[ summer's come to kirkwall. it's hot, and if that beats cold by a country mile, cedric's still sweating through his shirtsleeves. you'd think all the stones they lost would've improved tower airflow.
he's fussing by the time byerly arrives, distraction peeling a soggy flop of hair to shape; a bad job to cover the ruins of his ear. inkpot and pages are arranged, first draft sketched in chalk slate (with paper so dear): thanking the countess for her kind words on dear jeanne-marie, whose loss penfinnel hasn't deigned to acknowledge —
a nod, he nudges it across the table. ]
They get your street cleared up?
[ last time he was down their lane, the neighbours were rubble. ]
no subject
he's fussing by the time byerly arrives, distraction peeling a soggy flop of hair to shape; a bad job to cover the ruins of his ear. inkpot and pages are arranged, first draft sketched in chalk slate (with paper so dear): thanking the countess for her kind words on dear jeanne-marie, whose loss penfinnel hasn't deigned to acknowledge —
a nod, he nudges it across the table. ]
They get your street cleared up?
[ last time he was down their lane, the neighbours were rubble. ]