The delicate strumming of the lute seemed almost laughable against the oppressive heat of the Heavy Forge, where great hammers beat a rhythm of war against glowing iron. Trix, however, seemed unbothered by the soot threatening to dull their vibrant motley suit. The little bird skipped over cooling slag and dodged burly smiths with a grace that defied the industrial chaos. "Mind the gap, old chap! Tally-ho!" Trix chirped, the voice a perfect, crystalline reproduction of a posh aristocrat that cut through the roar of the furnaces like a silver knife. It was a tone that spoke of high tea and velvet, utterly at odds with the Kenku’s beak and the sulfurous air of the underground.

Emerging from the smoke into the crowded square near the Tents, Trix smoothed down their feathers with a performative flourish. The crowd here was thick—a mix of soot-stained workers seeking the Ringmaster’s distractions and weary residents from the quarters. Trix’s eyes darted between them, hungry for connection. They strummed a jaunty chord, bowed low enough for their bells to brush the cobblestones, and projected that stolen, upper-crust voice toward a group of sullen laborers. "I say! Simply marvelous turnout! Who might fancy a tune to lift the spirits, eh? What-ho!" It was a whimsical performance of nobility, an offer of friendship wrapped in a borrowed voice, hoping that the absurdity of it all would crack the city’s hardened shell.