A road dead-ended quietly into a drab yellow stone plaza. Several structures of the same dusty dingy yellow stone, hundreds of years old, surrounded the plaza. Footfalls raised stale puffs of dust with each step.
To the east in the gloom stood doors to an old frayed church huddled against its larger looming neighbor. It was also made of the stone, but the thick, tall doors rose in dark wood gleaming despite the dust in the growing dark.
The air around lay dry and still. No wind blew, no breeze teased the dust.
The entrance reached over their heads. At a glance, the dark doors were at least nine feet. A pediment of sorts crawled and curled and curved its way up and over the doors in a half-moon arc. Inside the pediment’s half-moon shined defiantly two quarters of stained glass, like slitted eyes of a baleful being staring out from the church.
