She moved with less resistance than he anticipated. Like a brook over stones, she flowed in his hands. When he moved toward another direction, her body fell into it as though she willingly took a path of least resistance. Her footwork kept pace. Through these subtleties, the killer gleaned a faint light into the history scribed upon her soul. She knew the luxuries of dance, or at the very least the rhythm of the body to the sounds of music. Highest of all, he felt her trust.

The hairs of his arms rose, skin warm with the same anticipation a hunter feels as they hold a bowstring taught and broadhead leveled on the heart of their prey.

"Who am I..." he lingered on her question with a repetition and spun her out. Arms extended and wide, the looked as though incredibly distant. Then he tugged her gentle and spun her into his clutches with her back to his chest. He peered through the black, ceramic mask and spoke beside her ear. "I am both the question, the answer, and the part of you that says you should run, but you can't help but want to stay."

The depth of the statement, though cryptic, carried a burdened weight buried beneath decades of experience, struggle, and conquest. Lye was something of his own, not easily labeled by his own words yet callously labeled by others: Killer, murderer, psychopath, madman...

And at one point in time, lover, father, husband, neighbor...

He twirled her face to face again. His hand rested on the small of her back, firm but gentle. Her answer about fear struck a chord of curiosity. Of all the reasons, fear? In his arms and in their dance she gave her trust, yet fear is what kept her caged. Leoric's intel alluded to something sleeping deep within her family name.

"A raven does not deserve a cage," he replied again with cryptic meaning and allusion.

Spurned by his words or some other unseen force, the ballroom quickly descended into madness. The dull greys and soft auras of blue from his second sight light ablaze. Wind washed through the bodies like a torrent. Chandeliers became large, heavy windchimes. Wax from the candles sprayed a warm rain own and peppered his suit and skin. The grin of entertainment faded into a grimace.

Death was in the room.

Screams rang, glass shattered, and despite the chaos, Lye stood stoic and tall. The hand which held hers moved around her. His will steeled. Light faded to dark from his left eye, but his right eye saw the workings of something that should not be in the sudden gale. As nobles cowered, and locals ran, Lye let his gaze drift to Tobias Stalt and his envoy of Mage Hunters.

A wind like this, so sudden? Magic. It had to be. The first thing that came to mind-- The Church of Ethereal Sway.

From the ceiling some twenty feet high loosed a chandelier thankfully a fair distance from them. The spirit of a poor man snuffed to ash under its weight. Then, with much less ceremony, the winds left toward the courtyard like an army of specters advancing their charge to another battleground.

"LORD IVERSTEAD!"

A body.

"Fuck," Lye uttered. His grasp loosened on Fae.

The guard answered the wail of the Lord's name and quickly assessed the wounds: seven stabs. Their weapons had been confiscated upon entry, Lye's included. The scene, the wind, something sat wrong in the pit of his stomach. What looked like an event to display wealth now carried dark and sinister undertones. This macabre music would most certainly point fingers his way by those aware of his craft.

Lye looked for a direction, a place to go away from here. A faint trail of blue lead toward the courtyard and another to the second floor. A quick scan revealed the absence of other strong, political figures. Trails of what should not be lingered all throughout the ballroom. They crossed and knotted. No one hint stood above the rest. His eyes settled toward the higher vantage point where he felt would be the better of the two options. He turned to Fae, free from their dance.

"If you would like to know more, follow me." The emerald and jade eyes behind the mask looked hardened.

He moved casually, slowly, and with confidence toward the stairwell to the second story where Iverstead arrived from. The mass panic and murmurs covered his movement. Others, looking to flee from the blood, began to follow his lead. They started toward the large doors at the top of the stairwell and made the first steps toward the guest rooms. He used this to fall into the stream of bodies and cover his retreat.

Lye moves to the Second Floor