[Tucking the folder under his wing again, he nods solemnly, or at least as solemnly as it's possible to look while still fluffing most of your feathers out so far you look like a ball with a head. It's the chill that bothers him more than the sudden humidity, definitely.] Indeed. I seek the Servants of God who may have graced these grounds in ages past. Within this Crimson Breast sleeps a epic tragedy that yearns for the cleansing flames of Purgatory, that it may atone for its sins and take wing once more in the light of the Celestial Sphere.

[Self-publishing is all well and good, but it's not the only route possible, you know?]