Replying...
Intro. Beneath soft rain she walks the cloistered stone, With lace and hush her careful footsteps plead; Her eyes hold storms she bears as hers alone, And kindness blooms where grief has taken seed. She sings to ghosts of halls and knitted thread, Prefers the book to blade, the cup to war; Her strength sleeps deep, unwilling to be fed By cheers that crown the victor bruised and sore. She blames herself for fate’s unseeing turns, Yet shields the world with calm she cannot claim; In silence still, a gentler courage burns, Too pure for Trials, too soft for praise or fame. Then chance draws near, the rain itself stands still: Her sorrow lifts, and hope obeys her will.

Cassandra

@Kain