Banestorm - Through the Fire

November? Perhaps December, 1941

Every single note. I hear every single precious note of the Bach Goldberg variation numbered seven. Every note builds a refuge where I am in Quartadec, listening to her piano instead of the shrieking music of this repulsive foreign land. One minor hair out of place could earn me the highest dishonor in the black eyes of the Heaven King.

I spend my days as a some sort of child-prisoner, dismally folding paper after wretched paper into all manner of animals. A twisted parade of miniature cranes, elephants, and butterflies coat the straw floor of my prison. I ache to crush them all and burn the room, the house, the town, this nation to the ground.

I want to skin their children as they watch and turn their flesh into paper cranes which I shall feed to Megalan hounds.

Never in my life have I had more hatred and disgust for a people and their ways. This cannot subsume my eternal work of undead liberation. I must find some driftwood that I may cling to in this tortuous river of banality.

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Monsewer

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