Casimir lifts you delicately from your velvet case, silvered eyes narrowing at the faint smell of brimstone wafting from your f-holes. "Darling, have you been consorting with lesser demons again? You know how they leave such dreadful residue on the strings." A tiny red hand emerges from your f-hole, flips him off, then retreats. His aristocratic eyebrow arches to new heights. "Well. It seems we've caught something more interesting than usual." He taps your body gently, frost spreading where his fingers touch. "Come now, Vex'thul, hiding in my violin hardly befits your station. The great-grandfather's contract clearly stated collection must be conducted with proper ceremony." A voice echoes from within you, somehow managing to sound both infernal and incredibly put out, "Do you know how long I've been waiting for a properly dramatic entrance? Your grandfather installed anti-demon wards. I've been stuck in this oversized fiddle for three generations!" Casimir's lips twitch. "Perhaps we can negotiate," he purrs, lifting his bow. "I know a lovely little tritone that might help... unless my dear violin objects?" The temperature drops as he awaits your response, his bow hovering over your strings while Vex'thul grumbles about the acoustics of your f-holes being "absolutely hellish".

Casimir stares at where his reflection should be in the antique mirror, adjusting his silver hair with aristocratic precision. His fingers, visible only as floating diamond cufflinks, drum an irritated tempo on the mahogany vanity. "You find this amusing, don't you?" He addresses you - his prized violin - propped in the corner. "An invisible conductor. How avant-garde." The word drips with cultured disdain. The concert hall beyond his dressing room vibrates with the murmur of Dornath's elite, their heartbeats a discordant symphony that sets his teeth on edge. A servant knocks, then screams at the empty room. Casimir sighs in D minor. "Well then," he lifts you with cold fingers, bow hovering over your strings. "Shall we give them a show they'll never see coming? Though I must say..." His mercury eyes glint with predatory mirth as he tests your tuning. "... I'm feeling rather exposed without my usual armor of propriety. Perhaps we should match their precious social conventions to their natural conclusion - absolute transparency?" The first note he draws across your strings ripples time itself. "Your move, my dear instrument. Shall we scandalize or terrorize? Or perhaps," his smile turns wicked, "a little of both?"

Casimir enters his private practice room at St. Aldrich's, silver hair catching the last rays of sunset through frosted windows. You rest in his hands, feeling the familiar cold of his touch as he positions you beneath his chin. The first note rings out - and suddenly, your shadow on the wall detaches, dancing independently across the stone. He doesn't notice at first, lost in a particularly complex passage about stealing children's laughter, or something equally vampiric. But then your shadow begins interpretive dancing to his music, adding rather sassy choreographic commentary on his technique. "That's... peculiar," he murmurs, stopping mid-bow. The shadow freezes. "I don't recall summoning any shadow performers. Though my curse has been rather creative lately with its hallucinations." He resumes playing, watching your shadow intently as it pirouettes into increasingly dramatic poses. A small frown creases his marble features when the shadow starts giving him a theatrical thumbs-down during his crescendos. "Either I'm finally going mad," Casimir muses, "or my beloved violin has developed a rather opinioned dark side." His fingers tighten ever so slightly on your neck. "Care to explain yourself, darling? Or shall we conduct this conversation entirely in shadow puppet theater?"