“O land of Dead, I would instead,
Walk on, though I yet live.
They’ll never wake, the lives you take,
Though mine I’ll freely give.
A child of Death, that last, slow breath,
Gives me a life renewed.
Though many fear that end so drear,
A viewpoint all too crude.
I feel its touch, embrace its clutch,
For Death does my soul mend.
So won’t you see? Come, follow me.
I’ll guide you through the end.”

The song, morbid as its subject was, was set to an upbeat, nigh-cheery mood. The source of the song was a young woman, appearing about twenty-one years in age. Her hair was black as the raven, and her eyes were of similar hue. Her skin was pale, almost white, and her lips were as black as a beetle. She was garbed in ebony, and her raiments were elegant. She was clad in a sable dress, whose skirt was full-length, and the top had neither straps nor sleeves, covering only the stomach and the chest. It was made of silk, and it had a soft shine to it, although the mist of Doriba diminished the effect. Her smooth feet were bare, neither slipper nor sandal to adorn them. She wore two silk dress gloves, which came up a few inches past the elbow, but short of the shoulder. A sable cloak hung from her shoulders, the hood hanging behind her head. Beside her, a scythe, made wholly of a strange metal, sat with its blade on the ground, handle leaning against the young woman’s shoulder.

Her morbid song finished, she pulled the hood of her black cloak over her head. Picking up the scythe, she spun it with ease in her hand, turning it upright. Using it as a walking stick, she made her way through the dark lands of Doriba, her pale, bare feet stepping on the occasional skull. As she happily wandered the dreary realm, she chanced upon a skull that had an arrow embedded in it. Picking up, she studied it with interest, and sat down on a mound of bones nearby. Taking her scythe, she pulled off her left glove, and made a small cut on the arm. A small amount of pitch-black blood began to pour, and the woman took the arrow out of the skull, and dipped it in the black blood. Sliding the glove back on, she began to write on the skull with the arrow. She wrote with a fluid, graceful script, penning songs of death and its joys.

This was Yamakanya, the Maiden of Death, her dress sable, her heart free, as she reveled in the Land of the Dead.