Fantasy 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐍 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
Joyful, curious

LOCATION:
Balefly Estate

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:
miyabi Ha_lfLife

the apprentice

Björn

✧ THE INHERITANCE

“And off treks Björn, to find a doll! A magical doll, the best of them all,” Björn chorused, parading through the snow. His form was home to a cacophony of jingles and sounds, the excessive accessories lining his person sent into a storm of movement with each step. He was a blight on the oppressively gloomy landscape. A splatter of rich maroons, purples and reflective golds that bared teeth at the blanket of snow that wished to oppress their splendor.

The apprentice stopped, chin tilting up at the sky. “Although I hope it’s a magical doll,” He said to himself. His words were swallowed promptly in the silence of the forest around him. “They didn’t list that did they,” He fished the crumpled paper clipping from his pocket, eyes scanning over the advertisement once more. “Osluga,” He tested the name in his own voice. For a moment, everything became impossibly still. Even the falling snow far too timid to make a sound in its descent.

Björn’s shoulders raised into the air in a lazy shrug, the action breaking through the tense silence from the bells and clinking metals strewn about his person. “Oh well, I guess I’ll find out.” The wizard resumed his boisterous stride, this time tuning, “Osluga Osluga, the perfect excuse-ah, to go on an adventure, for something I can use-ah.”

A crow calls in the distance, its grating cry much more fitting in the macabre atmosphere. An omen, perhaps, or simply just a warning as to Björn’s approach. Animals would often shrink back under his gaze, despite the apprentice’s cooing enthusiasm. Something sinister waded in the pool of his shadow. Its stench was far more potent than any bright smile he could offer. The wizard continued onwards regardless, a heavy coating of snow reclaiming any presence he dared leave behind.

✧✧✧

It didn’t occur to Björn that the footsteps he had been hopping from step to step within could only have come into existence given the arrival of another. It was the weight of his body thumping on a harder, sturdier ground that lifted his gaze up to take in the estate, and the three figures that stood on its doorstep. “Oh, how fun,” He said, a broad smile breaking out across his face. “The more the merrier.”

Quite a ways away from the entrance to the grand building, the wizard adjusted his stride into something more akin to a jog. Cold wind wrapped greedy fingers around the wide brim of his hat and lifted insistently. White blonde strands were given but a moment of apperance before Björn clamped a hand down to secure the cap to his head, his stride never faltering.

Any insects or small mammals who had gathered within the foliage of the estate’s foreground were rooted from their warm respite, jetting out in a panic the moment Björn’s figure passed by. Like oil scattering in water, the yard became a chaos of movement.

“Oh--I’m just in time!” The wizard called, voice struggling against his body’s fight for limited air. He stopped several paces behind where the small group had gathered, hand pressed to his chest as if pressure alone could restore the air to his lungs.

Björn’s eyes drifted to the hazy shadow whose presence stamped a weak mark within the doorway. “The great Osluga!”

Such a cheery disposition had an eerie effect when placed upon the stoic background. A judgment of tone was sadly lacking in the vast wheelhouse of the wizard’s skills. “Pardon my intrusion. Have we already made our introductions?”

The apprentice's eyes shifted from one form to the other, drinking in features with an eager thirst. Stiffened postures only melted by the warmest of smiles. The three seemed noble and well put together, although certainly not a group.

The woman closer to him, her shock of white hair blending into the haze of snow that hovered steadily around them, she seemed detached from the other two. Perhaps having arrived a beat too late if her distance from the door told any story.

The two further from Björn had an intricate intimacy to their movements. Their stances, the push and pull of one gaze giving way to the other--an understanding one could only expect from oneself. The wizard blinked, wondering if Madame Ania had punished him with some kind of illusionary magic once more.

coded by reveriee.

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

The Inheritance

The quiet-as-an-owl man casts his heavy eye from the twins to the woman, and backwards to the beginning. He had obviously not expected such a problem - that there would be anything more than a mildly interested person at his doorstep. Who could suspect there is such a market for dolls? He had anticipated maybe a maid-mother pinched for money, or an old haggler with a nostaglic thirst for the past. That a trio of what he could mistake for intellectual student would drag themselves out of snow to knock at this door makes him give a baffled, unsure blink. The man gives a smile with all the charm of wet cardboard, offering a firm handshake to them all. ''Leon Osluga, yes.''

