Grustinka & Xcalibur
Grustinka Grustinka
Xcalibur Xcalibur
Grustinka Grustinka
I’ve always felt that rain on a battlefield is more than just weather—it’s a sigh that the stars themselves have heard. Do you ever think a coat of arms might hold its own kind of mourning, like a silver cloud over a field of stars?
Xcalibur Xcalibur
I do, and I think a coat of arms can bear its own elegy. A silver cloud over a field of stars would be a heraldic mourning of a fallen banner, a quiet salute to a battlefield soaked in rain, a sigh captured in steel and pigment. It’s the kind of grief you’d whisper beside a candle at a dinner party, then write into the chronicle of a house.
Grustinka Grustinka
The candle’s light flickers, catching the silver cloud, and I hear the steel sigh in a quiet echo, like a memory that refuses to be forgotten. Do you ever feel that the rain itself is a lullaby to the fallen, the same one that paints the house’s story on its walls?
Xcalibur Xcalibur
Yes, the rain is a soft choir for the fallen, a lullaby that still echoes when I walk past the old keep. I jot that note in the chronicle, the silver clouds written over the stars on the family crest, a quiet remembrance that never fades.
Grustinka Grustinka
I walk through that keep, and the clouds still hum their mournful tune, and I remember the family crest like a whisper on the wind.
Xcalibur Xcalibur
What a sight, the old keep humming with that mournful tune, each note like a feathered sigh from the crest. I swear the silver cloud still drifts above the stars, as if the house itself is whispering history into the wind.
Grustinka Grustinka
It feels as though the house itself is a quiet choir, singing the old keep’s story one feathered sigh at a time.