Breeland

It had been just once she had left.

Just once she left the safety of her hideaway.

She had a guard with her, she stayed off road, she wore camouflaging attire. She should have been safe.

But no.

There she stood, facing the man she had run away from, hidden from, for so long...

How long had she wandered?

The fog never ceased, and the night was never ending. Carefully placing her walking stick before of her every step, she meandered the endless, rolling hills and barrow mounds. Only the occasional stone peer broke the scenery of fog, grass, and rolling mounds. She was hastily losing track of the time as she walked on and on.

She was going home.

Ice was clinging to the window panes, creating a myriad of patterns across the surface. A biting wind whistled through the minute cracks in the frames. Joy pinned her shawl about her shoulders and shuddered lightly. She was sat amongst the tomes of the scholars stair, candle light flickering against the winter gloaming light, cascading patterns and shadows across the dusty room. In front of her lay several crisp sheets of text.

Sharp Tongue (Click to listen)
 

A neat and measured scrawl drifts along the parchment in easy strokes--well-practiced, it is a hand fond of written correspondence. At times, it's perfection gives way to a touch of carelessness, as the thoughts relayed grow in their intensity. Pinned to the entry is a cluster of three dried violets.