[When the letter comes, she's almost afraid of what it might say. Her thoughts are already a mess on the matter, and she knows what a force of chaos that Kurloz can be on them. But the words are less troubling than she imagined, even if she still doesn't know what to think.
She must have tried to pen a letter back to him at least half a dozen times. No matter what she wrote, it didn't feel right. Nothing did, and she was starting to think that maybe it just wouldn't anymore. Maybe she had lost that feeling forever, and that's only one more fear added to her growing list.
She rolls the pen back and forth anxiously between her fingers, frowning down at the seventh or eighth sheets of paper. The other sheets have been crumbled up and shove aside--or angrily thrown across the room. Finally, she slaps the pen down onto the table and stands. She has no coat to pull on, but she goes to the door, trekking out into the snow and heading across the familiar pathways to the house with the goat pen and the crack down the middle of its door.
That causes her to hesitate as she reaches the step, her fingers tracing the line of split wood. Her brow furrows, her thoughts falling back to the argument that had spawned this crack. But it's not enough of a pause to keep her from ultimately rapping her knuckles against the frame and waiting in uncertain silence.]
[action]
She must have tried to pen a letter back to him at least half a dozen times. No matter what she wrote, it didn't feel right. Nothing did, and she was starting to think that maybe it just wouldn't anymore. Maybe she had lost that feeling forever, and that's only one more fear added to her growing list.
She rolls the pen back and forth anxiously between her fingers, frowning down at the seventh or eighth sheets of paper. The other sheets have been crumbled up and shove aside--or angrily thrown across the room. Finally, she slaps the pen down onto the table and stands. She has no coat to pull on, but she goes to the door, trekking out into the snow and heading across the familiar pathways to the house with the goat pen and the crack down the middle of its door.
That causes her to hesitate as she reaches the step, her fingers tracing the line of split wood. Her brow furrows, her thoughts falling back to the argument that had spawned this crack. But it's not enough of a pause to keep her from ultimately rapping her knuckles against the frame and waiting in uncertain silence.]