It had been a long journey for the people of Anon Dale, who were still winding through the streets of the great city, their candles created a long stream of incandescence from the Ghahil harbor to the Grand Temple of Cultus. Senseless death weighed heavy on them. Their shoulders were burdened with the lost souls of the dark plague sufferers and the war between the East empire and the tribesmen of the South. This wasn’t an evening for sorrow and mourning however. This was a time of spiritual surrender to divine mystery. The evensong.

Markets emptied. Houses and apartments spilled their residents. Even brothels were devoid of debauchery this twilight. The snaking masses were filing into the great hall of the church on the hill. Castle Lunuilion stood tall against the backdrop but was a smaller structure the grandeur of the steeples above it. They marched and marched on tired feet to reach their final destination.

Soldiers marched with their clanking armor. Wenches, seamstresses, and women of ill-repute marched side-by-side. Mothers and children marched steadily without stopping to meander at the shops. Farmers marched in confidence, knowing their failing crops may soon be restored. Scholars and historians marched alongside magistrates and clergymen shuffling their robes and carrying their favorite tomes of piety. The world it seemed marched in order. The devastation of the previous year was forgotten as feet marched willingly behind feet.

They had much to atone for. But that wouldn’t be their only purpose, walking up the curvy hillside of the Temple. This evensong would be for the recently deceased, most of which had been buried with funeral rites on the adjacent hillside where only gravestones and mausoleums sat. A gray mist came in from the shore sheltering in gloomy repose. Only the young looked back at the darkness and wondered who might be next to receive eternal slumber.

The wide doors of the Temple admitted all who arrived. Masses gradually filed in. They were met with the soft prayers of the Temple choir, who recited alms for the dead, begging the Almighty for forbearance for those still living and peaceful resurrection for the dead. For the townspeople knew that eternal life was achieved through perpetual worship and praise. They relished in this praise and held their heads high to the massive chamber above, to the murals painted on the vaulted ceiling, and cherished the reverence they felt. The only thing that separated them in that great hall was the pillars along the nave.

Blind to the tortures and monotonous nature of human existence they sat, stood, and shuffled about the great hall, directed like sheep to their proper pens. They were protected. The church would defend them with angels and consecrated walls. Demons be damned, forever and ever amen. The shady corners of the God-given land would be lit with the blessings of the Father.

Psalms were spoken next by the Arch-Mage. The words were gentle breezes. Fresh and precise. He begged the Lord to release them from suffering and release who had expired to live again in infinite bliss while also emphasizing the grandeur of His work, of all creation. Doctrines with perfectly formed verbiage, eloquent sentence structures, vibrant clauses, impeccable paraphrasing, the audience was bathed in the beautifully linguistics skill.

The Wish of the Blessed was spoken next. The Arch-Mage was delicate yet vociferous, pleading the heavens for serenity for the dead, that they may know their ancestors, their kindred, their families, and that they may know peace in this knowledge. With open arms and clasped hands the townspeople reached up, feeling the power of the liturgy, creed, and faithful oaths. They began chanting along with the hallowed words of the Arch-Mage, saying the prayer that he repeated. “Let those who have fallen from this world to rise up. Rise up! Rise up!” They reiterated in musical cacophony, resonating off the walls until the rumblings spread into the sky.

The sound caused a flock of night ravens to flutter away across the gray rooftops. A man in disheveled rags let out a yelping noise from the massive double door entrance. All eyes turn to him as uneasy quiet settled over them. He couldn’t speak and merely pointed out beyond the city, towards the adjacent hillside.

The crowd amassed in the vestibule and saw what the man was pointing to. Along the borders of the hill ran a mass of figures, surging from their graves. From so far away they appeared like a second throng, snaking through the city streets, emanating from the holy graveyard. The columns were shrouded in black against the night without torch light to guide them. But their destination was clear. The dead had returned to life and they were marching to meet their loved ones, marching like a torrent of primitive soldiers to meet their dignified hosts. The dead marched back to life, guided by the people’s wishes.

The audience didn’t recoil in horror, make a sound, or even shuffle. It was as if their vocal cords had been severed. Instead, a sweeping kindness pervaded them. They stood and waited for their loved ones to return to them in a peaceful, meditative bliss.