THE MAN WITH WHITE CLOTHES read its address.
It was fortunate that the written word, when applied so basely, could not convey the fright roiling through the veins of the writer.
I shoult like to meet with you. We are not friends. I am afraid of you. But frite does not dictate against a need for truth espesially in reguards to a Storyteller,
I woult like to speak to you, I will bring my knife, I am bad at stabbing, and I shoult wish we discuse many things Black Man, but I woult prefer to feel safe in doing so
Yours,
Gloria Wynsee
When that letter was couried, she wrote another. Her hand did not shake as much with this one. She delivered it as she had others over the past few days: she slipped it underneath the door to Noura's room at the Broken Dagger.
Pek'oret,
If you think I am afraid, you are right, if you think I am frighted, you are right, but if you think I am weak, you are wrong, if you think I flownder, you are wrong,
I await word from The Man in White that I may reseave audience with him and per Noura's suggestion, for I trust her very grately even though we may not always agree, I will allow you to be present if you may find a way,
but not Noura, there must be clear seperations drawn between YOU and HER for her place at Elliot's side to retain its importants,
I am fifteen, I am stupid, but I do not hide in holes,
yours,
Gloria Wynsee