Starsword

O, the encroaching darkness has always hummed such a beautiful tune. Sweet symphonies of corruption harmonize with themselves tenfold, chaos the mouthpiece of dark bidders. Evil gathers here, the maestro sings, it is written in the songs.

And even in the cacophony, the gods are speechless. They lend not tooth nor tongue to this tittering. Perhaps they've gone silent-- and perhaps they never spoke at all.

Starsword, a sound made for human tongues. An approximation of your name.

You are not a composer, nor a player. Not the sheet nor the music on it. You are the space between the sounds, the looming nothing between entr'acte and overture. You are a constant-- when the symphony ends and the band leaves, you will be there. When the walls collapse and the sun swallows the planet, you will be there.