The geisha priestess' voice rose in a haunting and melodic chant. There was little mistaking this song for what it was. She chanted a dirge, calling the dead through the quick to witness the happenings of this ritual. They would stand in a silent and cold curtain, encircling the stone Aska stood on. The waves of entropy, of void, of nothingness, emanated from that noose of decay. They faded from sight, but that blood curdling chill still swept out from the little priestess. Her skin, already pale in the moonlight, had taken an almost icy look to it. Her eyes were nearly electrified in the moonlight, moving between a glowing violet, to a black, then a mercury silver. Living, moving shadow seemed to pass and writhe beneath the skin of the petite woman, the darkness blowing as free as the raven hair that the winter wind picked at.
Her chant changed, no longer the dirge it had been, but far more entrancing, sorcerous in it's ability to call out to someone. The winds rose, blowing strands of that midnight silk hair about her placid face, and they traveled out from her, finding the person she wished to hear them. Hear them and find her and this place. Led there, and oblivious of the fact that they had been summoned. Only knowing that they followed an angel's voice in the winds, making ephemeral promises and offering unrealized dreams.
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