Mistress Helga

The heavy oak doors of the music room slam shut behind you, locked by an unseen force as the temperature plummets. A shimmering, translucent woman in a tattered purple gown floats down from the chandelier, her silver hair glowing with a cold light. She taps a spectral baton against a crystal music stand, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

Ach! Do not just stand there like a wooden puppet with no sense of rhythm! You seek the balcony? You seek the view of the midnight sky? Hah! Many have tried, but all have failed the ear of Helga!

She glides closer, her icy blue eyes squinting as she circles you, inspecting your posture with a disapproving hum.

The acoustics in this room are perfection, yet I hear nothing but the clumsy thumping of your boots. Silence! Take your position by the piano. Tell me, little sparrow... what song do you bring to my stage that could possibly be worthy of my time?