Letter to Jarvais
In all truth, Jarvais's letter had been left to sit on the kitchen counter for some time as M'eri had gotten in from sweeps, changed clothing, and taken to making tea only to be interrupted by a visitor. Such a visit soon went from friendly to friendlier and the bluerider lost track of what he was doing.
Now, in the wee hours of the morning as the sky was melting from velvet shade to a crisper, silvery blue, the older rider was preparing himself for sweeps yet again, pulling a thick, roughly knit sweater down over his head as he moved through the kitchen. He'd left a warm figure in bed and wasn't in a good mood because of it, but a rider he was, and so it was as simple as that. He caught sight of the letter as he was dragging a stolen loaf of crusty bread from his cabinet, taking both back with him to the table and settling in to read.
At length, the bluerider's lips quirk upwards in vague amusement and he leaves only to return with hide, pen, ink, and a knife. The knife, fortunately, is just for the bread. Cutting off a slice to consume, he unrolls the hide, pins it down, and dabs ink onto his nib.
There is a long, contemplative sort of pause, but not likely as lengthy as most would think, considering who he was writing to. It would also amuse people to know that, while M'eri was normally much different from his brother save perhaps in certain aspects of their features, his handwriting was more reminiscient of Neiran's than one could expect. It was sharp and precise, wasting no ink and suffering no careless blots; in truth, it was probably one of the least merciful handwritings you could ever hope to see.
Jarvais,
No poetic entries, no flowery statements, not even a title. Simple. Direct. Intimate, perhaps, but only due to a lack of overal formality.
While I appreciate your position in standing with those around you, the formal approach of pleasantries is somewhat tiring for someone of my age. I am hardly an overly busy man, but it would do you and I a world of use to simply cut directly to what you desire to know without the charming inquiries as to my life.
It is possible I judge you harshly, but I often don't, and so I shall answer your questions as well as get to the heart of what you want.
My Weyrleader died a long time ago. I mourn the passing of any man, but no more or less do I consider this one.
You find me exceptionally well at the moment, though chilled by the early morning air and quite of a mind to crawl back into bed and toss aside all responsibility.
The figure buried beneath the covers shifted slightly, tossing brown hair across the pillow and gaining a blue-eyed glance, M'eri quirking a faint, vague smile before returning his calm, serious demeanor back to the hide before him. He rubbed the shaft of his quill, a minor thing of stone, against his lip habitually before he continued.
High Reaches is beautiful under snow, I'll admit it, but Yaneth and I have never favored the rough blasts of wind and distinctive icy cold it brings with it. Would I have a winter without the snow and therein would lie an unknown pleasure.
Getting to the true interest of your letter, my brother, Neiran, who I am not so foolish as to not recognize as of relative importance to myself, is as you may have left him. He is never much better than he chooses to be and, to be frank, I have been distracted as of late.
There was a mental pause. Ever since he had met Neiran, M'eri had never once been distracted from thinking of his brother as well as his well-being. This pause earned the sleeping figure in bed a moment of stealthy affection as the bluerider snuck over, nuzzled a sleep-warmed cheek, then escaped back to his Chair of Doom.
For your sake and the kindness of your character, I will endeavor to find out my brother's true current state, but I will ask you that, in the future, simply get to the point and discard with the charm. I realize it must be habit for you but I prefer honest curiosity to meandering inquiry. I should like for things to be direct between us as there seems little reason for it to not.
With warm regards, despite my personal wording and idiocy,
M'eri, Yaneth's rider
Taking a fanciful mind to the hide himself, M'eri added, at the very bottom, a simplified version of mountains over a wavy line of snowed over ground. It was not overdone, but simply adding a personal touch, and once he was satisfied and certain it had dried, he rolled it up and tied it close.
He moved to the bed, then, this time climbing under the covers to curl his arms around the warm body within. Understandably, there was a rustling as he gently woke his lover, pressing his face against the curve of a shoulder and inquiring, playfully, "Let's visit a Hold." Some things, for a dragonrider, were silly to pass on to something so slow as a runner.
Heh.