GRACIOUS WAS THE LAST DAWN of the Season. It came as the somber tints of amber, doused in reds and blues of an emerging sun. As the brilliant orb of gold traveled the skies, the heavens above seemed more vast, the rising sun keen on the summerlands below as the roving eye of their god.
Monks were already up in meditation to the Seventh Flame. A crowd of Faithful were gathered in the rotund halls of the Temple, great stone pillars flagging the polished bronze walls as they all knelt in worship to the Pantheon.
With the Cardinal in the lead patronage, many monotonous voices granted collective symphony into the candlelit temple.
Frater Cervantes called the words of thanks and the congregation about gave response to his loudening voice as deep rumbles that echoed in the halls.
Cervantes lifted up his hands at a flaming sconce wielding coals red with hissing steam. The scent of incense was foggy in the chamber.
