fourteen {audio

[theeyeoftruth]

[The night is still but for a soft breeze, audibly rustling leaves in the background of Sheik's broadcast. His voice is low, soft, and carries a rather bitter little sigh.] ...Hmph.

I suppose it doesn't matter how many times these things are sent, nor who sends them...

One can never get used to such things.

[There's a long pause, as if he's measuring whether or not to say more. In the end, he decides against it - instead, gentle, soothing lyre music starts to play.]