[ It's the rare distraction he allows to actually hold his attention, leaving the book β an account on the history and development of funerary rites in this world (or one close to it, at the very least) β aside as he reads over her letter. Already, he's begun to treasure each exchange, keeping every letter tucked safely into a box, itself hidden away in one of the compartments of his desk.
He doesn't write the response in full view, this time, though he does work on his practice sheets while she's around, occasionally asking after the stroke order, or the ways the letters change when in front of or between others. Beautifully complex, he hums, once, seemingly β no, obviously β pleased at having something to put his mind to, at being taught by her.
A day or two later, placed carefully in the pocket of her bathrobe: ]
As much as poetry may suit me, most of the bardic persuasions are quite far out of my grasp; put a musical instrument in my hands, and I wouldn't know where to start, though that problem can at least be solved through the application of time and effort. Then there's the matter of humor, which I've been told is an art that is lost upon me. I confess, I find puns tolerable only in severe moderation.
Then again, I would say that your talent for poetry puts mine to shame. That we might find each other in some other life is quite the romantic picture, but somehow also one that doesn't strike me as being particularly far-fetched. I typically consider myself quite responsible when it comes to my work, and yet I find myself wondering if, in this hypothetical, I wouldn't occupy too much of my time attempting to craft the perfect arrangement for your parlor in the hopes of attracting your attention. Only you, I think, could so sway my attention.
I wonder, occasionally, if whatever doorways through which this place has pulled us together would allow for some travel. Would you ever consider visiting Thedas with me? The possibility seems distinctly faint, if present at all, and yet I find myself compelled to ask.
Eternally yours, Emmrich
P.S. You may have to take my word for it, but I do think bluebells and Shroud's Kiss would make quite the lovely bouquet.
[ Two of the writing sheets sit inside the folds of the letters: one clear, columns filled with Emmrich's careful script; and the other, while still filled with repeated letters, full of notes in the margins β reminders of the contents of their earlier conversations as to the language, numbers indicating stroke order, so on and so forth. ]
no subject
He doesn't write the response in full view, this time, though he does work on his practice sheets while she's around, occasionally asking after the stroke order, or the ways the letters change when in front of or between others. Beautifully complex, he hums, once, seemingly β no, obviously β pleased at having something to put his mind to, at being taught by her.
A day or two later, placed carefully in the pocket of her bathrobe: ][ Two of the writing sheets sit inside the folds of the letters: one clear, columns filled with Emmrich's careful script; and the other, while still filled with repeated letters, full of notes in the margins β reminders of the contents of their earlier conversations as to the language, numbers indicating stroke order, so on and so forth. ]