Countless are in awe of death, a clue of it being a good deal of macabre depictions and romanticisations. All are under her watchful eye from her lofty place amongst the clouds, mane flowing red at night, realising not the epiphany that she walketh, she danceth, she flyeth. And yet Lightning Glare does believe in a different way—believe that she is more than a permanent state, a thing dreaded by life itself, for he had seen her with the eyes of his own, and most others who had could not tell their tale; it is impossible, undoable for them to come back. With the Devil, nothing is done without any reason, and presently so he goes on forth, to venture places he ought never be in, to try to make a sense in this nightmare, to step on a stage for a dance.