The Night was silent in Skingrad, the trees swaying seductively in the shallow breeze. The sky - that had a few ages ago been sun and sky - was now cloud the colour of a corpse. Only fitting, considering the task at hand.

The graveyard was silent, quite as the damned that were packed into the hardened earth. When one hastily broke through the earth and heard the electrifying *clunk* of the iron shovel upon what the inexperienced would have thought stone, the heart is races and the palms and neck secrete sweet sweat, saturating the ground.

Time is of the essence. The dead have all the time in the world, but the lusting graverobber doesn't, for the living guards walk upon their watch routine, threatening to throw them in jail and shatter the false perception that has been portrayed to varying degrees of success.

Digging the body at double the speed that it was buried, the deed is soon done.

The cold, clammy touch of death penetrates the soul. Blood rushes downwards. Not yet. Safety first, then Enjoyment. Peeking over the shoulder upon lifting it onto your back provides no witnesses. Good. If there was, it would mean another fine, or at worse, another move. The 'civilised' world is unaccepting of desires that spring from the unconscious to the conscious mind... of those who truly want to experience the most intense pleasure.

The overcast night is giving away to the stars of the Divines, with their disapproving eyes and judgemental subjects.

To bed with the sweetheart, for it would be a long night...

For Falanu Hlaalu always wakes the dead from beyond the grave with the sounds.