giantflyingradish

 When a swan moves, it seems to drift effortlessly as a sailing ship, delicately folded wings as pristine white sails, while in all actuality the swan's legs are furiously churning paddles. Such effort to keep up that façade of ease, of grace, of beauty. To the cursory eye, the repose of Renata Vermillion held in it much the same manner. Perched on a luxuriant armchair, coolly surveying a battlefield of black and white marble, the way she always did when expecting someone for a game. It was little moments like this, a guest behind schedule or a stranger who fancied himself undetected, that her thoughts drifted to more turbulent water

 It was funny, he used to like mornings. He used to go out at sunrise and sit, somewhere far up in a tree, scruffy and with holes in the knees of his pants, finding places where no one would find him. Being alone then had been a thing of beauty, a silence where there were no angry voices and holy men preaching, calling him 'monster', 'devil child'… Those names had been part of his life before he'd even really deserved them. Did he deserve them now…? He couldn't say. Now Leonder's pace was sluggish, his eyes dull as he pushed back the sheets and sat up. The floorboards creaked when his feet touched them, and he held that position