Must be a shock to the system to anticipate a petite and polite, soft-spoken angel sitting in the sun and you get a foul-mouthed, furious and curt vessel of blooming anger, four cold eyes of royalty, cold lips, cold hands like a frog and an even colder heart, a room full of treasure and wild cats balancing on their beams.
Peasants hate it and I love the miserable rain, the more hostile they are, the more cunning and calculated I am, everything granted can be taken away, golden headed and crowned like a cupola, a pallid canvas of flour-white skin and a barbarous, vicious mindset, the coldly dead ruins of someone who once shrunk from the sight of everyone, now your eyes are scared to meet mine and they should be, they aren't easy to look at, they're cold and lifeless, they make people uncomfortable, my throne among heretics, made of a rib, morning darkness and glasses for the sunlight and sun-showers, the dandified torso of light that will crack open from sadness.