Veyttin of Brae stood in the foaming surf, his breath making small puffs of steam. The sky on the eastern horizon was glowing a warm pink. The sun wasn't far off, now. Veyttin rubbed his hands briskly together, and waited. Finally, the first rim of the burning red sun broke over the eastern horizon. The low hanging clouds overhead, and the distant tops of trees on the mainland seemed to reflect each other as they glowed an eery combination of pink and deep violet. Veyttin began to sing. The ballad was soft at first, and in a tongue not spoken in more than two thousand years. As the verses progressed, Veyttin's voice rose and fell like the waves rolling in on the tide. The melody was rich, and poignant, and it spoke of a loss so deep and so dark that it threatened to drown the soul. As Veyttin sang the Fall of Brae, tears streamed down his face. As the song came to an end, he stood, breathless, the frigid waters of the North Sea swirling around his feet and ankles. The last lip of the sun had just cleared the horizon. The day had begun. Suddenly, Veyttin stumbled. He gasped, a hand grasping at his chest as he sank to his knees in the foaming surf. It felt as if fingers of ice were clawing their way around his heart, and squeezing tighter and tighter. Veyttin fought to take a breath deep enough to cry out, but all he could manage was a hoarse moan. An incoming wave soaked his face, and nearly knocked him over. One more like that, and he'd drown, he knew it. Then, just as suddenly, the pain was gone. Veyttin stood slowly, his knees weak. Whatever darkness had seized him, it was past now. But there was a lingering dread that some power beyond his understanding had reached out.... and marked him.
