( reliably, emmrich will always at the very least match parisa's schmoopiness, or more likely blow it out of the water — which in turn makes her feel a little less insane about writing him letters when there are 1. easier avenues of communication and 2. he's literally always right there, nearly within arm's reach. it's a romantic gesture, the written word, and if she was prepared to pretend it never happened in the first place, the second letter makes it clear she's aware of their game — she slaps the letter flat on his chest, sparing the kiss she usually saves for the paper to passingly smudge lipstick on the corner of his mouth. a single footstep on the map of where he's been or, as is more accurate, where parisa has. )
To my newfound pupil —
I have every reason to believe if you were not a necromancer, you might have been a poet, although I suppose the two aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, I think death might only be rivaled by love for topics of epic poetry, and the two are so often mixed, they may as well be sisters. Cousins, at least. To the poet in you: if I was a flower, which do you think I'd be? And don't say rose.
If I'm honest, I haven't spoken the language regularly in many years. The accent I wear is more French than Persian, which I've spoken a bit longer in the grand scheme of my life. Still, one never forgets their first, and I'm not in the position to deny the chance to mentor you for a change. Your first lesson is now. All Arabic script is written and read from right to left, so I imagine you wrote that backwards on instinct. That said, it's an impressive first try — you have lovely script, Emmrich.
A fair note of warning: I am not as gentle a tutor as my beloved necromancer. Of course, we both know I wouldn't dream of going easy on you. When have I ever?
With forward glances of working you to the bone, Professor Kamali
no subject