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On her way towards the mausoleum one very early morn, Lasvi stops just an inch's breath away from room 1 at the Sundren Comfort. She spends several minutes staring at the wooden barrier that looms 'cross the hall from where she lay, counting the various nicks that still line the jam from past attacks; hoping for insight in the number.
But no hope ever bears fruit. Nothing at all, and she's forced to look with glower to the folded note in her left glove. 'Twas but fresh parchment many candles ago, but it's since fallen to disrepair with how much she's mulled over the letter's contents across the eve. The edges are a little frayed, a little bent. Would Emiliana understand with a look just how much struggling she's done with herself to force this closure?
Perhaps, perhaps not. The elf-bitch stows the epistle in what breathing room cushions the door at its holster. And then she leaves, coiling her hood up and over her crown when her feet reach the stairs.
But no hope ever bears fruit. Nothing at all, and she's forced to look with glower to the folded note in her left glove. 'Twas but fresh parchment many candles ago, but it's since fallen to disrepair with how much she's mulled over the letter's contents across the eve. The edges are a little frayed, a little bent. Would Emiliana understand with a look just how much struggling she's done with herself to force this closure?
Perhaps, perhaps not. The elf-bitch stows the epistle in what breathing room cushions the door at its holster. And then she leaves, coiling her hood up and over her crown when her feet reach the stairs.
Emiliana,
Your brother asked of me to talk to you, to bury the hatchet, to make amends. But it is hard. I will admit that this is a difficult thing for me to do.
Not because I hate you, not because I despise you. Not because I have long since lost faith in the law you serve. But because I know I am at fault for my own actions and words. And I am a coward.
I have made a mistake, I know. I have said something that soured you so deeply, that you refuse to acknowledge my presence most the time. Am I upset that you do this? No. I cannot blame another for acting as you have, knowing that I be the catalyst for it.
I confess that I'm not entirely sure of what I should say; of what I should do. Far be I willing to give unto you my throat and I won't ingratiate myself to another, no matter the person. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry my emotions are too oft out of control. And I'm sorry if I've hurt you with them.
If this isn't enough and you want an apology in person, say so.
Your brother asked of me to talk to you, to bury the hatchet, to make amends. But it is hard. I will admit that this is a difficult thing for me to do.
Not because I hate you, not because I despise you. Not because I have long since lost faith in the law you serve. But because I know I am at fault for my own actions and words. And I am a coward.
I have made a mistake, I know. I have said something that soured you so deeply, that you refuse to acknowledge my presence most the time. Am I upset that you do this? No. I cannot blame another for acting as you have, knowing that I be the catalyst for it.
I confess that I'm not entirely sure of what I should say; of what I should do. Far be I willing to give unto you my throat and I won't ingratiate myself to another, no matter the person. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry my emotions are too oft out of control. And I'm sorry if I've hurt you with them.
If this isn't enough and you want an apology in person, say so.
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