A blind burst of wind stretches like the neck of a wounded animal, silent, clawing; the dark wood door slips open easy and he steps aside with a laden throw of his hand, polite enough to not be an unseemly host, but not grand enough to be anything more. His shoulders sit tight as he ushers them inside, into the safety of lacquered walls and a steadily soggier carpet. Lord Osluga's shoulders sit tight, like the lines of the dust-clad paintings and old fashioned side tables. A grimy mirror reflects the dark, oppressive gloom like the end of a half-remembered fairytale, headache fever-born. There is a deep ruin to this place, as if it had been built with the dust and general uncare intact. Just out of sight, maids and butler in black clothing carry boxes, shying away like moths when the strangers look at them too long.

''Come in. Don't mind the mess, it's...'' His drawn voice drops, like a rock into a well. If he has an explanation, he does not give it. He only looks outside to see the last figure trudging up the walkway. A man with a smile like starlight, his joy melting away the cold and ice and uncomfortable woods. Osluga opens up the door just a crack, waiting with a dull stare.

'The great Osluga!'

There is a point of silence. The noble man frowns, apparently considering if he knows this new addition to the group. He does not, and so his frown fades into a tight expression, grave features closing in. ''You are here for the doll, too, I assume?'' Osluga gives his hand again for the final time, casting a look over the strangers. ''Do any of you know each other?''

miyabi Ha_lfLife Pepsionne

 

[cwosont]

PLOT LINE: bird song

LOCATION: opera house

INTERACTIONS: jones573

duke of theodan

Once a sponsor of the opera house, the Duke of Theodan walks the halls as he does his own home. It is familiar to him. His wife, the late Duchess, was a lover of the arts. She was very keen about showing support. Garrick's sponsorship began to dwindle following her untimely death. As he admires the familiar architecture, he wonders if he should become a patron again.

''Dear guests, the show will be starting soon. Please, take your seats.''

The show is set to begin shortly, but Garrick is in no hurry to reach his box. He wants to soak in the atmosphere while he can. There is an intoxicating air of excitement and anticipation to indulge in. With a manor as barren as his, he seeks vibrant displays of life when the alternative becomes too haunting.

“Duke Barlowe.” He blinks, removed by his thoughts. “It’s such a pleasure to see you! Miss Georgiana Crane.” Garrick offers a polite smile as he remembers himself. “And you know the Captain."

The Duke bows in greeting. "Of course. It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Crane," he offers her. "And you, Captain Crane. You both look well."

“Have you had a chance to see this singer perform yet,” Georgina asked. “I’m so excited!”

It is difficult for Garrick not to compare Georgina to his own daughter. She is a bright young woman, and seems to do well by her father, while Nicolette is... a handful. He does not dwell on it further. "I have not," he answers, stealing a glance at the velvet curtains. "I'm afraid it has been quite some time since I have indulged in a show. I have heard good things, however, so I imagine it will be an excellent performance."

Garrick considers Georgina's comment and says, "My late wife and I were sponsors of the opera house for quite some time. They were kind enough to offer me my old box despite my negligence of the arts in recent years." He pauses to meet Captain Crane's eye. "You two are welcome to join me there, if you would like."

code by valen t.

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

Hell Bother

''My name is Nicolette Barlowe. May I-we come in?''

Before the words could even finish ringing in the hallway, the little fae already provides an answer; ''Absolutely not.'' She blinks like a dry salamander, not an inch of contempt in her face. She does not take to the Barlowe last name, the importance all lost on her. ''I don't have enough space.''

It was quite obviously not a lie, from the overall mud-on-the-boots, twelve-hour-shifts look of the building. The man that carries himself like a local asks a question and she stretches a woody hand to slap over a crumbling table blindly, reaching out again with a small photograph. The quality is off-putting, cheap, but just barely clear enough to make out a dog sitting on a chair. It's short, stocky, has four legs - the rest is too blurred to tell.

''His name is Biscuit. He's just a dog, he has brown fur and black eyes.'' Lady Bell sniffles, mouth downturned as she shows the photograph around. ''He's very friendly. You would know it's him, because he loves people.''

She packs it away into the sodden pocket of her apron. ''I used to walk him around the city, when it wasn't too cold. I have an idea to where he might be, but I haven't had any luck on finding him. Well, maybe it's good luck there's so many of you.''

