This a dummy scene involving a fog that won’t lift and a population that turn to Albion’s brightest mind, Mortimer Headlock, for reassurance. He cannot give it.
“When snow tumbles through morning fog, it falls as feathers white and pure. There is nothing so beautiful in life as standing in the limbo of a moist morning and believing yourself a finger’s breadth from heaven.”
“And in darkness?”
“Ah, I hoped you would not ask. When snow slides through the night to mix and congeal with a falling veil of fog it…”
“It falls black, my friend. This snow is likened to ash. Imagine death as a gateway for the darkest of the dark to slip through Hell to that realm beneath where there and only there the contents of the damned overflow. Fog in the darkness is just that, Hell’s embers made real.”
“Today it grows dark.”