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About Marseille

Oh, and the smells—sandalwood, lavender, whatever—they hit ya nose like a perfumed slap. Quirky thing, I’m imaginin’ Tywin gettin’ one of these, stone-faced, probly threatenin’ to flay the poor git mid-rub. Ha! Bet he’d hate it—too much pleasure for that stiff prick. Me? I’m all in—exaggeratin’ it in my head, like I’m some goddess bein’ worshipped, hands everywhere, tension snappin’ like a twig.

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The Gave d'Oloron—oh man, that's the river that cuts the city in two. I spend crazy afternoons alongside its banks in Parc Pommier. I sit there, my mind racing, with thoughts like "I was the architect of hope in their darkest hours," and I think, damn, it's like floating through my own mind’s diving bell. Sometimes I catch juxtapositions—like how the river's calm surface masks turbulent undercurrents. Reminds me, sometimes, how people hide their pain behind polite smiles.

Beret much so