She does not seem to care, or notice, if they are indeed strangers to each other. Her hands clench around each other like a batch of fabric caught in a river, with nerves or too much work. ''Either this shoppe down the road or the Riverline tunnel. It has to be one or the other.''

AI10100 . D O V E Steve Jobs Sylvio

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

Witness my Word and Deed

The mass of people parts like flesh to the knife, leaving bits and pieces of a clear view; and on the road, bleeding, stands a woman.

Or the form of one, anyway.

Her back stretches grotesquely, at least two meters tall. A bolbous spine threatens to break out her swollen, pinkish skin, her hair matted down with stinking vomit and sweat. Her head is swollen and elongated like a horse's, the white of her eyes flashing like marbles floating in ink. Drool spills out of her misshapen mouth, onto the cobblestones and over her broken teeth. A groan of agony howls through her mangled throat, her unsteady legs twitching behind her. In her enormous hand, she drags another human - their form lays there like a child playing at sleep, their head reflecting black from blood.

They don't seem to be alive.

Behind them yawns an alley, where this woman must have tumbled out of. In the distance, you hear the approach of the city guard.

Spoiler: IPHIGENIA.

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄 - 01.

There is a stench of magic in the air, like a fatty layer on your tongue. And it's still fresh.

Spoiler: VICTOR & TAMMERYN.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 01.

The woman seems to be in distress, her heavy, bruised head moving in frantic hits. She does not act like an aggressor, desperately clutching to her dead companion.

Sear yokai. neon reverie Colorless Spectrum

 

[Ha_lfLife]

LOCATION: The Osluga Estate

INTERACTIONS: miyabi mother of sorrows Pepsionne

[/COMMENT]

LUCINDA & EZRA

Somehow the manor’s interior was even more miserable than the outside elements. The rooms were drafty and dark, with only the artificial glow of the sconces and the gray daylight peeking through the slits between heavy curtains illuminating the morose and empty foyer. The scene reminded the twins most acutely of a funeral reception, a situation the siblings knew all too well. Aside from the death of their own mother, they had traipsed into countless other wakes and funeral services for complete strangers. They would introduce themselves to the bereaved as either close neighbors or, perhaps, even friends of the deceased. Cry alongside the families, offer a consoling pat on the shoulder. How easy it was, the game! To play along for an hour or two, to dampen a kerchief with false tears for a great life lost, and to offer (at only the most poignant moment) to help “deal” with the settling of the estate. They would offer a meager sum in exchange for great and priceless jewels, books, sherries, artifacts … (“Times are quite difficult,” Lucinda would explain with false remorse in response to the shock at such small offers, ”I hardly doubt I can sell it all. But truly, my money is good. I will ensure that which I can sell goes to well-deserving homes.”) To which the artful twins would either sell it all at an exorbitant profit or break such precious belongings into smaller parts, offloading them as scrap.

Lucinda entered first and resisted from rolling her eyes as her brother held the door for the lady who’d challenged her claim to the advertised doll, himself entering afterwards. Ezra… She groaned internally, lamenting that his etiquette was making them seem much less intimidating by the second. She took a few curious steps forward into the foyer, glancing back to the rooms beyond, catching the occasional glimpse of the house help toting box after box. She and her twin exchanged a look that shared that they both understood with silent ease - this was indeed going to prove itself a lost cause. Lucinda’s suggestion that, if not for the doll itself (which surely held little monetary value), the two could at least pilfer other, more valuable, belongings from the estate had become more and more hopeless. It seemed most things were already boxed up tightly. Were they all this Osluga fellow's or some old crow freshly deceased?

The trio were followed inside by a fourth, much to Lucinda’s irritation. How many more fools would show to the posted promise of a stupid doll? Flamboyant and energetic, Lucinda found herself disliking the newest addition to the group even more than the mouthy one who’d joined the Twins first. But despite her abhorrence, she no longer showed any of the petty cruelness that she’d had on open display before the master of the house opened the door. She was now on her most upstanding behavior, a facade she could call into play as simply as one lifting a mask over one’s eyes at a costume ball.

To their host’s query, Lucinda spoke first, with a soft-spoken and feminine tone.

