A heavy veil descended upon the interior of the Sanctuary of the Coming Dawn, the air thick and palpable. Visages of the heralds of hope wrinkled with the malaise that clung to their forms, sticking to every inch of pulpits and cold, rough-hewn pews. Mutterings spilled between the light carriers, Horatiu moving to offer a gesture of solace to Lizuca, a strong, calloused hand upon her robed shoulder. The countenance of the clergy remained the same to the undiscerning eye, affixed smiles and stalwart stances that defied the pervasive ambience. Still the dark shroud enveloped the dilapidated chamber, raising the gooseflesh upon those that entered the domicile of the Dawnfather. This morning, the coming dawn was muted, dulled – and the warmth produced seemed to never reach the skin of the faithful. The bell’s pull rope laid in a tattered, discarded heap at the base of the dais and a foul, fetid liquid dripped from the heights of the belfry. The Morninglord’s intonation, the bell’s sound that reverberated through the outskirts, was eerily silent.