Hunters of the Void

My song is not that of my sisters’ when we sing for those souls that find themselves unfortunate enough to land in our forest.

(that would be the Middle Ring of the Seventh Level, only two above the throne of our rebel chief)

When we sign together, it is a song of complexities, of soft parts and hard parts, a sonata in G minor. A sorrow, a frenzy, a lullaby, a trill meant to wrap cilice-like around those already stretched so far on the rack life strapped them to, that they severed their own chords willingly in hopes of freedom from a pain that only they could ever know. It is a taunt, a threat, a promise mocking them as they claw at their ears to make our cawing stop.

It is a tale of the coming woe: that forcing Death’s hand didn’t make the pain stop. The pain will never stop now.

And as is our duty as agents of punishment, we sign dire tidings of what their eternity shall consist of. To the last singeing of flesh, plucking of hair, poking and prodding, slicing and hanging, every last drop of blood that will be shed and fed back to them so that the poison of their sins never leaves them, we sing together.

However.

When we rest in the knotted Suicide Trees and we take respite from our duties, my sisters ask me to sing of our fate. It is a lamentation that shakes souls, like a wind on desolate mountains leveling pines.

To be daughters of the sea

(so vast and mysterious)

and sisters to the bridge between the gods and humanity

(so glittering and full of light)

is not an easy feat when you are as unfortunate to look at as we.

For beautiful features take you anywhere and everywhere, while hideous ones will make you loathed and feared.

In our anger, it is easy to do what we do without pity or care. But our song, the one just for us, reminds us three how our hurt brought us here.