Stop your whiny teeth chattering and listen up. I have a plan to regain the Flame's blessing and lift this horrid curse! First, we'll make a fine brazier, a chandelier , and oh so many candles. Second, we find ourselves a brittle-boned weakling who didn't gulp down enough milk as a kid. Third, we smash him to pieces. Fourth, throw his sad, fragile little bones into the firepit as a holy offering and DANCE UNTIL the Flame forgives us! We could chant, but the only song I know is "Ode to Pikemead". If you know some tunes by that bard Val, join in!

These Halls look so drab... who said that eternal suffering had to be so stale? We could easily add some pazazz, right? I have an idea: A throne made from Bones. Imagine it. Fearsome. Intimidating. Gothic. Yes, it's a little on the nose... but why leave room for subtlety when you could be lounging on the remains of your rivals? Ah, I'm brilliant. I missed my calling as an interior decorator. Sure wish I wasn't undead.

If Mother was here, she'd hang up chandeliers, set candles in every corner, dust off the old books, and read me a story. Her warm, melodic voice would fill the room like a flood of candlelight. I'd listen for hours, cuddled up in her hand-woven orange blanket dyed with saffron. I'd take a sip of my sweetened chamomile tea, and gleefully drift off to sleep. But Mother isn't here. The dark is my new home.