Salvaging corpses wasn't her idea of "mercenary work," but it's better than nothing, she supposes, humming a tune to distract herself from the overwhelming fragility of human life.
Her cheeks burn hotter than the sneeze of a wyvern
She sits statuesque on a chair which ought to be called a throne, and stares at the roof of a house which ought to be called a castle.
“Is it meaningful? Does it exude meaning when you look at it?”
She squints at the puddle, but all she sees is a muddied reflection squinting back at her.
At times like these, she truly understands what it means to be alone.
The night is terrifying for those without mental or physical comfort.
Some people’s demons are weaker than others.
They may not be proud of their demons, but they do not fear them. They do not hesitate to share them, for their demons are not hideous, nor obscene, nor marred by thousands of lonesome maudlin midnights accompanied by the pitying moonlight.
It’s the type of stuff she’d see in her dreams:
It's colossal, it's worn, it's made of chiseled stone, and she's got no idea what it's supposed to do, 'cept sit pretty in the middle of nowhere and look imposing against the nearby scenery.
It kills her. She loves it, though.
What does it mean to "act?" Is it to pretend? To fake? To lie? To conceal, and to disguise the fragmented and ugly scaffolding that hides beneath?