"Glory be to Creation, Breath of Dynara," sings Eritheyl, loosing grim, sombre notes from a
prismatic violin of the eternal lovers, and he looks directly at you.

Staring balefully at you, Eritheyl draws low, ominous chords from the air, focused upon maintaining
the killing song. You suddenly falter as the funebre pervades your hearing, wrinkles forming across
your skin, crinkling like brittle parchment.

With a flourish, Eritheyl brings the funebre to a doleful conclusion. You grow pale and emaciated as
rapid age suddenly takes you, bones growing brittle and limbs spindly. With a final sense of utter
sorrow, you succumb to your own farewell and collapse, your withered corpse scattering into a fine
dusting of powder across the ground.
You have been slain by Eritheyl.
A group of 169 bolts of silk falls out of your inventory.