The hour is late ... indeterminable by any such usual method as light or lack thereof, but marked by the clock in her room and the length of the day that preceded it. The door opens without announcement, which is usual even if the hour isn't, a slim dark haired girl entering as she has so many times before. Ylsa is abed and asleep, her slumber facilitated by the now-empty carafe of wine resting near her bedside table. One arm is flung over her eyes, the other dangling off the mattress, and her blonde hair is a shambles from the careful coiffure of earlier in the day. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=-