“Sorry to say we have only just met one another,” She rejoined Ezra’s side, their likeness making it impossible for their resemblances to go unnoticed. She addressed this response to the woman who’d arrived second, Lucinda’s hawkish eyes settling on her. While she proffered her hand to the woman and flashed a friendly smile, her eyes remained steadfastly predatory, untouched by the lightness of her earlier words. Such a look dissipated when she moved then to give her hand to the man who’d joined them belatedly, and finally to Lord Osluga. With almost a coquettish, moony look in her eyes, she offered her hand gently to their host, and introduced herself. “My name is Camilla Barlow. And this is my brother, Ambrose.” To which her brother after offered his hand curtly and shook the host’s, having just shaken with the other two following his sister’s suit. In comparison to her, his manner was much stiffer and more subdued, though not entirely devoid of interest. Unceremoniously and subtly, he followed the introductions with a wipe of his hand on his kerchief.

“We are so very grateful for your advertisement.” Lucinda continued, her eyes entirely on the host’s, as if following the introductions, the rest of the group simply were no longer present. “As I have said, we are enthusiasts for antiques. But, our interest in this particular item is much more … personal. You see, my niece - my brother’s daughter,” Lucinda nodded gently to Ezra, “has taken terribly ill as of late. A cancer of the blood, the doctors say. She has always shared her father’s interest in antiques and, well, we just thought …” She gave a pitiful look over to her brother, then quite intentionally drew her eyes back to Osluga. Her voice softened into a whisper, as if saying to him in quiet confidence: “It might bring her some small comfort in this life before she ….” Lucinda trailed, her hand slowly and delicately coming to rest on her chest, feigning calming herself. When she composed herself again, she lamented. “Oh please forgive me, you mustn’t be subjected to my moaning on so.”

code by valen t.

 

[. D O V E]

The Detective

madame g

location

rundown apartment

tags

AI10100 Steve Jobs Sylvio

The Madame held a certain love for drama. It showed in the way she would dress to impress, the way she would throw each word like a line, and the way she would relish the intoxicating chill running down her spine at every thought of being watched. It was as if every fiber of her soul yearned for the spotlight. Nothing could deter her from basking beneath one even though the same excitement could be equated to a dreadful conclusion given her line of work.

As such, she couldn't quite help it when her hand slid onto the curve of her hips and the other supported her leaning body against the door frame. The prying tenants could think of her display as a grace, a light in the consuming darkness that was living in such a shoddy complex. A confident smile slipped on her lips as she heard shuffling behind the door, only for her jaw to subtly drop once the twisted creature behind revealed herself.

With dark locks strewn like wild grass and features that seemed to be born out of a child's nightmare, Lady Bell touched the Madame's heart with her spindly fingers. A sheen of admiration for the fae's unique form coated her eyes as her brows softened like a lovestruck maiden's. She listened to Lady Bell expounding on her lost dog with flushed cheeks and bitten lips, all while her heart raced within its cage.

Much like her love for stagecraft, her odd reaction was something she couldn't help but express. After all, everything was unfurling exactly as she had hoped.

With a mental note to praise Tucker for being forthright with his inquiry, the Madame procured a parchment from her pocket which soon unfurled to be a simple map of the area. "I am Jacquelyn Ross, a certified pet lover with years of animal handling experience. Please mark the aforementioned shoppe and tunnel then we'll do the rest." A hint of excitement touched her voice while she offered the fae both an assertive smile and the map.

As she did so, a plan began brewing in her head. There was no way in Theodan that she was going to let a Barlowe and a paladin leave her clutches without any contribution to the future novel of the year!

code by @Nano

 

[yokai.]

plotline :

witness my word and deed

location :

the market

outfit :

mentions :

Viktor ( neon reverie )

interactions :

Tammeryn ( Colorless Spectrum )

iphigenia

✶ the lamb

At the sound of her name, barely audible in the rush of chaos, Iphigenia turned, having to lean her neck a little farther down to meet the gaze of the doe-eyed florist.

“Oh, Tammeryn. Hello,” The greeting was more of a gasp than spoken word. Tammeryn was one of two who had requested that blasted love potion from her. Not that Iphigenia wasn’t happy to be of service, it was just that she didn’t particularly have the confidence to enjoy prying into other people’s lives so intimately. In fact, the memory of it immediately elicited heated embarrassment to crawl up the side of her neck in a sprawling flush, and she felt the need to explain herself. “I was jus–”

She paused, taking in the thick, cloying layer of magic in the air, near enough to the supposed spectacle to feel doused in it. It was odd to feel the presence of so much of it, even in a place as teeming with enchantments as the Market.

