Echoing through osmium halls where candelabras of bone line the mantles, the oldyoung voice is tearing through the last membrane holding back torrents of wet flesh binding life to mind to soul. Soft pleas and a silent surrender are what passes for resistance. A mouth shut by being filled; this your mind, frozen still when the worst feeling is all that's left. They are violated.

"Oroboron?" asks the gem that sets the aether ablaze.

"Arun?" asks the needle that pierces the adamant.

Their minds are flayed. Their hearts are splayed. Their legs are bound. Their secrets found.

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"It will do you no good!" they shout. They know they each lay in a casket. They hear the dirt cut by the shovel. They wince when it hits the lid. "You are bound!" They cry. They are desperate.

Bound?

They shudder.

How am I bound, exactly?

"Morne!" they scream. "Morne!" again. And again, from a scream to a sigh, "Morne."

Yannis laughs.