"What tune did I play," he corrects, though not unkindly. His strumming turns choppier, each chord a half step lower than the last, short sharp bursts with vibrato warbling the ends. "A tune that bleats. How else could the rams sing along?"

He draws out the final chord of that run, lets it ring in the cold clean morning air before he continues on, back to something softer and more tuneful. "For the icicles, I played every song of love that I knew. For you see, each icicle that you saw was an Antivan, frozen from the cold. I hoped to wake them, but barely escaped with my own life."

Strum, strum. The tune has turned a little sad, and Scipio sighs: sad.