⟪ his voice rips her out of the darkness, the familiar tune to it, the strange drawling melody he speaks in. the breath she draws is shaken, but she turns to face him, aiming for her usual mild, smiling calm. it won't quite come to her, right now. ⟫

There are no hymns sung in Asshai. ⟪ he sounds ill, taken with something, and she extends a hand to touch onto his own. ⟫ I know prayer songs, though.

⟪ bound to ask: ⟫ What is troubling you? You do not sound well.