Crystal Words watches the ecstatic dancer from under the shimmering veil of gossamer that covers her from head to thighs.  It is a silvery and translucent thing, easily seen through and giving her the appearance  of a penitent or a cultured desert dweller.  Both assumptions would be terribly, terribly wrong.<br/><br/>Her garnet colored eyes follow the moves of the dancer.  To other eyes she would be a becoming creature, her movements fascinating and alluring in ways that would lead one into temptation.  Crystal Words Like Falling Knives sees them in a different light; they are parts of a traditional dance that have been redesigned and misplaced into what would seem to be a new dance to anyone else.  Movements set in manners to achieve desired results and in forms that are set into certain decisive methods of making one alluring.  They jab at her senses, their predictable patterns offensive to her.<br/><br/>A part of her understands they have a significant purpose, one designed into them by the dancer and the cultures that they stem from.  That part of her is not well fortified, and she finds the dancer's movements appallingly grotesque in ways she could not explain adequately.  Crystal Words has laid enemies and allies alike low with her dances, and brought men and women to ruin both figuratively and literally.  But a part of her knows that to reveal this to Xalvia would injure the woman in some way, not physically perhaps, but in another, more ephemeral way.  This part of Crystal Waters is stronger, and of deeper measure, so she smiles and watches the dancer for other reasons than because she dances.<br/><br/>She would like to taste the source of the dance, and savor the well from which it springs, but she does not allow herself to taste of her mistress' companions; while Crystal Words is not bound to those they serve directly, she is bound by an Oath, and it could come perilously close to disregarding that Oath to draw off the pool of the dancer's sweet compassions or potent convictions.  The question wakes her from her reverie, and she speaks in her lilting, haunting voice.  "If this is how the next chapter of the tale begins, then it is an auspicious beginning to it.  To show the Immaculate how stained their world has become would be poetic in its justice.  But then, it is not my place to say yea or nay."<br/><br/>Little more than a pretty gem among the throng of those who worship at the Vizier of Blessed Bounty's feet, she stands untouched by the burning sun's deadly hate; the dust which clings to most absents itself from her dark silks and the shimmering gems she wears.  The breeze barely touches her veil or her silken clothing, and her bare feet evidence no blistering though they are unprotected upon the sands of the Southern Hell.  It is less that her unearthly beauty remains unmarred by these things, than she is simply unaware that these things should be happening.  Though the veil hides the most intense of her beauty, she cannot help but stand apart from a Creation she was never meant to live in.