It was early morning, and the rising sun caused the fog of the barren hills to glow a dull and sullen red. On the top of one hill stood a solitary figure, his brightly colored clothing at odds with the landscape. The air was thick and still, absent even of birdsong. Despite the coolness of the air, beads of sweat had formed on the man's forehead, his face a picture of concentration, his breathing perfectly regular. Slowly but steadily he began an incantation, and moments later there was a jarring crash of sound from a short distance away.

Nodding with satisfaction, the man turned and walked to the source of the sound, looking at the grass carefully. After a moment he spoke, as if to an invisible companion. "Bent by wind, but otherwise unharmed. It will have to be much more tightly focused, then. But I think I understand."

For the entire day, the hills resounded with booms of thunder, high pitched whines, deep bass rumbling, and sometimes all at once. Sunset came with the same sullen redness as dawn, and in the fading light, the man looked around at the patches of bare and churned earth where grass had been with satisfaction.

"Yes, I am beginning to understand. The only question is, will the bard I seek understand it even better?" The man stood there musing for some time. "Killed by a song, a fitting end for a bard. But will it be mine, I wonder."

Silence was the only answer as he left the hills; the color of the fog fading from the sullen red, to the color of an old bloodstain, to darkness as he walked.