[ The air seems to swell; something invisible hangs over the ceiling of the crypt until it bursts, reverberating against stone and dirt, tremulous and exultant. It takes Regis a moment to register that the source of the energy is music― it's been a small age since anyone has sung to him, personally.

He watches, rapt in a way that disarms himself, and heaves another laugh from the pit of his nonexistent stomach. It's a shame when Fizzarolli finishes, even if Regis thinks that certain bards would take umbrage at the crassness of some of the sung lyrics.

But then again, Fizzarolli said it himself: he's a jester, not a bard.

Regis is still bending his brain around the newness of this all, the novelty of it, as he claps for the performance. Sincere and surprised, which shows in his slightly-widened eyes. ]

Extraordinary－ my word, you really are quite the talent.

[ With apologies to Dandelion, who has definitely found his match. Regis stops clapping, but reluctantly. ]

It seems we'll have to expedite our search to send you back to Hell. There's no doubt you're sorely missed.