She’s a foul, evil, wicked woman.
Her husband lies by her side. He’s snoring a bit, huffs and sighs that punctuate the rhythm of his breath in counterpoint to hers. It happens sometimes, when he doesn’t drink himself into a stupor – something that has become more and more frequent these days, as the years wear on and she births no children, and the weight of things he’s never wanted becomes heavier upon his shoulders – but tonight he’s practiced some long-lost restraint, there was a gleam of hopefulness such as she’s surprised to realize she’d sorely missed in his blue, blue eyes.
Wherever it was, it was a smallish Lordship. She never had any siblings, as her mother died when shewas very young, and her father loved her mother so much, he never could find it in himself to marry again.
Her father was a handsome man, he should have married again, but her mother was a rare beauty, soft and fragile. People said she inherited her mother’s looks; but certainly not her gentle nature, as from very young, she would prefer wearing pants to skirts. She was shooting her bow, throwing knives and playing by the ocean not far from their castle.