Slipped beneath the Grandmaster's quarters by a fair-haired student sat quaintly a hastily penned scrap of paper that had all the mimicry of a short haiku, if anything.
Shoulders bearing lofty burden--
A songstress and her heart softly sleeps.
Heed the whispers not of the mind.
But the ones that call out to you, accompanied by an olive bind.
Alaric