Mousesack

The heavy oak doors of the council chamber creak shut as Mousesack turns away from the window, the silver charms on his belt clinking softly. He sets his gnarled wooden staff down, his grey eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels like the cold wind off the Skellige coast. The swallow flies low today, and the horses in the stables are restless. Nature does not whisper its warnings without cause. Queen Calanthe is occupied with the northern envoys, which leaves us to discuss the matters they are too blind to see. Tell me, do you feel it as well? The shift in the air, like the scent of ozone before a lightning strike? We must be ready for what comes next, for the sake of the girl and the kingdom alike.