The music played on. At times it was only the uncurrent of whatever she was doing, but there were times when it built into a massive crescendo, loud enough to drown out her own thoughts, compelling her to dance.

Fortunately that night it played lightly in the background of her mind. She remembered there was to be a meeting of the House, but Crysta sighed heavily as it's appointed time had been lost to the fog in her mind.

The former bard knew that eventually someone would pipe up, giving a clue when the time drew near, for now, she would seek out a Master artist. The simple rosebud on the top of her shoulder would find transformation that she might always remember the lessons of the previous weeks. She was almost certain that Fatale had sent these tests upon her.

She met the minotaur in a quiet lounge. Even in her disconnected state, he was a powerful figure, strong muscles and fine art of his own. They immediately talked about what ideas she had while he arranged for a more private setting. Crysta had a great deal of trouble maintaining her focus but the words seemed to flow more like normal, not the lines of poetry of snipets of songs she had written in the past. She described what she desired in the tattoo with detail, even mentioning that she could not come up with a final symbol. He was quick to offer a solution; it was uncanny that he seemed to understand what was needed.

While the artist requested to view the bud, setting out what inks and implements he would need, Crysta loosened the ties to her blouse, clutching it loosely at her chest, while allowing it to slide down her back exposing her shoulders. Her free hand pulled her loose hair away. Quietly, he set to work, but Crysta did not pay much attention.

The music kept her distracted, though there was no conversation, the sound of the music was different, still quiet, not yet stirring the dance. There was something it tried to tell her. Crysta listened intently until Argg announced he was finished. He handed her a mirror, holding a second one so she could view the work. The scene had appeared there just as she had envisioned it. Magical inks he had said would shift the scene somehow in reminder.

He inquired of the imagery, and the bandage on her hand, all which turned into talk of Lord Fatale, Argg stating his service along with his philosophy on what the Lord of Murder might better desire of her service.

She heard the words, and yet not heard them. Did he insult her? She was not certain he had. He did not understand the fog in her mind. It kept her from wallowing in the acts she commmitted said he. Yet Crysta knew the real reason, so she could better focus on what needed to be done. Her former nature was to think over everything, and rethink to a fault. The fog blotted out everything that might interfere with the act.

All that mattered was the dance. It would always be her offering. She found it impossible to bring all those words to her lips and stopped trying when she did hear that the meeting was soon to begin.

Crysta's mind drifted on the current melody she alone heard. It had altered for her previous company, the bard inside her whispered a possible reason for the change in tone. Different people would remind her of different music.

She heard little of the actual meeting, only pieces. Several faces had returned to the fold. One specifically present at the meeting was Tiran. It was then she remembered another had returned to Verminasia just that day, Mesastina.. Her mind drifted along the melody in pain. Many memories sought her out through the fog. That time for the House was rocky and undisciplined, it reminded her again of her sister, T'zarria... It reminded her of Tua...

NO! Her mind screamed inside, forcing her body to shift uncomfortably. The music gathered strength even as she tried to keep herself calm. The memories would not go away, their hauntings causing the ongoing melody to become more avant garde akin to the very music she once used to kill.

Crysta almost wished the music would overwhelm her, that she might never think of that name again. The whole notion that he had crawled back to the Vallenwood to die made bile rise to the back of her throat. He had been Master of the House, crawling was beneath him...

She tried carrying on a private conversation with Phinas to ease her mind. His tone was always quiet and gentle, but she knew that within was a devoted servant to Fatale. The need to learn from him was great, but she would wait to see if the personal lessons had passed. A weariness filled her and she did excuse herself at an appropriate lull.

The way home would need wait. Her course strayed south, passed the sleeping guards, passed the temple of her Lord, south of Arkane. For the first time in many hours, the familiar chord that heralded a change in music rang in her ears. The waltz followed, all other sounds nearby became swallowed up in it's melody. Immediately she knew where she was to go.

Slipping by the guard before the church, Crysta entered the temple. Novitiates to Priests all congregated in the same areas for prayer. The music swelled within her mind where she closed her eyes a moment to catch her balance, as her arms and feet moved to the melody. Her hands clasped the hilt of her naked blade, point to the floor. She curtsied to it as it bowed to her and they began the dance. Back and forth she swayed, her head tilting to each side as she floated along the floor, completely oblivious to the strange looks she was receiving from those that where trying to pray. The music continued without a break. Where it was customary to curtsey at the end, the music swelled again into a similar melody of a slightly faster beat. Her curtsey was quick, bending her knees just enough to facilitate the illusion. A faint murmur added to the music, she reasoned that it was probably those around her asking questions to why she danced in their sacred house. But she cared not for their words, it was of no consequence, only that He had bid her dance here.

A mere flick of a wrist brought the sword blade up. Her eye caught the image of herself in the polished steel before her eyes lost focus. It was not supposed to be there. Her dancing became more exaggerated, waving the blade in the air trying to remove the picture from the steel. For the first time since her change in profession, she felt the blade pass through the flesh of her victims, the warm stick feel of the blood as it splattered on her; the dull drum-like thud of the bodies as they connected to the floor adding to the flavor of the continuing dance.

The fog did not come this time, she stood in the center of her mind, dancing still, the grey fog making a ring around her at a larger diameter than normal. The ground around her feet was awash with blood. Upon the air woven into the music were shrieks and the pleading words of the dying. In the blood at her feet appeared a face molded from the blood, begging to be spared, for mercy.

Crysta's head tilted to the side as the point of her blade passed through the open mouth, causing a great deal of blood to spurt out onto her clothing. A slow gurgle caused the music in her mind to change again. Back to what she had listened to all day, what she head when He did not require anything more of her at that moment. The face of blood lost cohesion, falling in a heavy splat onto the floor.

A smirk touched her lips combined with the vacant gaze in her eyes. She actually looked down, her booted foot connected to the dead face still stuck upon her blade, pushing it off with contempt. A thick veil of crimson covered the blade erasing the image she had seen there before. She nodded slightly. The pews were strewn with bodies and the landscape had become rich with red. The light had been passified. Her work was finished for now.

The weariness returned, it was time to rest.