Even in death, she wandered, a wraith of sadness, anguish, always crying for pity until one day her very soul turned cold and dark. Gone was the beauty of her flashing eyes; her ebony hair hung in rags of its former splendour. Her heart was frozen in rage. She spun through the times infecting all whom she touched. Sometimes she found ease in the stray sounds of random strumming; nothing she could actually touch, but there, at times...it felt as though she should know the player, but alas it always eluded her. Christobel was cold and so tired.