In the dark hours of the night, a low note rang through the quiet air. It was chilling, that singular note, but none could predict the music that followed after it, the soft sound of a wooden flute reaching the ears of both the still breathing and those buried six feet under.

The heavy sound of boots echoed on the pavement of the old town, lips pressed to the reed as he blew into the instrument, fingers dancing along to create the notes of his song, a crazed smile on his face as he played, the risen dead passing him as they began their terror, running through and forcing themselves into homes.

It was just another night, or so Orion believed it was, yet another town, another large income of stolen goods and money. This was simply the way his life would be, the musician of a lifetime while many suffered below him, bringing great joy to his heart that craved this twisted attention and performance.

So when a voice rang through the night air, interrupting his music and shattering his usual predicted outcome and illusion, he felt a spark of irritation and anger. Who dared, in such a supposed dire moment, to sing and twist his horrid melody? Displeased, he stomped closer to the singing voice, still playing his music so that the undead would not stray from their tasks, eyes glancing around to catch sight of the owner of the angelic voice.

Soon he happened upon a sight that made his heart fill with a flurry of different emotions. There you were, an expression of both determination and unease, singing to the undead that had found themselves drawn to you, preventing them from doing further harm or chaos, lulling them to a simple state of peace as they swayed where they stood.

With a growl, he pulls his flute from his lips, voice sharp and gruff, “You!”