[@Song Book] [@Dark Light]

[color=0072bc]'Aha, the girl speaks.'[/color] Hardwick said, looking over at the animal-like girl as she climbed back onto her chair. The accent and language was unmistakably Russian - Hardwick had learned a few phrases from his youth, but not many. [color=0072bc]'Uh... Я Джеймс Хардвик... 
Рад встрече с вами?' Apologies ma'am, Russian's not my native language. And you are...?'[/color]

As he waited for the response, Hardwick became vaguely aware of a haunting and unfamiliar tune echoing throughout the tavern, like a nursery rhyme from a dark and long-forgotten era. Thoughts that weren't quite his own swirled about his head, and terror gripped him as he began to realise that on an instinctive level [i]he knew every last word[/i].

Before he knew what he was doing, he began to sing along - a low, sotto tone that scarcely seemed like his own:

[color=0072bc][i]'In the fire he must lay, your
man of hay, man of hay"

Made from straw and lies, he can't stay, 
man of hay, man of hay...'[/i][/color]