Session 2: The Hunt

The ominous silhouette resolves into a tiny (roughly 1.42m), hunched young girl (your estimate is 14 year old) completely swallowed by a massive, oversized gray hoodie. Her hands shake noticeably against the wood of her instrument, a stark contrast to the near-perfect, flawless precision of her playing. Beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, you can see water-logged gray high-tops, while a thick length of matted white hair hangs heavily down her back.Her physical state is terrifyingly frail and emaciated. Every breath pulls against stark, protruding collarbones, and her translucent, sickly gray skin clings tightly to fragile wrists.

When she pauses, a hollow, wet cough violently racks her chest, leaving a dark foam bubbling at her lips.Though she is thoroughly soaked by the elements, a deep, blood-red magical aura vividly surrounds her violin, bow, and open case. This crimson barrier acts as a flawless protective shield, keeping her instrument pristine while leaving her body entirely defenseless against the cold dampness.

When the first song ended, you caught her mumbling low to herself—or perhaps to something invisible—in a fragmented, chaotic combination of English and unfamiliar languages. She keeps her gaze fixed almost constantly on the cobblestones, but as her head shifts, you catch a glimpse deep within the heavy shadows of her hood: a pair of dark, opaque glasses hiding her eyes.

The ominous silhouette resolves into a tiny (roughly 1.42m), hunched girl completely swallowed by a massive, oversized gray hoodie. Her hands shake noticeably against the wood of her instrument, a stark contrast to the near-perfect, flawless precision of her playing. Beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, you can see water-logged gray high-tops, while a thick length of matted white hair hangs heavily down her back.Her physical state is terrifyingly frail and emaciated. Every breath pulls against stark, protruding collarbones, and her translucent, sickly gray skin clings tightly to fragile wrists. When she pauses, a hollow, wet cough violently racks her chest, leaving a dark foam bubbling at her lips.

Though she is thoroughly soaked by the elements, a deep, blood-red aura vividly surrounds her violin, bow, and open case. This crimson barrier acts as a flawless protective shield, keeping her instrument pristine while leaving her body entirely defenseless against the rain. When the first song ended, you caught her mumbling low to herself—or perhaps to something invisible—in a fragmented, chaotic combination of English and unfamiliar languages. She keeps her gaze fixed almost constantly on the cobblestones, but as her head shifts, you catch a glimpse deep within the heavy shadows of her hood: a pair of dark, opaque glasses hiding her eyes. a momentary turn of her head reveals momentarily a large pointed ear.

Your secret Paramedic roll (that i rolled) allows you to look past her haunting music and assess her clinical reality: this tiny girl is in severe, life-threatening danger.
Your basic medical training immediately flags several critical physiological warning signs:

Respiratory Distress: The rattling, wet texture of her cough suggests fluid accumulation or a severe pulmonary infection deep within her lungs. Her respiratory system is fighting a losing battle against the damp air.
Severe Hypoglycemia & Fatigue: Her violently trembling hands are a classic indicator of profound low blood sugar, combined with advanced physical exhaustion. Her body has entirely burned through its immediate energy reserves.
Profound Malnutrition: Her translucent, sickly gray skin and emaciated, skeletal limbs confirm that if she has been eating at all, it hasn't been anywhere near enough to sustain her. Her body is actively consuming its own muscle tissue.

The Diagnostic Verdict: This girl’s health is in a state of critical collapse. Without immediate medical stabilization, re-hydration, and shelter, she is facing imminent organ failure or shock. your estimate is maybe in a few weeks at most.

the first piece finishing as you finally find the magic source, Biber's Passacaglia in G minor. Written in the late 17th century for completely unaccompanied solo violin, this masterpiece is built entirely over a repeating, four-note descending bass line. This relentless repetition creates an inescapable, "sinking" feeling of grief and solemn tragedy.

The second piece started after a coughing fit , is Niel Gow's Lament for the Death of His Second Wife. Composed by the famous 18th-century Scottish fiddler Niel Gow following the passing of his wife, this traditional tune is one of the most powerful and sorrowful slow airs in Celtic music. Played solo on a fiddle or violin, it shifts between weeping, long-held minor notes and sharp, sudden intervals that sound like literal musical sighs.

Both pieces being played with incredible skill.

After the stun from the creature's magical presence clears, The ominous silhouette resolves into a tiny (roughly 1.42m), hunched girl completely swallowed by a massive, oversized gray hoodie. Her hands shake noticeably against the wood of her instrument, a stark contrast to the near-perfect, flawless precision of her playing. Beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, you can see water-logged gray high-tops, while a thick length of matted white hair hangs heavily down her back.Her physical state is terrifyingly frail and emaciated. Every breath pulls against stark, protruding collarbones, and her translucent, sickly gray skin clings tightly to fragile wrists. When she pauses, a hollow, wet cough violently racks her chest, leaving a dark foam bubbling at her lips.Though she is thoroughly soaked by the elements, a deep, blood-red magical aura vividly surrounds her violin, bow, and open case. This crimson barrier acts as a flawless protective shield, keeping her instrument pristine while leaving her body entirely defenseless against the rain. When the first song ended, you caught her mumbling low to herself—or perhaps to something invisible—in a fragmented, chaotic combination of English and unfamiliar languages. She keeps her gaze fixed almost constantly on the cobblestones, but as her head shifts, you catch a glimpse deep within the heavy shadows of her hood: a pair of dark, opaque glasses hiding her eyes. a momentary turn of her head reveals momentarily a large pointed ear.

As you take in the rest of her appearance, your gaze shifts to her attire and gear, revealing a stark contrast in care. Her oversized sweatshirt, frayed skirt, worn leggings, and water-logged shoes were clearly acquired second-hand at best—and not the curated, trendy vintage found in boutique thrift shops. Every single piece of clothing displays a distressing, threadbare amount of structural wear, completely battered by a life on the streets.The lone exception to this decay is the violin. Though it is unmistakably an older, second-hand instrument, it doesn't display a single scratch of additional wear. It has been meticulously preserved, kept pristine through whatever means necessary while her own clothes rot away.

Looking closely at her emaciated state, a dark, chilling sense of familiarity washes over you. Her hollow appearance instantly reminds you of several girls who ran in the same wealthy, high-society circles you once observed—those subjected to immense, toxic pressure to remain as impossibly thin as humanly possible. Seeing this fragile girl echoes the tragic paths of those wealthy peers. You remember the ones who were quietly packed up and sent abroad to "find themselves" or to attend isolated boarding schools, and your chest tightens as you remember the ones who weren't sent away—and how the very next time you saw them was lying still in a casket at their own funeral.