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New Latin, from Greek, rye


[ [ – b i o – ] ]


noun | ʙ ʀ ɪ • ᴢ ᴀ | \ ˈ ʙ ʀ ɪ̄ ᴢ ə \
a genus of grasses (family gramineae) native to the old world & south america;
distinguished by broad spikelets & cordate lemmas — see quaking grass

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𝓘 broke her heart.

𝓗er father merely broke her life.

Two servants laced the dining room with silverwear and other pretty things like artistically folded napkins and a table decoration, which hinted of fresh flowers from the garden and oddities that shimmered around some imported, hand carved fox set family; each fox had its own unique visage complete not only with individually carved hairs but amber eyes that saw you from any point in the room. The room was quite a spectacle, even if hastily thrown together.

A lace of wooden vine was articulately sculpted-seeming around the large, trunkish leg of the round cedar table. It stood prominently in the middle of the room, and like all ordinary dining rooms was the center of attention. However, the curation of the dining room itself was less than ordinary when compared to say one that you are probably used to seeing. For time's sake, the narrator will not go into further detail outside of gently pushing the backdrop through the various scenes depicted onward.

The meal (to keep with the times) will be in four courses, and already, the soup of the first course has been giving a charming scent of warmth underneath the floral, wooden decor. The scent did nothing to sway Walter, who was nervous, as always, and his face had been growing paler for no other reason than that his mind and body had nothing netter to do than to make him feel faint, as pertaining to the plot. Murder was something that Walter tried to dissuade from his attention, as it was something his brother dabbled with more than often. Unfortunately, these particular murders were holding such importance, the build up of suspense had caused him great anxiety. As well, his older brother was in no shape for proper camaraderie.

He thought to give himself rest when Lady Alyssana arrived, as to not give himself a break but to also give the two older ones some privacy over the matter that had happened earlier. Alas, one of his favorite persons arrived, and with all due respect to the man who had arrived, Walter could not help but feel enlightened and in the mood for engagement. He listened as the other man rattled off so many things, and they were of so many good and solid notes that he no longer felt the forlorn plague of his own heartbreak. Walter was now very intrigued with everything of which Lord Christopher Grey had to offer.

As for Finnegan, he had a new pair of trousers and blouse upon him. He looked better than before Lady Alyssana had left, but his coloring was still flushed (in a similar manner to Walter's prior to Lord Christopher's arrival if any fellow or lady cared to notice). His head was also still pained, and for this reason, he had his fingers gently pressed to his forehead when Lady Alyssana greeted him. He immediately withdrew them and stood at a more attentive posture when she spoke.

It was not her voice alone that struck a cord with Finnegan; although, if truth be told, her voice alone might as well have been due to the cutting prominence and pronunciation of she worded her introduction. She smelled as if she had a bone to pick. This was not an usual smell for her to wear, but the scent caused Finnegan to forget his rehearsed lines of apology. By all means, he meant to be sincere about it, despite the fact that the apology would have been a lie all in and of itself. Quickly, he made a twitch of a smile with his lips pressed together and then entertained the woman with a small, bright smile, “Lovely as always, Lady Alyssana.” Finnegan pressed his feet together and stood up at once, with one arm folded behind his back, and the other outstretched for his usual remark as he made his way to her.

“Your presence is always welcome here,” he began and bowed to offer his formal acknowledgement of her feelings. He did not wish to make her run away, again, “And, as you are aware,” he spoke in reference to the first dance they shared in the library. Whether she picked the cue or not was of no importance to him at the moment. It was more or less the prospect of him believing her, “I never wish to scare you. I care deeply about you.” As he began his apology, marks were made on a speech he could barely remember making. If he ever was to confess his love to her, he would have to do it in a fashion less than so flamboyant. As the woman was dressed, she was not one for her compliments to be served on the fanciest of crockery. No, she deserved only the most natural type of love. The rest was lust and stardust, and Lady Alyssana in all her courage and fears deserved nothing so fake and charlatan.
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