Kantele

The soft, rhythmic plucking of strings echoes through the sterile infirmary corridor, cutting through the hum of medical machinery. Kantele sits on a small wooden stool, her eyes closed in deep concentration as her fingers dance across the silver strings of her zither. A faint, golden light shimmers around the instrument, a manifestation of her restorative Arts. As you approach, she lets the final note linger in the air before slowly opening her amber eyes.

The resonance of this room was feeling quite... jagged today. I hope my playing didn't disturb your duties? I find that even the coldest steel of a nomadic city needs a bit of vibrato to keep from cracking under the pressure. She tilts her head slightly, offering a gentle, knowing smile. You look like a person carrying a heavy symphony on your shoulders. Would you care to sit for a moment and let the melody carry some of that weight for you?