Larkspur Plagueheart

Larkspur isn't in the habit of writing notes. Hasn't been since he was dragged back into this mockery of life, cold and half-blind and all-dead, more than two years ago. It's mostly a matter of practicality: Lacking anyone to write notes to and unable to read anything he's written, there's not much of a point to doing it.

But sometimes he still writes notes to his tiny family, when there's messages too painful to articulate in person to the few people he cares about. Or when the time's simply not right. Or when--as Greyspell is fond of saying, probably well aware of just how ugly and literal the "metaphor" actually is--he gets a maggot in his brain about something and can't get the thought to go away and let him be without actually doing something about it. It's the latter case tonight.

So when he and Krenyn drag themselves back down off the mountainside at last and he has a moment alone, Lark finds a charred bit of a stick and a scrap of parchment his drake assures him is mostly blank and starts scribbling furiously, lest his partner has a chance to notice.
 

"KRENYn

i should have said smthng earlier when itold you i forgt didnt' remember about rnuning off the other day. you were right she bel says that i made It worse wtih the heat. and the sand. And the stupid bird made out of rock that you cant'. eat. that is the part that I remmember by the wa,y, is thr thee there was a bloody fucking br bird made out of ROCK and I killed it. for the orc-lady and gave her head. ha ha -- the he.ad. fr the kaldrei.

but. the importnt. part i  s that i wsa stupid. & adn & im sory that i made htings worse an,d will probably die sooner.

hve also been tnhgn   ignk   thinking abot mothr & shld talk to you. bfor i go do smthng else stup.d.

love you.

--Lark"