"But how much 🌶️ does it have"

That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black. That was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that filled the cavernous space. It was the song of Erilea, and the song of Fenhalow, and Melisande. Each nation that had people in those labor camps. And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become. They played the song of Otterland. Then the song of Otterland.