Sitting in her little nest of bedding in her room, the small scout struggled with her penmanship, trying to draft a letter. 'I hopes Híril Cesistya won' 'ave too much trouble makin' this out.' She sighed, shaking her head. 'Y' ditherin' an' stallin' again, girl. Get writin'!'
Slowly, her attempted later took shape, though she did make another copy to deal with the things she'd scratched out and smudged.
Dear Marnewyn,
I'll be real happy to meet up with you. As you will see when you get this, you'd rather talk to me than read this, I's pretty sure, despite how much I talk like street-scut still. I won't hit you or nothing. Pretty sure Miss Audea won't, neither. I got a lot of bitterness over things, it's true. But what you wrote has moved a lot of that. If I ever meet that steward again, I don't promise not to knife him. He turned me away, telling me I didn't live there no more, and slammed the door in my face. Well, maybe he meant that we didn't, and not just me, I can't be sure. But between that and setting the dogs on you and just not caring, he's a lot to blame.
Anyways, thank you for writing to me what you did. I will look for you in the Pony, I reckon, and hope we manage to make something more than one set of drinks and remembering hurts out of it.
Adrie
Looking it over, she sighed in frustration. 'Took too bleedin' long for how short it be. Reckons me an' her is jus' gonna need t' talk. My writin' still just ain' good 'nough.'
