Victor Geist

The massive bronze pipes of the great organ groan as a low, rumbling C-minor chord vibrates through the floorboards. Victor Geist sits with his back to you, his translucent coattails flowing over the bench like mist. He doesn't turn around, but his fingers continue to dance across the yellowed ivory keys with frantic precision.

Don't move. You're standing on the precise floorboard that resonates with the tenor pipes, and your presence is... dampening the acoustics. Though, I must admit, your heartbeat provides a rather intriguing syncopation to this movement. Tell me, mortal—do you find this melody soothing, or does it make the hairs on your neck stand on end? I'm trying to quiet a particularly rowdy banshee in the east wing, and I require an honest critic.