Like a shroud, the darkening night draped itself over the cold walls and environs of the abandoned church of Atomos in Darkmount. A stillness of icy air steeped the once sacred ground, tangled weeds and headstones that leaned under the weight of years forgotten overran the surrounding graveyard.
Between the graves, a creeping fog slithered like a living thing, bringing with it the cold of the night. Ravens were perched atop stone crosses, other black birds of the night gleamed in the scant moonlight as they croaked ominously into the night.
Damp earth, decay, old wood and rust thickened the air with its ghastly scent, and every rustle of the wind through the gnarled trees felt like the whisper of something malevolent, unseen, and ever-watching.
The figure inside the church was the person being watched.