Nice place, the Silver Horn. That was how she knew she was climbing that hill, musically. Didn't any good kind of satisfaction come from plumbing her voice for drunks and young women looking for a little color in their vacant lives. Wasn't any happiness bought with the coin, neither. The elders had taught her the merit of honest effort for payment rendered, and in these nebulous creative pursuits, you never could measure one against the other. Only evidence of a job well done was that it left her exhausted. If it weren't the mounting pressure funneling all that coin back into drink, it were the breath of Graz down her neck, rumbling low about what a hypocrite she was.<br/><br/>Wasn't any kind of happiness it bought, but it did pay for some nice things. It paid for the cloak she inverted over the half-back barstool, too fancy to sit in. The lining was a red velvet for show, and it gave her dramyin a nice cradle as she used the ornate back for a guitar stand. Wasn't nobody more coming, and a girl named Spooky was tired of keeping time for the rumbling thunder with the twang of seven strings.<br/><br/>"Supposed to be the spirits of the dead roaming the world, on a night like this." It was her best feature, that voice, warm and low and smoky just like the fireplace that brought strangers huddling. They followed their instincts, but not too far... not into a storm that begged for ghost stories. "Carrying testimony of grief to any ear unshielded. You catch a breeze through your hair and a chill like icy fingers, that's when you're Ridden."