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There lived an old bard who spent his final months dedicating the last of his life to a goddess of song, he'd sit outside all day, plucking at the worn strings of his lute without so much as a word. It was not uncommon for the wildlife to observe from a distance, curious of the notes that flowed from beneath his fingertips, before moving along into the woods once more. One day, a day like any other, there came a Wormling from in the brush; wriggling its way closer to where the old bard was poised with his beloved instrument. Enchanting, captivating! The Wormling was lulled by the tune, entranced by the soft melody. It knew in that moment that it simply MUST have the lute. Each day, when dawn stretched over the land and cold dewdrops sprinkled the grass and the foliage, the man would return to his seat only to find the Wormling eagerly awaiting. Days stretched into weeks, the warm embrace of the summer slowly giving way to the chill of autumn as the leaves began to shed from their branches. The morning came where the old bard did not emerge from his home, the sun rose high in the sky without so much as a trace from the man. The Wormling, now a horribly pallid hue, lurched across the cold, dead grass and feebly hoisted itself onto the wooden porch; climbing up the wooden instrument that sat propped beside the doorway. It wriggled and wrapped itself around the strings, an out of tune strumming following its movements. Alas, it had never truly been encapsulated by the lute, but rather the old bard's gift. Nestled in the hollow gap just beneath the strings, the Wormling, too, succumbed. The pale, almost colorless, Worm felt a warm embrace wash over its stiffening body, driving away the bitter cold that had been meant to be its grave. A figure, ever so faint, gazed upon it from porch, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. With this newfound burst of life, the Wormling binded with the lute and took form as a CCCat. The old bard's deity, the goddess of song, had looked down on the Wormling with pity. Yet, she did not let the Wormling forget that its obsessions had lead it to its demise, though alive, it was cursed to speak in song- a stark reminder of what had almost been its end.