It didn't look like much. Dark metal, plain wood, obscenely unadorned. It was made well enough, but there were times when people offered him better.
He came to realize quite quickly that the beauty wasn't in the appearance it showed, instead it was in the songs it sung.
The song it sung of wood that would keep him warm, in the cold company of pines. The song sung of food soon made ready.
But the sweetest of all was the one sung just as men died, so that he might survive.
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