[ The Saint of Woe, whilom Joy, whilom Mercymorn the First, glances irritably, as she is wont to glance, at her darling baby sister-Saint. The affect is somewhat spoiled by lank, bruised peach hair strung across her muddled eyes, but the intent is there all the same.
She toes the edge of the fat-hulled, ribbed wave-skimmer of a vessel she spun out of her left hip, bloodless and flexible, with a foot shod in a slipper made after the fashion of some woollen creature turned inside out and tanned to pearly softness. ]
iii. cw: gore, body horror
She toes the edge of the fat-hulled, ribbed wave-skimmer of a vessel she spun out of her left hip, bloodless and flexible, with a foot shod in a slipper made after the fashion of some woollen creature turned inside out and tanned to pearly softness. ]
Charming.
[ Not!! ]