So, it had been a few months since Rowan had first encountered that strange morphing youma and its viscous leavings. she couldn’t say that things had gotten less bizarre. If anything, she had far more questions than answers at this point, though from what little she’d been able to gather there weren’t many people who had all of the answers. Unfortunately. It’s not like they could pick out a book in the library and learn all about whatever all of this was. Still, it was difficult to imagine that she could be in any danger in her own living room. Her small, second floor apartment was in a quiet neighborhood and it was easy to draw the conclusion that it wouldn’t be of any particular interest to the strange forces that permeated the city, even at this hour. Even monsters and absurd magic slinging people had to sleep sometime, right? As for Rowan, before she allowed herself such a luxury she had several pieces to perfect before the beginning of her final semester in college. The thought was almost as unsettling as the knowledge that magic was real. Not quite, but almost. At least she could wave her BA around when trying to get tutoring work, she’d need the extra cash once she entered the master’s program in the fall.

The sound of carolers drifting through the cold toward her window didn’t feel entirely out of place when it first reached her ears, but she couldn’t deny the sharp edge of fear that shot through her stomach at the presence of her pre-dawn visitors. Putting down her violin, she moved timidly through her living room. The air vibrated with the music, filling the room with a barely perceptible pressure, and she somehow knew that it wasn’t the distance that blurred the edges of the song as it rose from the street. The tune flitted along the edges of her mind, tauntingly familiar and defiantly distant as it nimbly eluded any recognition or understanding. She felt the hairs on her arm rise as the warmth bled from the air with each note and she wrapped her arms around her small frame.

Through shallow breaths Rowan harbored the smallest hope that the voices were merely drunken revelers, slurring their words and mangling whatever obscure tune they’d chosen for the wee hours of the morning and crept slowly toward her window, peering through the small parting of the curtains. She managed to stifle the startled cry at the sight of the empty street below and couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone who managed to get used to this sort of thing. A frown creased her face at the thought. She knew that she stood no physical chance against whatever was outside her window, but if nothing else she could refuse to grant it whatever fear it might want to draw out of her. Closing her eyes, she forced the frown from her face and reached for her violin, taking it up once more.