Where were you when blue flames swallowed their bodies? Encased in iron, their souls weeped. Decay eating through their flesh, restlessly, when silence reigned over their eternity?

Where were you when sickness drank their souls, and shadows followed them even in death?

My poor songbird, you were sent in too late, offering them nothing but forgetness and crawling pain. My bard of silver tongue, you were sent too early too, too early for trying to break the ice that chained the world. As I am made of darkness and night, sharper than edge of the knife.

And you will fail, bloodless child.

Because I have waited for eternities and you... you are only a voice of the mist, song of the wind. Beautiful. Enchanting. But so frail. Eager to be blown away with the first gust of darkest of the storms.

Feel how it approaches, its skirts in taloned fingers, shadows wail behind it. The storm which's silent growl will silence your song and your spellbound music.

Like gossamer torn with the indifferent hand.