Amna-laath gun-tuaas,

What threads can you furl into some new skein. When your spool's last gift slithers free, what then. Do you declare your work done, and that it is how it is thanks to your poor planning. Do you seek new material to add to the weave, adventuring out in an exploration of ravel and disheveling ever more. Do you grab some other tapestry and set frantically to unknitting it as nothing but material for your needs. Should eve [A heavy blob of silver ink settles awkwardly here, as if the pen could not be moved more than the barest squiggle to finish the thought. A long, sheening dribble down the remainder of the note drags through words on each line to follow.]
We have heard many words in our existence. Most are never worth repeating. The few that are are generally our own, whether mine or my child's or ours together. One who must lean on the words of others to plead their case must take stock and reflect. Are your own words so spurious and unreliable that they will not serve. Do you think the words of a soft-minded, ancient knight and the Goddess of Beautifully Blooming Lies do anything to aid your position. Do you imagine yourself the wronged party here. Do you believe anyone sees, sees you as reason's champion.

May She open my miserable throat before I make nearly as much a fool of myself as you continue to do, but. Her lack of mercy is on full display in your lingering existence.

Sa, as you wither, child. Reflect. Ama gun-hailqaas i lamqa.

We,
An'tzai 'rugan aman senna tuad,

[An unsteady smear of blood signs the pronouncement, flourished with argent when it crosses the leak from above.]
Penned by my hand on the 19th of Ero, in the year 893 AF.