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technicolouredCecilia isn't happy about it. She's never happy about anything he does. It's a predisposition she's got against him, he stubbornly reminds her while waving the cryptic letter in her face. This isn't about the actual facts; it's about her dislike of past conduct mismatched with her arbitrarily strict standards for morality which exceed, in his expert opinion, even the general realm of the religious fanatic at the best of times.
She isn't happy about it at all, but she's happier about most things he does if they happen under her supervision and don't involve him running off to seek Davroar's advice anymore.
If finding him barely conscious in a strange room he hadn't rented at an inn with a new surgical scar across his lower chest had displeased her, reading him the letter displeases her all the more. And, of course, if reading the letter didn't please her, it was clear she was going to spend the entirety of penning his response in her neat scholarly hand with a genuine scowl of righteous disapproval on her features.
It doesn't matter. He isn't doing this for her approval. He's doing this for a quiet sense of fascination with the man who's nearly killed him and fully saved his life--and, generally, the fact he's alive at all.
The dictation had first been attempted in his native tongue, but quickly been left off. The missive which ultimately reaches the mansion will be in the common tongue and written in a faintly more effeminate hand than one might expect even from the bard. The finishing sign is in an obviously different hand, the strokes much thicker and less practiced.
Cynric is fairly certain it makes his point succinctly enough to bear his own mark rather than Cecilia actually scrawling out his name in full.
He's somewhat less certain that this most recent surgeon will actually appear in the rather run down tavern he's put himself up in for the week. Greyrock is, as an entire town, fairly marked for being a bastion of the lawless, and the Hanged Judge looks to be rather worse for the wear than even the other buildings surrounding it. There's absolutely no tension in his shoulders as he sits, night after night, at the corner of the bar with one leg crossed comfortably under his lute. The room is small and dark, yes, and the bulk of the visitors are clearly deep in their own conversation in the flickering candlelight, but the stream of his strong low tenor is nearly constant, underscored with just enough enticement along the strings of his lute to keep the occasional coin dropped into the empty mug resting at his side.
She isn't happy about it at all, but she's happier about most things he does if they happen under her supervision and don't involve him running off to seek Davroar's advice anymore.
If finding him barely conscious in a strange room he hadn't rented at an inn with a new surgical scar across his lower chest had displeased her, reading him the letter displeases her all the more. And, of course, if reading the letter didn't please her, it was clear she was going to spend the entirety of penning his response in her neat scholarly hand with a genuine scowl of righteous disapproval on her features.
It doesn't matter. He isn't doing this for her approval. He's doing this for a quiet sense of fascination with the man who's nearly killed him and fully saved his life--and, generally, the fact he's alive at all.
The dictation had first been attempted in his native tongue, but quickly been left off. The missive which ultimately reaches the mansion will be in the common tongue and written in a faintly more effeminate hand than one might expect even from the bard. The finishing sign is in an obviously different hand, the strokes much thicker and less practiced.
My Dear Master Lecter--
Your glassware has been kept in very good repair in the course of my convalescence. You'll be pleased to know you can retrieve it at your leisure any night this coming week at the Hanged Judge Tavern in Greyrock. It would be advisable for you to come under protection but to avoid it being obvious.
You know how jumpy we rabble can be.
XCynric is fairly certain it makes his point succinctly enough to bear his own mark rather than Cecilia actually scrawling out his name in full.
He's somewhat less certain that this most recent surgeon will actually appear in the rather run down tavern he's put himself up in for the week. Greyrock is, as an entire town, fairly marked for being a bastion of the lawless, and the Hanged Judge looks to be rather worse for the wear than even the other buildings surrounding it. There's absolutely no tension in his shoulders as he sits, night after night, at the corner of the bar with one leg crossed comfortably under his lute. The room is small and dark, yes, and the bulk of the visitors are clearly deep in their own conversation in the flickering candlelight, but the stream of his strong low tenor is nearly constant, underscored with just enough enticement along the strings of his lute to keep the occasional coin dropped into the empty mug resting at his side.
