Wykkyd does have a SOUL, though it is almost drowned out by the cloying brightness of the rest of him. It’s large, larger than usual at least, and the glossy color of a snowglobe in pale pearls, silvers, whites. Underneath the brilliance is a little core of darkness, furiously churning; smothered by all that light.

Wykkyd paces to the oboes and crouches down, wings flaring out behind him as a counterbalance. He reaches into them, picks one up. Twists it in his grip, tapping at the keys idly.