Achaean News
Tsa-ala n-aman
Written by: Tendril Harenae Uraian'gattar, of the Haskrovska
Date: Tuesday, June 28th, 2022
Addressed to: Everyone
Amna-kaiar niegaas,
How do these words find you. We doubt well. As it should be. It was some distant foggy now that we last saw need to ink our upright words. Sa fai, in at least this now, we must. How else. As we have been unable to discern from the wingspan of a dove or the sloppy lettering, we must turn to the public and seek.
This pleasant, humid Valnuary, we had the distinct pleasure to receive a letter, anonymous, with quite florid language. We will operate under the assumption that the letter was delivered correctly and that we were the intended recipient, the 'insane bitch' named in the addressee. The following message is for whoever neglected to sign their letter, that we might return correspondence.
The rest of you may go on with your lives seemingly spent in purpose of disappointing us.
For you, ileka'a miero.
Are we dribbling. We must not have noticed. You will need to forgive us. There is so often a steady trickle of blood and poison that we cannot help but ignore the addition of fresh slickness. Have you lifted our mourning veil to see, see, see what glistens beneath, what glazes our cracked, tightly-drawn lips. Or did you find cause to heft the folds of our rancid stola and catch glimpse of our legs stacked as darkened bone, hard skin drawn taught and flecked with sweat from the desert heat. Or was it not sweat. Who can recall such details. You will need to forgive us.
Sa fai you will need to help us. How can we be expected to clean up after ourself when our legs are falling open for every passerby. Surely we do not have the time, we keep so busy sleeping our way up a ladder. If you would be kind enough, we keep a pleasant handkerchief tucked into the neckline of our dress. Root around in there for us, take your time. We are patient, patient, the nows stack and we wait, wait patiently, as a mother should. Find it and do for us this kindness, wipe us down, bathe us with that silk swab, and then undo it all with your turn at spreading.
That was your intent, was it not. Or have we misunderstood. Surely not. It whispers from the flesh, seeps from liver as so much foulness to be smeared away. What joys do you find but those you can pry from others' bodies. We see.
So smear and pry away.
We,
Maana shalaas,
[A long, heavy smear of blood sags beneath the message.]
Penned by my hand on the 19th of Valnuary, in the year 891 AF.
Tsa-ala n-aman
Written by: Tendril Harenae Uraian'gattar, of the Haskrovska
Date: Tuesday, June 28th, 2022
Addressed to: Everyone
Amna-kaiar niegaas,
How do these words find you. We doubt well. As it should be. It was some distant foggy now that we last saw need to ink our upright words. Sa fai, in at least this now, we must. How else. As we have been unable to discern from the wingspan of a dove or the sloppy lettering, we must turn to the public and seek.
This pleasant, humid Valnuary, we had the distinct pleasure to receive a letter, anonymous, with quite florid language. We will operate under the assumption that the letter was delivered correctly and that we were the intended recipient, the 'insane bitch' named in the addressee. The following message is for whoever neglected to sign their letter, that we might return correspondence.
The rest of you may go on with your lives seemingly spent in purpose of disappointing us.
For you, ileka'a miero.
Are we dribbling. We must not have noticed. You will need to forgive us. There is so often a steady trickle of blood and poison that we cannot help but ignore the addition of fresh slickness. Have you lifted our mourning veil to see, see, see what glistens beneath, what glazes our cracked, tightly-drawn lips. Or did you find cause to heft the folds of our rancid stola and catch glimpse of our legs stacked as darkened bone, hard skin drawn taught and flecked with sweat from the desert heat. Or was it not sweat. Who can recall such details. You will need to forgive us.
Sa fai you will need to help us. How can we be expected to clean up after ourself when our legs are falling open for every passerby. Surely we do not have the time, we keep so busy sleeping our way up a ladder. If you would be kind enough, we keep a pleasant handkerchief tucked into the neckline of our dress. Root around in there for us, take your time. We are patient, patient, the nows stack and we wait, wait patiently, as a mother should. Find it and do for us this kindness, wipe us down, bathe us with that silk swab, and then undo it all with your turn at spreading.
That was your intent, was it not. Or have we misunderstood. Surely not. It whispers from the flesh, seeps from liver as so much foulness to be smeared away. What joys do you find but those you can pry from others' bodies. We see.
So smear and pry away.
We,
Maana shalaas,
[A long, heavy smear of blood sags beneath the message.]
Penned by my hand on the 19th of Valnuary, in the year 891 AF.