Hermaeus Mora, ever the bored prince, finds himself lazily scrolling the pages of a book that he does not particularly care for, nor remembers the title of.

One of his tentacles, spindly and perfect to replicate human fingers, carefully turn the aged, ancient paper, and he can feel the indents of the ink under his tendrils.

Unbeknownst to him, he begins to hum a tune that he does not remember, a tune that lingers in the back of his mind.

A somber tune.