Fairspell Meadow I Would Have Written...

massaraq. he had never heard such a name. his eyebrows arc in earnest curiosity, and from his nose comes a soft huff of warm breath.
boniface, a non-name. the anti-father. the bristling guard hairs return to a lay. this is merely a boy — a lost boy. his lips, which had previously been shaped into a scowl, now smooth out in a soft line. you are hurt.