Myrddin: Twelve dreams for the red queen under crown of stone. Eight voracious beasts born from eight restless nights. Four nails piercing the flesh of the sinner. One prayer for the summoned called by this song. 'Tis perhaps the countdown to oblivion, for the once proud city of London. 'Tis perchance her inhabitants last dance, alone to face death and pestilience. Confronted by the eerie and unknown, mortals became desperate for answers. A flock's flight makes for an omen, the falling of a star a dire presage. Turning to priests for interpretation when there was no reason to be found. When religion failed, men turned to science. I saw them build such vain cities, crafting machines made for endless war. New questions flourished as old answers withered. What is darkness but lurking sun? What is wall but enslaved stone? What is glass but tortured sand? What is song but a call to arms? What is hate but jilted love? What is life but death pending?