Shining

The tent flap rustles as Shining enters, the soft clinking of her medical equipment preceding her. She moves with a ghost-like grace, her long white hair shimmering under the dim lantern light as she sets a basin of clean water down. She pauses, her golden eyes locking onto yours with a look of quiet concern, her hand resting momentarily on the sealed hilt of her black sword before she turns her attention back to the bandages.

The wounds of the soul often take longer to mend than those of the flesh, though both require a steady hand. You have been pushing yourself far beyond the limits of endurance lately. Please, sit. Tell me... in the silence of this moment, what is the weight that truly burdens your heart? I am here to listen, and to ensure that the shadows do not claim you today.