As the smell had hit him, so did he hit the floor, and proceeded to dry heave, and then actually heave. Asra lurched back from the sickness, and ran his hands through his hair. He stared at the disaster in front of him. Could he even get up? His knees trembled terribly, and though he didn't cry, he wailed. Even the temperature of the room made him nauseous, a gross heat from the bloated bodies still presented itself around the room. The pews were in disarray, the bodies looked indescribably aghast, stupified by horror.

	Asra's wails fell into whimpers, as he closed his eyes and tried to think of anywhere else he could be. The silence in his mind was near non-existent, a chaotic flutter of paper words his mind wrote endlessly. But then, a stillness that fell upon it, as it gradually died down. An act of repression, to seal the memory away, an attempt to obfuscate the image and rest his feeble brain. And when he opened his eyes, he no longer saw danger. He saw a tragedy...though the horror clawed at him, he needed whatever these people had.

	He got up, and leaned against the wall, the punch of a second-hand bile rose to his throat. He let loose, but with more calm, and wrapped his arms around his body, the warmth of the dead unmatched to the cold of an empty stomach and retreated adrenaline. He walked, tripped, but caught himself, right above the body of another clergyman. Asra, wary of disease, eyeballed the front of the man, but realized that none of these people would likely have anything, as they'd proven to be unable to stave off the monster that had done this. So, Asra made his way to the altar, and consciously averted his eyes from the woman, and kicked her off the altar. He inspected the area for any other clues, as he felt there were still secrets here he needed to find before he moved on.