#aechor

every detail is accounted for . all that soaks his senses , silhouettes , scents , delicacies , w o r d s , and figures . not a single curve , hue , or letter goes to waste . his mind does it on its own , like breathing dare he say , cataloging each experience for future use , for his picking should the right moment require him to show his hand . a tedious endeavor it seems , but there is delight in the collection he possess , in the very process alone , to hold truths in his mind like pages to browse when he's left to ponder . with knowledge comes certainty , a full view of the world in which he slips to and from , and complete control of himself . and not a single thing could pull his astray — except one oddity , a restless gush of wind that strikes against the waves of the placid blue . in the gardens , the flora drops to its knees , not a scarlet , emerald , or brimstone can compete against the lilacs that sees past even the most fortified of strongholds . the tongue that prides itself in cradling several from across the known world holds none at her presence . the young lord of castamere grapples with the shrinking composure to make out words in the most beautiful of languages he had come to know , ❝ bisa dīnagon iksis tolī gevie lēda ao kesīr , visenya ❞ sincerity finds its way back to his lips , making itself at home on his tongue . to his dismay , however , it brings with it the tiresome company of timorousness .