“Pure black hair and yellow eyes drowned in a sea of black,”

  "A little too late," spat a ghastly pale Yuria, "-a little too late," she said, tilting her head parallel against her shoulder, "-a little too late." Reinforcement arrived as she said, a little too late. Nothing was left alive in her wake – the sanctuary, hours ago – a refuge for the depraved, now laid in a pool of blood. Body parts smeared across walls and floors. Rusty cages held the petrified remains of severed hands – an ash-like structure of those who begged for a chance at salvation. There was naught but hatred. An air familiar to Formle, Kaleem, and Cora. Yuria's innocent face and dignified disposition sat crossed-legged upon a single remaining altar.