vials of morumberry oil, its broken window and hollow interior reminding me of an empty eye socket. The usually-busy bakery to the right had clearly been plundered, given the broken glass, spilled jars of spices, and discarded, cracked baking stones lying about. And looming over the village in the distance, an ever-watchful eye, stood the Red Temple, a dark silhouette with its pointed spires that pierced the low lying clouds. Like a frozen corpse, the village slumbered in perpetual darkness.
