The song began as a merely a different shape of quiet, but the city heard.
It came from a strange direction, one that could align neither with the crossroads at the city’s center or the creaking spire that overlooked it. And when the city strained its windows of paper-thin obsidian to hear it, the humid air rang as though with a low chime, an exhalation from the sun as its last limb is washed over by the sea, or the keen of a bell rung by dead hands on an insubstantial ship.
There is a void beneath cracked cobblestones, that swirls through walls made from the wood of thorns. A longing as of a taut string for the touch of gut that coaxes from it melody, or the altar of copper’s soft indentation for a dream-filled head. The song entwines the void, dusts it with a pollen more lead than silk, more mothwing than rosepetal. A thousand minute obsidian earthquakes wrack the city in its uneasy slumber.