It was a dim day in Doriba, the land of the Cursed Dead. But then, what other kind of day was there in such a place? Still, the place was not without cheer. After all, with so many toothy grins from the bodies of the fallen, surely there was something to the place. But despite the eerie and macabre nature of the lifeless planes, there was a creature who endured its trials. He was a lupine, almost seven feet tall. His rich pelt was a mixture of black and brown, and his belly was white. There was a queer gleam in his yellow eyes, as he sat atop a pile of bones, a small flute in his hands. He put it to his lips, and began to play a mournful melody, the soft tones to the ears as the fog is to the eyes: soft, intangible, but glistening brightly, with an eerie sense of waiting. He played for some time, but in the end, he at last ceased. Only a dirge could survive the stifling atmosphere of this grand graveyard. Undaunted, the wolf began a song, and it seemed as though the very bones hearkened to hear him.

“Where are the bones?
Lying not among stones,
Though such is their right position.
Why don’t they cry?
For all they have died.
Not sorry nor righteous contrition?
So rot here, old ones
Bleach in the sun,
And dwell in eternal derision.”

After he had finished, there was an uneasy silence, and the wolf laughed aloud, mocking the dead for their inability to avenge themselves.

Walking among the blackened and bleak plains of Doriba was a tall masked stranger. He seemed to be simultaneously out of place, and yet in perfect harmony. He was tall, about six feet, and he was clad in simple marsh-green robes. He stepped softly through the endless piles of bones, fluttering about as if he were one of the ghosts. His hair was long, smooth, and black as pitch. His mask covered his entire face, and was a simple oblong design, white in color. There were no eyeholes, no markings or designs of any sort. Still, he did not seem to be blind, as he was navigating with ease. He went on and on wordlessly, until at last he heard the sounds of pipes. He walked over the source of the sound, seeing a tall lupine playing. The beast then began a dirge, to which the masked stranger simply cocked his head to the side in curiosity. Once the lupine had finished, the masked began a song of his own, though his mask had no mouth-hole.

“Where are the living,
So cruel, unforgiving,
For they feel no holy sorrow
So them do we mock
Tombstones we knock
Their sense of hatred we borrow.
All much the same
All are to blame,
But that is enough ‘till tomorrow.

I am Benesse, at your service, Lupine.”

After his song, Benesse simply stared, unblinking, unmoving, until the beast replied. Curiously, his mask began to grow markings, if it could be called that. It was as if they were painted by an unseen brush. Two red dots formed where the eyes would be, and elongated into the shape of a beast's eyes, looking uncannily like pools of blood.