An honourable king walks into a field of snow and ash. A cloaked woman offers him a knife. He hesitates but takes it anyway. At a motion from her, he cuts his own throat and paints the snow; red, his favourite colour.
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Seven crows fly over a city of sleeping priests. A beggar sees them and thinks it a sign.
Night rolls in with clouds like tar, lightning drawn in as white lines.
Tower bells ring out warnings, adding discordant symphony, awakening those thought to be safe with faith.
The beggar tells his story, proclaiming prophetic insight. The priests mock him, sculpt him to be a heretic, refuse to fill his stomach or his heart. The beggar turns down his hat and treks into the wild.
Winds brush into the city like hurricane strokes. The air is rancid, lays a sheet of disease upon the city.
Days pass and soon fires pop up like rabid colours, consuming the fine edges of laid stone and brick.
The beggar walks into a field of snow and ash where a cloaked woman stands with seven crows in the trees behind her. She offers him her hand. He hesitates but takes it anyway. At a motion from her, his veil is lifted and the colours of the world become vibrant, sounds are jarring. He will paint the land bright, gild it in gold, and set music in the ears of all.