Upon a moonlit balcony of weathered stone in the once-resplendent chateau of the D'Avignon family, Laila, the last scion of a noble lineage fallen into disrepair, stands alone. Clad in a gown of azure, the fabric faded like the glory of her house, she gazes out upon the estate's overgrown gardens that in the silvery light whisper of better days. "Lamentable stars," she breathes into the stillness of the night, her voice a mere wisp,"why doth thou gaze down upon this forsaken maiden with pain..