The Crepuscular was the sun arisen. A blackness bottomless and dull, of clouds tenebrous and dead.
It was cold... frost-like. The cobble cracked and snapped: ice-wreath—the whites of hoary still seeped.
The citizens limped down the paths, crowded. Some to mortuaries and some stranded and homeless. They wonder and wander and ponder.
'How did this happen?'
In conclusion, they cursed the emperor.
"May your life be short great one, and may you die sick, slow and hopelessly alone."
"Those beasts! They burned my child."
"The gold ancestry is a forgery. This is a fool's legacy."
The ancestry of divine knighting was besmirched. The emperor of a burning empire.
This sky was a decree. A warning of ancient stygian. The holy words, to be preached by scholars and sages alike.
