The Wych's deranged fit having ended some time before, the Harlequin had moved back to practicing his various performances. Resulingly, Neremeth had been ignoring the servo skull, hanging upside down from the ceiling via toes flexed carefully into indents, his arms cradling a bizarre, multi chambered mandolin. His nimble fingers plucked at strings and sent them thrumming into flowing melodies that echoed around the chamber. One of the notes was eventually soft enough for the message to get through, his shoulders lifting in a graceful shrug to hear it as he flipped down from the ceiling without interruption as he played.<br/><br/>It was music thus that heralded him before he arrived, eerie and reverberant as the few times he would speak, though similarly with the same melodic resonance and perfect pitch. He wore his mask, full player's garb and longcoat, with his neural disruptor and various of his juggling toys concealed about within.<br/><br/>His steps flowed over to one of the chairs near where the others sat, a hop up to perch on its back via an arch of his toes. He shifted downards in the volume of the notes, a level below conversations so as not to interrupt or disrupt them while he continued, a languid change in melodies that seemed smooth and natural, accuracy and talent preternatural enough to nudge harmonic vibrations themselves in deft gestures. The effect was a sort of soothing background noise tailored for a listener to interpret, whether coming off as the sense of soft rain on a distant rooftop, the far off chorus of agonized, dying, victimized cries from a day's satisfying carnage, a jangling lilt of chimes or anything inbetween so depending on that listener, melodies to catch just in the corner of their thoughts.<br/><br/>For Neremeth's part, he just perched and waited, drawing out music he hadn't had an inclination to finish up.