Foreboding
The sky is full of foreboding. It augurs and it portends. And what does it portend? It portends bad things. Like an omen of nefarious occurrences. Oh yes. The locals of Yonnerville are dancing a hideous conga line, banging their pans with their big metal spoons, shouting and hollering. And making a right racket. And things of that nature generally. The hills in the distance behind Oldham glow red with the many fires lit by these prehistoric and superstitious people. They are mightily afraid of THE RECKONING. The words of Brother Hardcastle, an ancient hermit, echo in their ears: "For when the sky doth grow dark and when things portendeth, this be the thyme of The Reckoning. Your sins will be weighed against your virtues and woe betide ...". That's where the ancient scroll ends, the last bit got wet back sometime in the 17th century and the ink got all runny and even those locals who could read could never decipher the remainder so it was left to their imagin