Sung from my hunter, in the abyss at Crota's End: Upon Deaf Ears I gave it to you yesterday, and hours before the morn, a bullet bathed in solar flame, a fire cast from barrels bred for war and war and war. Yet more still come and gather vast, where shadows claw with knives and fangs, the echos rattle bones we brought, mounding into graves unsung. But here I sit and watch light dwindle, in a dark too black to glisten, unpolished, moist, dripping with ebony, the Hive grow still and listen. No Truth to give, no Word to speak, No Land Beyond what I can see. No Rhorny-Gjall that pines for them, only a digit nestled where sense flows free. The lanturn shatters, the charge unfurls, a cacophony of curdled blood, my finger squeezes and out words pour, Advice ignored still finds its mark. My dagger dulls from skulls of thrall, Crota's ilk blown into cinders, they do not tire nor do will cease, unhindered while I delve deeper. Each light more faint as my legs burn, aching where the footfalls break, until I reach a bridge of light, as Advice cries back into the pit "You're a fool for going alone."