[ evocate ] inbox

[throughbamboo]

tbe

Comments

[throughbamboo]

Ain't 'bout practice, kid. S'about gettin' it out at all.

Not a lot of people can manage that.

[brokenboar]

No - the art of composing a letter is to be exact in your words, so that matters of import cannot be misinterpreted. One has the opportunity to contemplate over every word before it is given.

To that end, it is... good, given my moods.

[throughbamboo]

[a thoughtful hum, then a slow nod]

That's a fair point. Never really thought 'bout it that way.

. . . but I bet it's good for ya.

[brokenboar]

...We will see.

[he hangs his head a little, some of his anxiety bleeding through]

I would offer to repay you for this errand, but I have nothing that might interest you.

[throughbamboo]

[shakes his head a bit]

Ya don't gotta worry 'bout that, s'plenty that ya trust me to do it.

[brokenboar]

[gets up from his seat,]

You are a man of honour, Nue. I am certain of that much, at least.

[throughbamboo]

[smiles a bit]

Heh. I'll give it to her first thing in the mornin'.

[brokenboar]

Thank you.

[with that, he shuffles off... to do whatever the hell he does instead of sleep like a normal person]

THE LETTER:
<details><summary>To the Emperor of Adrestia,</summary> for whom I need no alternate means of address. For no other feels sufficient in conveying both the gravity of your sins, nor my loathing. <i>I despise you. You have cost me all that I love.</i> I must express this before I begin, to expunge it quickly lest my quill is diverted from its task. My penmanship has suffered for lack of practice. Nevertheless, it has allowed me this necessary rumination. To the heart of the matter: it has been advised to me by this man that it would be a disservice to the dead not to learn the entirety of your motives. In my more lucid hours, I do acknowledge this... Though I have dedicated years of my life to investigating the truth of the Tragedy, it does not explain how the girl I met all those years ago at Lord Arundel’s mansion became the Flame Emperor. Should I accept that even then, you may have been lying to me?... Or perhaps you will simply lie now, to exonerate yourself. <s>In good conscience I know you cannot be believed and it is a fool’s errand to try You are a poison Every breath you breathe is a concession from me You are</s> I cannot yet know what foul humour will overtake me; whether I am to drown in a sea of my own dark and bitter cruelty, or be crushed beneath an immovable despair. From within the cage of my mind, these feel like the only outcomes remaining to me. I will even confess to you that I am frightened. It is a dreadful, oppressive thing to be at your mercy, for the shadow of an axe above one's head does greater pain than the executioner's swing. I am already nothing. What lower sphere still awaits those too broken to live? One more thing I will confess: at Gronder, it was not madness that took me in that final moment, but despair. I had the opportunity to retreat back into isolation, having lost all those who were still loyal to me. <i>I chose to die.</i> I do not think, in your state of retreat, that you noticed. I will end this now, as I am falling into melancholy - a state even more pitiful than rage. Doubtless I will hear from you, whether I wish it or not. [the letter is not signed.]</details>

[throughbamboo]

[he will not read the letter, as promised. It isn't his business and he isn't the nosy sort.

So, Nue just picks up his chisel and hammer to resume his new project]