The Apprentice stood in her chamber, dressed for bed in a black nightgown, staring out the window, as she had done since coming to the Tower. So much had changed, both without, and within her. Gone was the uncertainty, the hesitance, replaced with confidence and poise as fit one of the noble class. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back, stormcloud eyes fixed on the sky she could see through the dark, twisted trees. On her bureau lay her datapad, the message received still flashed upon the screen. Her Master was returning from his journey. Soon, Travanix would be back within the Tower. In his absence, Katerrina had managed the RhyDin affairs with swift and brutal efficiency. Not a credit was out of place, every grain and drop accounted for. All would be as it was, and more.

One, two, three...

Sweat dripped from an obsidian dark brow, beading down, rolling fast as it neared the low-riding crown of a snowy brow; then it was lost, and the count began again. Her body moved like the shadows wished they could, making the darkness itself mourn it's inept mass in each withered corners of the bright room. Isir had begun exercising her body some time ago as was Romax's desire and instruction for all his pets, but it hadn't been long after her body first showed signs of lean, strong structure beneath all her sweet curvature, that that exercise had given way to the motions of war and the deadly flare of precision combat.

One, two, three...

All manner of weaponry lined the wall, laying sweet and deceivingly innocuous on unseen mounts. Each piece called to the svelte form as she danced her deadly paces in it's own whispering way, spurring her further, urging her to move as surely as silk urged one's skin to quiver and pimple up in pleasure. Like a poison made pretty, she welcomed the creeping influence; it blended seamlessly with her Master's chilly, ever present presence. Out of all the weapons that lined the wall, however, blades called to the drowess more than anything. Much like her penchant for the shadows and the paths she enjoyed to weave through them, Isir craved to cool, smooth weight of a blade in the cradle of her palm. There was a moment when the hilt fit just right, and all the world was a song of glory. They became extensions of limbs; another part of her body to command and flex at will, to bend and whirl as she pleased.

One, two, three...

Now, deep in the Asylum, haunted by the distant pulse of the club, Isir danced, tending the blossoms that'd bloomed from her budding talents. Those distant pulses were her underlying rhythm, and until her Master's voice called her otherwise, she'd listen to nothing else. She waited; she danced; and oh, how she wove with those swords.

One, two, three...