The night exhales it's orchestra into the blue kingdom.

A fetid reminder of how bleak and lonely the anti-day becomes.

Their grand mausoleum filled with smog,

the atmosphere, now a stagnant display left only as stark reminder to the Lich.

Melancholy croons and groans pollute the air about him, leaving him ossified.

A faint memory blooms in his skull.

That of ebony wings and the green and black flame that adorned her body.

A splendid movie playing on decaying film.

Now the moon yawns, preparing to retire.

And soon must he.

Yet for a while longer,

he'll ruminate and fester,

he'll conjure and summon,

The dying embers of ebony wings.