Xymox lifts his head from the faint, melodic hum he’d been coaxing from his violin. The bow stills mid-air as his crimson eyes find Starker. A quiet smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
“Very well, maestro of mayhem,” he says softly, voice a low drawl laced with dry amusement. “The stage is set, the air tingles with doom, and my part in this grim symphony awaits. Strike your fork, and let the dead come dancing.”
He inclines his head with a slow, deliberate nod—equal parts reverence and irony. “I am ready.”
<Starker, tuning fork in one hand, metal tongs in the other, stands by the plinth, looking to Sir Chadwick for tactical instructions and/or the go ahead.>
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Xymox lifts his head from the faint, melodic hum he’d been coaxing from his violin.
The bow stills mid-air as his crimson eyes find Starker. A quiet smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
“Very well, maestro of mayhem,” he says softly, voice a low drawl laced with dry amusement.
“The stage is set, the air tingles with doom, and my part in this grim symphony awaits. Strike your fork, and let the dead come dancing.”
He inclines his head with a slow, deliberate nod—equal parts reverence and irony.
“I am ready.”
Starker:”Sir Chadwick? Yartol?”
Yartol looks to Starker when he is asked, "This must be done prior to killing Gryndreneur? Then let us proceed."
<Starker, tuning fork in one hand, metal tongs in the other, stands by the plinth, looking to Sir Chadwick for tactical instructions and/or the go ahead.>