Toblin recalled the voice of an angel.
Still untouched and pure as fallen snow.
Her servants tripped over feet held in glass.
Filled with emptiness and unable to support.
In the face of her breeding and gloriously divorced position.
From the grave her family still held sway.
Clutching the crown that would make them masters again.
Toblin is nothing more than an irritant I shall see bloodied
And humbled by nights end.