Death has a voice.
The wanderer knew that, for he had heard that voice often enough. And as he walked through the village of Alhs, past the corpses of those who had chosen to stay, he heard it again. He heard it in the rasp of the wind along the eaves of the abandoned homes he passed, heard it in the slow, methodical banging of window shutters with no one to secure them. Death has eyes. Eyes that looked out from the corpses of those the wanderer had not been able to talk into coming with him and the others, who watched him walk down the empty street, searching in vain for any he might help, any he might save. And with each body passed, each tragedy witnessed, the wanderer made himself a promise. There would be a reckoning. He would see to it. For while death has a voice and eyes, that is not all it has. Death has a name. And so the wanderer sets out to Celes in order to find the ones to whom that name belongs, to find the enemy and, when he does, to find his vengeance.
