Deepwood Weald Mythical Mithril

Marruz tried to hum it for himself. He had never tried to sing or ask for anything special of his vocal chords before. The sound was admittedly odd at first, but he repeated the vibrations enough to match them with what he had heard before.

From his throat, the tune was rendered, perhaps, less soothing, but of a more melancholy breed. It was reminescent of a wolf's howl. Such was the beauty of music — so universal, yet never the same. He allowed the ghost of a smile to trace upon his eyes. This woman was a living story, wasn't she?

"Tell me," he said after a small rendition of his own. "Who was the last person you sang this to?"