I fear the emptiness of the howling wind,

The torrential downpour of a bleeding sky

That will surely erase the last smudges of you

From cold, pale skin that's long forgotten the warmth

Of the sun's morning breath.

Every one of these fears dots the constellation of my woe

But one stands brighter above the rest, my bones.

What will become of my poor, unrestful bones?

Will you desecrate them too, dear Hunter,

Or will the fury of the wind convince you to turn away?

-Silver Serpent Books