[The night is still but for a soft breeze, audibly rustling leaves in the background of Sheik's broadcast. His voice is low, soft, and carries a rather bitter little sigh.] ...Hmph.
I suppose it doesn't matter how many times these things are sent, nor who sends them...
One can never get used to such things.
[There's a long pause, as if he's
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...what is it that causes these visions?
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What was the cause you knew before, Sheik?
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[ She sat up in bed, looking over the dark shapes in her croft and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the lacking light. She lifted a hand to touch her cheek, finding a trail from the tears that had fallen while she slept. Again. It was impossible not to share the dreamers' sadness, their anger, their fear, nor to wear it in her expression when she woke. ]
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To stand here, outside Her croft, and will himself to knock on the door is inordinately complicated. He waits, silent and withdrawn, arms folded and head bowed, as if she might miraculously call him in without knowing he’s there.
It’s not that he begrudges her knowing such things - she has a right to, she ought to. But there’s a time and a place and these dreams, damn these dreams, completely disregard such things.
But then… without them… would he ever acknowledge them?
Reaching under his tabard, he holds the cold metal pendant in his bandaged fingers for a few long moments. And then, sucking in a breath, he squares his shoulders, and knocks.]
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