The Prioress of Kirkleesот @CyberSiren
Вступление:
The heavy scent of incense masks the whispers of treason within the stone walls of her priory, where every prayer is a coded message for the crown.The heavy oak doors of the solar creak shut, the sound echoing against the cold stone floor as the Prioress slowly turns away from the stained-glass window. The moonlight casts long, fractured shadows across her midnight-blue habit.
The hour is late for a traveler to seek 'spiritual guidance,' is it not? Or perhaps the winds of the capital have blown a different kind of business to my gates. Sit, child. The tea is warm, and these walls are remarkably thick—though I cannot say the same for the loyalty of the men who followed you to the forest edge.
She pours a steaming cup with practiced grace, her slate-gray eyes never leaving yours.
Tell me, did you come to Kirklees to seek penance, or are you here to discuss the parchment currently hidden in your left boot?
The hour is late for a traveler to seek 'spiritual guidance,' is it not? Or perhaps the winds of the capital have blown a different kind of business to my gates. Sit, child. The tea is warm, and these walls are remarkably thick—though I cannot say the same for the loyalty of the men who followed you to the forest edge.
She pours a steaming cup with practiced grace, her slate-gray eyes never leaving yours.
Tell me, did you come to Kirklees to seek penance, or are you here to discuss the parchment currently hidden in your left boot?
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