the newly observed obscurity of her name and every showing rib of her torso, her gunmetal ponytail that reeked of death and her rhythmic normandy accent in which she spat her acicular words that severed through the most adamantine of guts, like the sharpened hilt of glassy katoptris. her cerulean eyes amassing her chronic sufferings in their lurid, explicit details and the show of hands never in her favour.
her disorientated shadow that perambulated in the most tenebrous of places at the queerest of times, her cinnabar lipstick that warned the world of her perilous presence, the way teeming concourses would part to make way upon hearing her nearing tread and the enigma she was known to be.
the fervour with which she spoke her truth and the grimness of her candour, the response she elicited with her purposeful prowl and the noises she heard as she wandered.
'there goes the assassinated king's assassin of a daughter.'
