{ scene } gold falling from the ceiling of this world, falling from the heartbeat of this girl
Deep within the Deepmoor's autumn castle, Nuala sleeps and dreams; separated from her brother by battlefields and duties, even her dreams aren't untouched by the clash of steel and fire in their blood, and her slumber is restlessly disturbed. In the morning she will have so much to do, and in the meantime she shares in Nuada's aches and somewhere in her dozing mind she wishes he would sleep more. Their shared fatigue concerns her, sometimes, and she is ever grateful for the loyalty of his command who will ensure that not all of his hours are devoted to ruthlessly crushing their opposition.
(As proud as she is of him.)
Something, though, something is...off. Nuala is already stirring before the feeling can properly form and take root, there in the half-shell bed where she lies suspended from the high ceiling in her cushions and soft blankets; now might be the time to be very careful about startling her, though, considering the tension that doesn't go out of the air even when stealing sleep and her slightly wrecked nerves.