Fuckin' Inmedae.


He was a fat young man, though not quite young; thirtyish, shortish and round stomached, plump and prosperous all over. Pallor absurdly rosy, smooth, lustrously faced; though with slight lines at the eye corners. He sat with one plump and silk-stockinged leg crossed over the other-- (an effeminate little way of sitting) and was in mode of contemplation. Or perhaps simple boredom. A droll little man, not merely short but very; he was the heir in line for head-of-state. It was a morbid thought. Not an Inquisitor. He had the look of a silly and efficacious little would-be poet about him, and Anice smiled; from his highly colored fingers to the lovely drowning eyes.
Clear and sharp gray-green, as his mother's they were; standoutish, fantastic, and goggling. His cheeks were very dimpled, red as one who drank or caught a chill, and he had one of those unfortunate wide mouths, showing too many teeth, smiling too frequently and seeming to when he was not; pink, open, and unbearably vivid. His teeth were overly bright. His chin was lowered to his neck in contemplation, rather doubled with fat, but still attractive in the way he was musing consciousness. A young man revered several years prior for beauty, with a head of chin-grazing fair blond curls, though now declining and aging from the excess and ultimate exhaust of rebellion.