"'The banshee of the coast.' The stories shared in your name prove quite the compelling earworm." Gale, now rambling, has finished his wash. Here, he now rests idle by the crackling fire, its humble hearth, gold and autumn-embered, meager before the hour's plundering dark. Yet, it casts in her relief, her red hair all the fiercer, and he wonders, distantly, if her great locks are bloody. He hums, thoughtful, and towels his own. "Legends along the banks of Waterdeep share how sailors would chance upon a voice before darkness claimed them. Even at their end, they found their heavy hearts at peace. Whether by blade or luring lullaby they fell, none could quite determine." My, how thrilling. Gale, over the flickering fire, waits, gauging her response. Watching her dance with her bladed rage today... The legends, he admits, he can't answer. Oh, mysteries.
@paddyfuck liked for a starter.
