i’ve mentioned rion enjoys writing before, but, what i didn’t tell you is he writes letters;
tens, hundreds over a year, almost one every day, sometimes two or three. and they’re all to different people, for all different reasons.
some are scribbles on random scraps of parchment he’s found, some are well-scripted formal drafts, signed with a grey warden seal.
some are crumpled and left scattered over the floor of his office, angry ink stains and jagged lines where his quill has torn the parchment.
some are neatly folded and stacked between his books on the shelf, not hidden but not in plain sight - if someone wants to find them, they will. he doesn’t mind.
he writes more and more as he gets older, as his days grow shorter and the nights seem endless. he writes when he can’t sleep, he writes when he forgets to eat, he writes, and writes, and writes. his hands are heavily calloused, marked by the quillpoint, ink-stained fingers. but he refuses to stop.
and then, of a sudden, his letters are tear-stained and bitter, shaky writing as the taint grows stronger in him, shatters his confidence and turns his roar to a whisper in the shadows where nobody can see him. his words are faltering, sentences abrupt and falling short of all the things he wanted to say. they lead nowhere, an open end to a destination he never quite reaches.
rion never gets to finish those ones.