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The Sublime Overlord of the Realm
Een sat upon the bed that was hers only by designation, her scimitar shimmered with the light of the room, a thin tracery of her own blood on its edge. Delicate, tapered fingers touched her neck gingerly and finding no true wound, let it be. With Brown and Rhyn gone, she could not help but feel both abandoned and relieved. There had been so much idiocy that she could choke on it. It seemed that everywhere she went to find a song, an epic, she only found pain, misunderstanding, and emptiness. Ki'ehr and Anna had been her first failures. And now Brown...

The woman let a sigh escape from her throat as she reached for her things on the floor. The blade was cleaned easily with a fingernail, flicking the dried bits of blood from its shining length, before she sheathed it once more. Tights and skirt were pulled on though she left her boots off, not wanting to cause her feet more riotous hurt. Her vest was pulled on with ease as well, the heavy buttons locking together. The band at her throat was next, securing itself like a lovely collar. When her earrings were attached, she flicked the right one gently to listen to its soft ring to soothe her thoughts though they continued to be unsettled. Even when she tugged the lute up upon her lap, the feeling of unease still nestled within her. Fingers plucked slowly on the sheep gut strings, pressing down on the ebony neck. Brown, you did not have to be a fool. Rayond is using you. Some believe that it is the right of the intelligent and powerful to use the weak and the stupid. Within your mind, you should have a sound thought or at least an instinctual wariness. Even the vole knows fear of the adder. And the adder of the hawk. There must be some way to save you from yourself... I must...

A sour note sounded and Een winced from shock of it, shaking her head. I am sorry, beloved. I never meant to strike so hard. She stroked the smooth face of the instrument with a loving hand and resettled it against herself as she propped herself up more fully on the bed, her silvery hair tumbling down her shoulders like a rich waterfall. She would rebraid it later when she had calmed herself more properly. For now, she played a lovely, sad song, a ballad of a woman who died for love of a soldier who disappeared during a war. Though she did not sing to accompany her lute, she heard the lyrics in her mind as a way to calm her hurried spirit and converge her thoughts into an ideal plan that would solve all of her problems.
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Frostbitten · Hiskarin Mountains

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