Itaja,
My wallet gasps for the dents repaired in my plate. My purse cut for the man that found me washed unto the shore. My waterskin light for the healing that was demanded.
All of these things - replaceable. Life is not.
Though you have made me your enemy, I weep for your loss even so.
Perhaps there is no greater insult, though this is not the intent.
The Bashmu-kar may make themselves detractors and villains but they are of The Wheel, ever turning, be it by axle or by the bite of the Wyrm, and deserve this smallest respect.
I wanted you to know, I've given your son his final rites.
Perhaps one day, under better circumstances, I would give you the dewy hyssop aspergillium. Perhaps.
Until then...
Not all asps are venemous.
Signed,
An Eye for the Blind
This is received and read over by wine-drunk eyes. Read twice, then tossed into the fire. For a long, long while Itaja watches the flickering flame burn. Searing the memory of the words into his sight, and then passing into sleep.