(Sorrow listens to the flute, the music bringing a momentary damp gleam to his eyes. She plays with passion, and anguish, and it whispers on the wind in such a beautiful stream of sound that he has to pause and listen to the entirely of the piece. Her voice follows behind, soft but still audible, and he looks up at the huge tear in the sky.

The world is falling apart, it is true. And the deities are terrible entities, tricksters at best and sadists at worst. Why should such a girl suffer, why anyone, why here...

He approaches close enough for his voice to be heard, low and warm in the still air. His footsteps are silent, so it seems as if the voice has come suddenly.)

It may be a lie,

(He steps behind her, about two feet away now, and pulls his black cloak closer about him; the voice has drawn closer.)

but it is all that we have, here.