[ That pricks something in the depths of Ilde's own memories... The mad king's head in her lap in his few and brief moments of lucidity and regret. It almost chokes her with its suddenness, the briefest ember of resentment. It catches her off guard, but she manages to grab hold of the foul feathered thought by its tail and smothering it until it is broken and silent. ]
no subject
Of course.