[One might recognise, through the nighttime gloom, that Sheik is in the graveyard. He leans on a marker, amidst a strange little cluster of four identical headstones. His lyre looks grey rather than gold in the light, but this time, he isn't playing any music. After a moment of staring off at something unseen (he seems little troubled by the things
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What happens if you guess the right answer?
[Usually, riddles and puzzles and things, they're there for a reason, right?]
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Then the mausoleum's sealed door opens, granting access.
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[ Her lips curl up a little. ]
How interesting.
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Bah! What the hell is that supposed to mean? Speak plainly!
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[what did you honestly expect her to recognize the riddle for what it is, Sheik]
Talking about your fancy poetry, eh?
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Perhaps you ought to take your whetstone to your mind, next time.
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