Shadowwyn Moor Clair de Lune, L. 32

For @Wren <3

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In the desolate heart of winter, a lone figure found itself traveling the expanse of the frozen moor. The icy gale howled through the skeletal branches of trees that reached out their long, gnarled hands to beg for even one drop of sun from the pallid rays that had managed to dig through the oppressive cloud cover.

Faint at first, like a distant echo, a sepulchral melody bloomed from the heart of the wasteland. The crisp breeze played accomplice, carrying its mournful notes with an eerie flow that summoned spirits to waltz just out of sight, as if one might catch a glimpse of them if they turned quickly enough.

The singer's voice rose and dipped, holding a wistful tone that crystalized in the frigid air for all to see:

So rot, ferment and decompose
So all the things can grow