It was a dark night. The moon hung high in the satin black sky, the Stars obscured by the mist that surrounded the fateful hill. The hill where it all happened. The murder, the music, the anguish. This hill was where the world was nearly torn apart, all because of one man. The word man is used lightly. He is naught but a shadow, a blight on the land that he calls home. Legend has it that he was once a noble knight, in service to the High King. One day he was sent away on a quest to the castle in the mountains. He got lost, never able to return to his home, his family. As he wandered he cursed all that had cost him his happiness and his life, and this curse still follows today. Whoever the Man of the Mountains is, and maybe we will never know, he had one weakness. The hilltop at night was one of the most beautiful places in all the land. The valley stretching before it, usually crowded with merchants touting their wares, urchins running around on the street, or travellers, simply looking for a meal and a place to stay before they moved, was quiet and tranquil. The silence only broken by the occasional call of an owl. That is, until at precisely midnight every night the music began. A melody that cried of loss and heartbreak, of suffering and rejection, of joy and ecstasy, and then of death, and the silence it brings with it. A song that pulled at the heart strings of any who slept below, stretching into their dreams and playing with their minds. It pulls the unwary to the hill to listen, to ensnare them, to corrupt them. The song of 1000 years but of only 1 life. He stands there and sings, the wind with him, on the hill. The Man of the Mountain. This is where it started. With the soft, gentle noises of the Music of the Night.