[He's rather nonplussed when an Inquisition courier hands him the letter--who would be writing to him? Nobody he knows beyond a passing acquaintance is even still talking to him. Maybe it's a mistake, or else just some business correspondence--
--or an olive branch, at which he stares for a long expressionless moment even though nobody's around to see him. His throat feels ever so slightly tight.
If it were anyone else, he would find a piece of paper and write back; now, with that unfamiliar handwriting sending a shiver of guilt down his spine, he knows it would be less than ideal. He reaches for the crystal instead, once he's made absolutely sure his voice sounds even.]
If this place doesn't have dormice, I'm calling the owner a liar.
no subject
--or an olive branch, at which he stares for a long expressionless moment even though nobody's around to see him. His throat feels ever so slightly tight.
If it were anyone else, he would find a piece of paper and write back; now, with that unfamiliar handwriting sending a shiver of guilt down his spine, he knows it would be less than ideal. He reaches for the crystal instead, once he's made absolutely sure his voice sounds even.]
If this place doesn't have dormice, I'm calling the owner a liar.