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It is... sort-of dark sort-of not-dark.Wherever they are, it's not quite as dark as togethertogethertogether and sibling-sibling-siblings! But nor is it too bright for them to be kept from drifting. For instead of unbearable, all of the light that is around them is dim and red and flickers and crackles gently, like whispers through the void.There is light in front of them, and it's dreary and grey and not-quite-Pale, but it's not the same as the warmth that crackles around them as they drift, listening to the sounds of what they inherently-vaguely understand is the tune of a song playing from behind them. They're almost-tempted to turn around, to seek out the source, but whatever they're waiting for, the soft tugging of come-to-me-come-to-me and be-with-me-be-with-me-be-with-me isn't coming from behind them, and so instead, they drift.Not from the music behind them, and distinctly different than the low crackling of the red-warm light around them, sourced from somewhere they know belongs to them and theirs and together, there is also a jingling sound. Despite being warped like a time-worn stone, or like a light-fractured shadow, the jingling tune tinkles in familiarly, whispering a tune to them that they've long forgotten. Or maybe one they never knew to begin with.The song behind them weaves together with it, and they find themself swaying to it, listening as the initially-disjointed combination of the two songs begin to smooth out as the music behind them, bouncy-playful-theatrical-warm flickering in-out-in-out of the emptiness of what togethertogethertogether has hollowed out a long time ago.It is... peacefully dim.They float, feeling come-to-me-come-to-me-come-to-me draw closer, swaying as the playful-song combines with the jingling-tune, watching and feeling light too warm to be His but too dim to be Hers dance around them. There is, they can recognize, another presence, strong the way He is but kinder than Her gaze, from somewhere-everywhere all around this place, watching them, waiting. Maybe observing, perhaps, but as a soft creaking call echoes from the light in front of them, they see and realize that the The Lord is approaching them, and the playful-song fades away.A single nail strike is all it takes.. . .. . . . . .The Summoner looks up at Brumm, who looks back down at it, in turn, and hums that low, thorax-deep hum he always does before speaking."Babag'n t'dala," He grumble-hums in greeting, a language the Summoner still does not give any indication of knowing. A pause, and Brumm stretches out his accord-bug, and begins to play the usual song slowly, softly. Almost idly, as if by pure muscle memory alone.Fire crackles so softly it sounds distant, as if it does not call from all around them. "Master is waiting for you."As if it was waiting for that, the Summoner nods, and Brumm gives another deep hum, watching it turn and walk towards the stage. The Child is fluttering behind it eagerly, creaking and calling for their Master, chattering away about all kinds of nonsense that Brumm pays no attention to, waiting for the sound of Master stepping into the spotlight before he takes to quieting his instrument.But for now, until then, waiting for his cue, Brumm readjusts his claws, and tries to map out a harmonic tune he was playing just moments before....hmrn, the notes were - no, that's a half-step too high - ah, there it is.If the Summoner fails again, he'll happily perform another duet.