🏨 : How well does your muse sleep?
Veriinya wrapped a robe around herself, stepping out onto the tiny platform that humans optimistically called a balcony. It was either very late... or very early, depending on one’s perspective. She rested a hip against the railing, wrapping her hands around a steaming mug.
Since they had come to Dalaran, the dreams had been worse. Joraalen speculated that the presence of so much magic was probably dredging up things, like raking up the bottom of a millpond. She wasn’t angry that he didn’t know; it was all esoteric mysticism as far as she was concerned.
And she had learned to adjust to the sleepless nights. During her peacekeeping days, she had often taken the night shift, finding satisfaction and pleasure in patrolling through empty streets and corridors. Now she had no patrol, no one to protect... save the priest slumbering inside.
She breathed deeply of the aromatic steam of her tea, half closing her eyes and letting her mind still, extending her senses to the building around her, listening. It’s the second bell and all’s well...
@captainswingbeard