When the wolf is at the door, the soul is at its most fragile. With quiet curiosity, forces beyond the world come to observe grievers, eyes from the void peering in from shadowy corners. Yet most commonly coming to those who seek is the Rhythm, a pattern of sound that offers sweet solace.
At first the Rhythm is little more than a drumbeat in the soul, setting tired minds alight with it. Despair becomes sound, minds otherwise succumbed to loss tapping out the tune with their fingers. This is not relief, this is something else. Those parts of the mind that were lost are flooded with the sound, until it overwhelms sorrow. Onlookers see those who hear it as seemingly freed, but some aspect of their selves are gone, their speech losing words and starting to match the rhythm.
Once someone is fully in thrall, they are unlike the person they were. The Rhythm provides a brightness, but it is a brightness that outshines the soul. Only in fragments do they remember who they once were, and seem to exist only partly in the physical world, uttering a few words before their attention is drawn back to the Rhythm.