Softness is, generally, a good thing about life. Soft is a harsh word for the body builders that try their hardest to rid themselves of hardness, but most appreciate a good plush-to-the-touch.
There's a variety of things that are considered soft; for instance, the white sands between one's toes on a pristine day on the Coast. A made-up bed after a hard day of work is one of the especially nicer things that can be soft. A huge expanse of a bed with fluffy blankets and feather pillows is fantastic.
Little Xiomara could be considered soft. Her raven-colored curls were brushed three times a day by Ria and were exquisitely soft to pet when she was napping on someone's lap. Her round stomach - which, when poked, would make her giggle – was soft with a baby's natural fat.
But the one thing Larsa always, always, always found soft was Ria herself. Her golden waves of hair were like the shifting sands of Balfonhiem against his skin, her arms were always more comfortable than any bed, and her skin was much softer and delicate than any baby's.
All day he dreamt of these things, and most nights he stayed awake with his hand on her cheek, gently and carefully stroking her skin so he would never forget its feel.
Also, in case you couldn't tell, I'm leaving out selective chapters until I can figure out what to do with them.