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The Mournful Chorus	It's a peaceful night in the principality of Rake, one of the largest and wealthiest among the Hundred Kingdoms. The full moon's reflection only deepens the shadows in the Musty River's surprisingly clear water. Tonight, here in the trade city of Crimson Vine, known for its enchanted vintages and unusually cold winters, an upstart merchant prince celebrates the successful run of his very first caravan with a grand salon. His estate towers on a small hill over the river, a decadent, sprawling pagoda. Its beautiful gardens, luxurious balconies and large halls are filled with laughing, gossiping, dancing people, the cream of Rake's mercantile class. But one of these visitors is not like the others. She arrived without an invitation, and yet she was admitted without a second glance. She doesn't possess wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, yet the mortals think her one of her own. For several hours, she has mingled with the crowds, drifted from group to group, listened to their gossip, talked with them about their aspirations and dreams, laughed and danced with then, and learned much about the things they didn't say out loud. And yet... Chorus can't keep going indefinitely. She steps out on an unoccupied balcony, where the noises of human revel fade to near inaudibility, taking in the sight of the black river below her, and takes a careful sip from the glass of red wine she has been nursing for half an hour now. She looks harmless enough, that small, young woman with her iridescent scarf wrapped around her neck. A green sari with floral embroidery covers most of her body, neatly complimented by a wide purple sash accentuating her waistline.
Last Light's Whisper	As Chorus steps out onto the balcony, a tiny, black form flits across the bright disk of the moon. As it glides through the air, it turns a lose circle around the gaudy estate of the petty lord. The raven considers the decadence of the scene in its dark eyes as it spirals down toward the small figure that just walked out onto one of the estates several balconies. The night air sings through the raven's feathers as it picks up speed in its descent. Music and laughter become ever louder as the raven dives toward the balcony. A tilt of its head, and the raven notices a small, silvered shape in a nearby tree and detects the faint scent of perfume and death. The raven alights on the railing of the balcony on the side of the balcony opposite Chorus. The bird hops along the ornate stone a few times, tilting its head this way and that as it goes. Pausing, it releases a caw into the night - it was a caw, right? Was that the caw of a raven, or did that bird just say, "Chorus?"
The Mournful Chorus	Unlike the monkey in the tree, who is really just minding his own business and doesn't seem particularly interested in random crows, Chorus' eyes follow the bird's descent, trailing it with her gaze as it draws closer and alights close by. Her dark eyes, made to appear larger than they are by artfully applied black mascara, shine with interest. At the sound of the bird's voice, she slightly tilts her head to the side, and a delighted smile slowly spreads across her face. "Now ~that~ is interesting. Who might you be? Or should I ask: ~What~...?" There's a hint of Firetongue accent in her Riverspeak. She takes another sip of wine and strolls over to the railing closest to where the crow is perched.
Last Light's Whisper	In a blink, where a raven once stood cawing on the balcony railing, a man dressed all in black perches on the balls of his feet. His arms rest easily on his knees, and his head tilts slightly, exactly as the bird's had been. Above a black mask covering the man's nose and mouth, dark, emerald-flecked eyes regarded Chorus with some curiosity. "The Mournful Chorus of Shattered Heavens," the man says in what can only be described as a loud whisper - like Chorus, Flametongue accents his Riverspeak. "Shattered Heavens," he repeats. "The dead speak of The Mournful Chorus as do a growing number of the living." Despite the weapons sheathed at his left hip and the small of his back, he appears neither threatening nor threatened as he breaks eye contact to glance for a moment at the moon. Returning to Chorus, the man continues almost as if speaking to himself, "Tonight, you find yourself among the guests of this petty merchant lord, but you are not of them, are you?" He lets the rhetorical question hang in the air for a moment. "I am called Last Light's Whisper, and I've come to make your acquaintance."
The Mournful Chorus	Chorus continues to smile through all of this, expression devoid of any concern, let alone fear at the sight of that masked, armed stranger who has just popped out of a crow's unassuming shape. Her eyes subject him to a thourough examination, taking in every detail, any shift in his mien or body language that might betray a discrepancy between what he's saying, and what he might be ~really~ thinking. "Oh no! I have been found out! Completely exposed, even. My secrets, all laid bare. Such a tragedy." She says this in a flat, almost bored voice, then offers the stranger a toast before drinking the last of her wine in one large gulp. Switching to Flametongue, she continues in a friendly, slightly playful tone, accompanied by an amiable smile: "You're a clever one, Last Light's Whisper. Quite knowledgeable, too. What a pleasant surprise. With your daring choice of wardrobe, one could easily mistake you for an assassin, or thief. Most of those don't meddle in the affairs of the dead, unless paid to do so. So... why don't you tell me what you ~really~ want, hm?" She allows her smile to fade just a bit, cocking her head at him quizzically.
Last Light's Whisper	If Whisper noticed the sarcasm in Chorus' exclamation, he doesn't show it as he answers in Flametongue without skipping a beat, "Though secrets are my business, yours remain largely intact, I think." He once again looks to the moon as he continues to speak, "I am not here to kill you or to steal from you - in neither case would I be here talking to you now. No, I am here because I have heard your name and suspect your nature, Mournful Chorus, but I only suspect." Whisper suddenly looks directly into Chorus' eyes, though as he speaks it is once again hard to be sure that he's talking to Chorus rather than to himself, "Are you an enemy or an ally, I wonder. Today, I do not think that you are an enemy. Today, I deliver to you information that you might find to be of some value, if you would hear it."
The Mournful Chorus	While Whisper is busy stating his intentions, Chorus rests her elbows on the railing and leans further towards him, still giving him her full attention. Her right hand still holds the glass, although her grip is light, just short of letting go. It looks awfully expensive, expertly crafted from crystal, sparkling in the silver light of the moon. She doesn't try to avert her eyes or flinch from his gaze. In fact, she examines his eyes with great interest. "Soooo", the small woman finally says after a carefully measured pause, "...you want to play games?" The grin that now parts her lips and spreads across her face is full of mischievous delight. "I'm already enjoying myself tremendously. Your eyes are ~fascinating~, by the way." There might be a hint of a slur in her speech, but she doesn't exactly appear to be drunk. Just a little tipsy, maybe. "Tell me then, boy with the star-filled eyes. I'm all ears." As she says this, she places her free hand behind one of her ears.
Last Light's Whisper	"No games, Mournful Chorus," Whisper responds, and there is nothing mocking in his tone. Whisper raises an eyebrow at Chorus' slurred speech, but he continues. "In Nexus, there is a guild factor who calls himself Lucid Dreamer. He trades in many things with many beings, but he has a very particular arrangement with the Fae. They supply him with the impossible. He supplies them," Whisper looks back at the moon "with children who sing." Then, the man is gone, and Chorus is surrounded by a murder of crows flapping around her in every direction. Though there is seemingly no order to the chaos of wings and feathers, none so much as graze Chorus. In a moment, the crows gather as one and fly away toward the West.
The Mournful Chorus	Chorus stands perfectly still, watching the flock of birds with an air of indifference. Once she is certain they're all long gone, she disengages from the railing and stretches her arms. The silver-furred monkey, who has seen the birds leave, nimbly leaps onto the balcony from a nearby tree and allows a small, nimble hand to scratch him beneath the chin. "Dramatic, isn't he", Chorus whispers into the monkey's ear. The slur is completely gone now. "I like him already. You know... I think we might have to find out more about strange bird-people with stars in their eyes. But first... it's been a while since we've last sailed for Nexus, don't you think?" She grins, and the monkey bars his teeth.