The ashen sky of Golgotha was filled with distant cries and heralds of the death and chaos that had befallen the Field of Skulls.
Meanwhile, under the grey blanket, Nero and those that trod the bone with him, numbering perhaps more than a thousand in numbers, walked across the pale white plains. They did not stop running until the screams finally died.
Even then, after no screams could be heard, no one truly slowed. After all, the claws of death were still tightly wrapped around their necks.
Those that had not been forgotten, their piercing screams and wails of agony. The sight of their freshly spilled blood being drank by the bone earth itself, a truly harrowing thing to witness, still fresh in the minds of many. Eventually, even in chaos, order must arise. The shift was gradual, with desperation giving way to a forced, brittle control.
