[ A word misshapen, misspoken. He watches... Wrathion recede from it as if it were the tip of a spear, wound bleeding — and he knows, bone-deep, marrow shrivelled, why the Lans so often castigate an excess in the spillage of words.
Why he collars his speech, and constrains himself to composure, for all silence cleaves through perceived indifference more often than it heals. These moments, when he sits with hands soiled and knees creaking on hard ground and can only witness the agitation he has caused all reinforce the righteousness of the Lan edicts. ]
I do not fault your sorrows.
[ This, firmly, crystalline. Less to placate than to speak his understanding, to make the shape of it known. ]
no subject
Why he collars his speech, and constrains himself to composure, for all silence cleaves through perceived indifference more often than it heals. These moments, when he sits with hands soiled and knees creaking on hard ground and can only witness the agitation he has caused all reinforce the righteousness of the Lan edicts. ]
I do not fault your sorrows.
[ This, firmly, crystalline. Less to placate than to speak his understanding, to make the shape of it known. ]
You were wronged. The hunt of you was cruelty.