The Saboteur and the Swan

Chapter One: Roses

--- Ꮳhapter Ꮎne:
Roses ---

~*~*~*~

"You look bothered."

Misha Tenanbaum's attention transitioned from her breakfast of biscuits and gravy to that of her father, Wesley. There was even something about the way he chewed his food that possessed some sort of impish quality. Good intended, but wayward in nature.

Misha shrugged, taking a small sip of tea. "I'm just tired, that's all. Lots to think about."

Wesley Tenanbaum was a man that had a natural cerebral sense, but he was more than proficient at noticing bullshit.

"Regardless . . . I'm proud of you."

Misha raised a brow. Something that always slightly nagged her was how their accents differed from one another. Her father was from the Rijou Province, while her upbringing ranged from various different continents such as her early years in Moonfall, then the constant drifting from Benoît to the Great Eastern Isles, then back to Marronworth, where she currently resides. However, her dialect reflected an amalgamation of the Isles and Benoît. Many people mistook her as a foreigner, which in many ways, she was.

She studied her father for another moment before she slowly craned her neck and fixed her attention towards the substantial amount of photographs Wesley had accumulated over the years. Wesley thought frames made pictures look less authentic, so all of the images were merely just tacked to the wall.

Misha didn't like having her picture taken, so nearly every snapshot showcased her father during the prime of his explorer days. The various different backdrops changed dramatically through each memory; there was one captured on a fishing boat where the captain had successfully harpooned, (with Wesley's assistance), a dragon-like sea monster that had been eating people of a nearby village, while another branded her father standing next to a group of tribes men decorated in barely-there loincloths and war paint. Her father wasn't wearing a shirt in that picture, for the indigenous people, (Misha could never remember their names), had paraded him in similar attire. In that time, her father had triumphantly aided those people in getting rid of their Coven problem- feral humanoids that roam forested areas in search of warm-blooded flesh.

Wesley had taught her that.

There were many other pictures, some more exciting than others, but the man in all of the memories remained the same. The only difference was a little bit of weathering and some gray hairs. Other than that, her father was in excellent shape for being 49. And, considering the life lived, Misha was in thankful disbelief he was still alive.

Misha attempted to make a non-chalant gesture towards her watch as she noticed the time. She had to get going.

"You know," Her father began sarcastically. "I'm sure you would look and feel a lot better if you would actually just consume something. Plus, it wouldn't lead me to believe you don't like my cooking."

Misha had a slight muscle spasm on the corner of her mouth as she looked down at her plate. "I'm just a bit anxious, I guess."

Wesley stared at his daughter apathetically. He then stood up, grabbing both his plate and hers before he turned around and set them on the counter.

"Go grab you things, you little shit. Ill drive you."

Misha blinked, then her own version of her father's notoriously impish smile formed on her own face. Her father made crude comments often, which were sometimes mistaken as abusive from outside sources looking in. However, he meant well and Misha had enough of a sense of humor to laugh off his interjections as jokes.