shotgun aimed at my heart

Sitri did not flinch at the words that Ira flung at him, it was not the way of things. He knew very well of masks that most wore. He wore one, though his had become reality as he had grown. His father had wore one, a mask of a crazy man, twisted and not lucid at all, but his father had been sharp as a tack. He had been a jester of sorts to protect himself and his family, and he had finally lost it all when he had shown love to Sitri. no hardship to speak to you Ira, Sitri does not mind. I carried sad words is all. His language was by no means good or correct, but it was the only way he could convey. That he had sad news to give to the boy and that was why he was so down about it.

As Ira screamed Sitri kept his eyes downcast and his ears tight ot his head. He didn't even bother to correct him, he let him howl and scream and grieve. It was all he knew how to do. He didn't even know what he could say or what to say, he was not the best choice, yet he had been the only good choice to deliver such terrible news.

Sitri is sorry Princeling. IN his panic and his fear and his wariness, he forgot to use the words that Tyrande had taught him. Forget to put his sentences together correctly, instead they were fragmented and cracked, much like his veneer. He realized he actually felt bad, for the princeling.