The wind.

The wind was a wondrous thing: able to roar, able to howl, able to think and to shout. It had traveled the length and breadth of Arda and would no doubt travel it again many-a-time. Its soul was missing and for it the wind would seek and search, ever-reaching, ever-hurting, ever-seeking. A scarecrow without a heart was no scarecrow at all as all the crows knew.

It was the wind that joined the sky and the earth, aided water's ascent and watched it tumble down by. Maybe it was for that reason the wind noted the death of the stars. But the wind was fickle and even if it did notice, it cared but little- hesitating only a moment for a devotion of mourning that could be.

It was on this day, this night of a glorious fall that a she-devil could be seen, tossed and turned by waves larger than three or four of her stacked together. A boat-wrecked crew member? A demon summoned and then discarded? A she-devil who had merely walked into the wrong place at the wrong time? A stranded caricature of time? A thing of little notice and more death? Something else altogether? Maybe. She was a carnivore, of that there was no doubt- the little squid that had once been a child had been consumed raw- the wind knew, the wind saw. A consumate survivor the thing was almost terrifying in its intensity and destructiveness.