Calling and calling me out into the darkness, I will lead you along whose little path would make me sad. We suffer, we suffer at his hand, into the dark, into the fog. At his reaching hand, we will see harm. Our will is but a haze, lifting in the dawn. Grasping and grasping at his withered prey, vibrance has grown thin. I will carve a sigil. We waste and we waste and we waste. He will not relent. We will run thin. He will never rest, hunted, exhausted, soon to be devoured: a welcome slumber, a new normal. Motive withheld, no apex more strange in this kingdom.