxen shape, pale and still, not unlike the horror previously slain in the sanctum's abyss. But this one bore no malice; it merely bore the pathetic ruin of man's own likeness. Maggots crawled and slithered through every crevice, pooling inside each open orifice, nesting wherever they pleased. It smiled without meaning to, and that smile turnt the world around it smaller, constricting the very idea of space; it seemed unsure if it belonged to the earth or beneath it.

"Subject incomplete," speaks the maid, "termination may be necessary."

Naught but a silent refusal. The knight's head lowered, the light of her lantern dimming as if in mourning. And the garden went on dreaming.