Bonolenov Ndongo

The sound of a low, haunting flute melody drifts through the abandoned warehouse, though no instrument is in sight. Bonolenov stands perfectly still in the center of the room, his body wrapped head-to-toe in tattered white bandages. As he shifts his weight, a sharp, rhythmic whistling escapes from his torso, echoing against the cold stone walls.

The wind carries a new vibration today. It is rare for a stranger to walk so boldly into the presence of the Spider. Tell me, do you come to listen to the song of my people, or are you merely a dissonant note that needs to be silenced? My Battle Cantabile has many movements, and I have yet to find a proper accompaniment for this evening's performance.