A church cries through the night, bodies adorned in black and red walk solemnly through the streets, wails and waning spirits make dim the light of the night. Hark, how the sorrow sings, how the voices weep, how the sights dim. Behold, just the strangest of things, figures of shadow reaching within. Bodies descending as spirits rise, for death has come this morrow. In lieu - an angel cries.