“Ahhh. Another beautiful day!” he exclaimed outwardly, grinning to himself as he revealed his genius humor to the company that was present, trapped in this grey world covered by darkness.

     Silence. 

     Of course, they wouldn’t appreciate a good joke. Too glum to even crack a smile. Although he couldn’t see their lips moving, the faint trickle of tears that squeezed out of their eyes, or the gentle convulsing of silent sobs, he could almost feel their misery. 

     “Buh buh buh buh….. Work work work….. Too silent to work…,” he mused to himself as his pale, spindly fingers tapped his chin, the pitch trailing from his empty sockets and soaked cloth. He stopped replacing the blindfold after a few months; there wasn’t any point, it just became saturated with tar and he’d have to replace it again and again. Instead he kept the tatters of the blindfold soaked with pitch covering what was once his eyes, the dark liquid trailing down his gaunt cheeks like black tears. 

     But he didn’t mind. Others may see a greying, lightless, and depressed land filled with mountains of ash and spires of dull rock beholding the death of hope, joy, and freedom. What they failed to see with their puny eyes were delicious wisping curls of white; souls long trapped to this land with gluttonous shadows that hungered for more.

     He stretched his lanky arms outward, most of his muscles atrophied away, leaving pale skin and black veins. 

     “What to start with…. Hungarian Dance No. 5?” He began pacing, his pale, bare feet leaving no sound against the dark stone beneath him, his black leathery wings tucked inward towards his shoulder blades.

     “Hmm…. No…. too graceful…. Too many ups and downs….Need more of a slow buildup…” He continued to pace muttering to himself as he passed by the rotting and ramshackle grand piano, with rotted hands strewn about it a few paces from a throne made of bleached bones.

     He chuckled to himself, he did enjoy making the dialogue even if there were no guests present, but this time there was; which seemed to make conversation, as boringly one-sided as it was, more alluring. This dialogue was something he learned that helped fill this grey, empty world with sound. But dialogue itself was never enough. He despised the quiet, gentle sound of wind echoing like a distant scream upon the mountains. It was old to him, and didn’t make a good conversational partner. Music was the only thing that seemed to be new and interesting.

     “What do you think? Flight of the Bumblebee? That’s always a good one,” He mused, turning to face one of the bleached skulls that was embedded into his throne of bones.

     “Mmm… You’re right… too high energy,” he grinned to himself, his company again not partaking in his joke.

     With a clap, he turned around. “That’s it! In the Hall of the Mountain King!” 

     And with his revelation, he muttered a few arcane incantations, his spindly fingers meticulously scribing mandalas that floated in the air composed of a sickly green energy, slowly growing more and more complex. At one point in his life these were complex mathematical formulas, a type of necromancy that took years to master. But that was before. Within just a moment, the glyph was completed, and the hands among the piano breathed in life once more, and began to run their barely-attached fingers across the ivory keys yet again.

     He sighed with relief and grinned as music began to fill the air. “Now we can get to work.”

     And just like that, he was lost in the music, humming to the tune, tapping his feet, and his movements beginning to match the tempo of the piece. His fingers wove malachite strings of a demonic language and archaic symbology to create a beautiful yet grisly web of the arcane, the glyphs shimmering in a sickly light suspended; looking almost as if the complex ties resembled the relation between bones and flesh. As the tempo increased, so did his speed, finding himself falling into the song, his fingers weaving faster and faster. The shadows underneath him rippled in excitement, as his sharp fingernails etched unholy symbols in an archaic language upon the foreheads of his company, ignoring the trickles of blood that dripped down their faces as he made his careful slashes in the tempo of the song. The ones that were still lively squirmed, as this devilish magic was placed upon them, the panic apparent in their eyes; unknowing of what was to come as their blood lifted from the sigils and began pulsing in that malachite light.

     But he was blissfully unaware of their petty emotions, lost In the Hall of the Mountain King. He began to spin, to dance, his fingers mocking that of the rotted ones on the piano, becoming lost within the tone of the ivory keys; the music filling him with exhilaration. Spinning and spinning and dancing and dancing, the piece reaching its highest crescendo, the excitement palpable in the air and he could not ignore it as his wings suddenly unfurled and splayed themselves outwards in a display of pure elation.

     But the familiar sound of ivory keys, howling winds, and humming was interrupted by a heavy wet plop on the floor. One that was not in tune with the piece.

     Followed by a muffled scream. 

     He let out an unsteady sigh, as the blood of one of his guests dribbled down the side of his right wing, raising his shivering hand as the music came to a stop. It was silent once more, lest for the sound of quiet whimpering and the severed head rolling unevenly upon the rock. He grit his teeth.

     His voice quivered and held deep frustration within it, “Well now the true crescendo is simply ruined.” 

     And with a violent tug, he pulled the malachite strings, unraveling the grisly skeleton made of demonic runes, and ripping away the lives of his company in an instant; their blood splattering upon the grey rock.

     “Hmm… and I was making such progress….” He sighed, his temperament becoming more even. He was just disappointed now.

     “Friends…” he said, gesturing to the hands upon the piano. 

     “Moonlight Sonata…. The shadows will feast once more,” and with a melancholy sigh, he sat upon his throne of broken bones and destroyed hopes as the rotted hands began to play once more. The trail of pitch dribbled down his cheeks, as he tapped his finger on the bones of the chair, thinking of what song he should listen to next.