Larkspur Plagueheart

He's getting sick of words.

More letters have shown up for him at the Shadow Vault in the last two months than he'd received in life, or so he likes to think when he's being unkind about his correspondents. He's begun to stuff his bank with the things, making awkward nests for the moths out of letters after he's had someone read them. There is this advantage to letters at least; they're memories that can't be eaten or rot away or be lost--at least, not quite so easily as the rest of his memories, not with how easy it is to preserve them in the face of the kinds of rot that threaten mere parchment.

But then everyone wants him to write back, and he TRIES, but the exercise is getting increasingly frustrating and shameful as time goes on. (And unlike other frustrating, shameful exercises in self-abuse he can think of, this one isn't in the least relieving because once one letter's sent off, there's bound to be another in return and he has to start all over again. Jacking off at least cuts the other person out of the equation.)

If he still had the energy for annoyance he'd think it fucking uncivil of them, expecting him to find a way to communicate with the written word when they know very well he's blind. But he doesn't, and time he could spend simmering in his own despite is time better spent killing Scourge and picking icethorn and mending armor.

It's only when the difficult letters start showing up does he finally hit on the realization (late as ever, Dawnherald) that he doesn't have to use words, even if he hasn't got the spare moments in the day to hunt them all down individually and sit for an hour or two in companionable silence.

That's when the packages start showing up.

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( Letters follow. )