Within his secluded hall, knelt a man ahead of his spiteful blades. He glanced at the paper ahead of him, and wet the quill beside it with intent to write. It weighed on him that in his chase to best the dancers, he had taken a liking to their poems as well as their weapons.
He inhales, he drinks deep these now precious breaths, and in fluid strokes binds his anxieties to the parchment.
Haa’it kar’aray,
Kar’ta hok ti kyr’duhaal.
Usen’ye, kyr’nuhoy.
It’s wrapped up and offered to the flames of an anointed brazier. The stone visage of a trickster god’s visor flickering between threads of black smoke. Chom’tol would do as he always did. He pushed on.