[Tyr Zalo Hawk]: 712.Stories.DawnMeetingDusk.Prelude

Darkness fell silent over the village, encroaching upon lights sacred ground. It did not wind, or creep through. Instead, it descended and entwined its fingers around what small peace its absence had given the townsfolk.
Night.
The time of dreams and bittersweet screams when all that is bright is diminished. A place where every dark is harsher, where every movement is a creature of the shadows, biding its time as it waits to strike. That unavoidable, unrelenting truth more cruel and vivid only in its kind blurring effect that it uses to draw the world into its own demise. The night is the world’s sin brought to the surface for every condemned soul to suffer.
But for all, this is not the case.
For some, the night’s soft embrace is all they have. It is that single, calming whiff of lost sleep that somehow stills ones nerves until you actually believe your dreams again. Something about the still, unavoidable absence of the harsh brights of day, their fading into cool, crisp yet diminished versions of themselves which makes ones own truths and fallacies fade with them.

It is because of this difference of minds that we begin a story like this one...