The sky is falling...whatever shall we do? We are but sorcerers of the ocean blue...the lands and mountains up above, but never with the sky we seek. The day the Terror King arrived...we never knew what to expect. What are we, masterminds of life? We are but talents as we speak.

Up on the autumn hill she stands- a statue, if you please to look...Created at the hands and eyes..of Seth, the one who last awoke. The son of Death, who came as well- he saw her too, and said it was a lie; that never will a statue move, or breath...be brought to life or die.

But here on end, the broken lies await. So does the Terror King- the saint. Is he who mourns the death of all- the one to finish off our fall? Upon no notice, he believed, that talent lies in lifeless looks. He caught the star and cried and kneeled- when all was broken into truth...when all the memories came back- of love and empathy, and ruth. But those were stolen in a flash...as once the star had promised Seth...to bring them to the lifeless girl- the statue, where the saint had kneeled.