All was still.
The crow dare not signal disaster or turmoil; instead, it stared ahead at the kerosene-like glow of a lone lamplight.
Such a fine lamp could belong only to the Daughter of the Night, what with its peacefully ominous uneven flicker and jagged tongues.
It resembled everything, and it resembled nothing. To describe a night like this as unholy was a most dangerous folly; for Daughter was truly Mother of all pain and horror which occurred during the long hours of night.
Screams, gorgeous screams- Daughter held them all until the morn, where men were bestowed indignation.