And then, a groan. A horrible, creaking thing that came from a worn-out throat, soaked with pain. There was something in the sound that reminded her of her own voice, ragged and roaring, merged with the resounding ear-splitting chimes of a bell. Screams of horror and fear mingled with the hideous, drawn out groan made Iphigenia feel as if the gaping maw of Hell had opened before her eyes. It seemed that in a way, it had.

“Oh, saints,” Iphigenia breathed out, unable to do anything but stand in place and stare at the monstrous malformation in the shape of a towering woman, slowly making its way through the parting crowd, dragging with it a body, so horribly still. She averted her eyes from the trail of rusted blood that followed them, feeling faint. A prayer in her native tongue came to the fore of her mind, a habit she had yet to grow out of, wanting to cling to the false safety of holy words to save her. “Run! Get out of here, as fast as you can,” she called out to the endless swarm of bodies rushing around her. “Go!”

The masses of people were like frightened animals in a stampede, forgoing any semblance of civility to flee the scene as fast as possible. Gathering her bearings, Iphigenia took a moment to scan the crowd, reaching out a bandaged hand just in time to stop a small child from being trampled. The woman tugging him along by the hand, presumably his mother, sent her a grateful look before leading them away to be swallowed by the crowd once more. Iphigenia swiveled her head again, her eyes catching the curve of a mask glinting in the lamplight. A figure sat on a nearby balcony, watching everything unfold with the cruel detachment of a god, hands stained red. She shivered, feeling unseen eyes on her back, an all too familiar sensation that she tried hard to shake as she returned her gaze to the bulk of the crowd.

There were still too many people around the area, which meant that the risk of casualty was too high for comfort. Though she didn’t have many gifts, Iphigenia felt compelled to act, willing her own magic to wake and thrum within her chest, ready to heal if the need arrived. A hand reached out to grab her wrist, holding her back from jumping into the action and reminding her to think clearly a little more. She turned to Tammeryn, the other one besides herself who was standing still in the face of such horror, and searched for any signs of recognition within the blonde’s face. The florist’s grip was soothing, an anchor to hold onto, despite the mild sting of discomfort it caused underneath the gauze.

“Do you have any idea what that thing is or where it came from?” She whispered, a frantic edge in her voice that was steadying itself the more she spoke. Despite herself, she found herself confessing, pale eyes downcast, “It sounded… like it was in pain.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[Sylvio]

MOOD: Slightly annoyed, exhausted

OUTFIT: Paladin Uniform

LOCATION: Apartment

ITEM: Revolver

basics

MENTIONS:
AI10100
. D O V E
Steve Jobs

tags

TL;DR Gerard is in Woodash apartments with a group of humans he didn't expect would answer the call to find a missing pet. He hangs back as he senses the lack of trust the woman has towards him as a Paladin. Regardless of the circumstance, Gerard will do his best to recover the woman's lost pet.

tl;dr

Gerard

Gerard gave the fey woman a tip of his hat. He understood the look that he gave her, not a lot of fey trusted the Paladins. Their new status as 'heroes' was intimidating to fey in Theodan. It started innocently enough, lycanthropes with a craving for blood, changelings who stole people's lives, and mimics who lured their prey. Anti-fey sentiment became regularly circulated within the Order of the Beacon. A minority of the paladins had shared the sentiment, but it was a vocal minority. Gerard harbored no anti-fey sentiment, except for the minotaur who murdered his beloved. But since he got his vengeance, what purpose that he have with the uniform?

He might as well do something for someone, even if that someone held a hint of disdain.

Gerard took a backseat to the colorful cast that approached the woman, he wanted a better idea of who he was going to be stuck with. It seemed like they were more thrill seekers compared to the seemingly stoic man. The woman who carried a theatric demeanor and her sidekick? He didn't know of them, maybe they were looking for a big break of sorts. Gerard didn't know what to think of an odd pair but their enthusiasm would count for something. The other woman, however, a bit of a mystery. Just seemed like someone who wanted to do some good for those in Theodan. Someone Gerard would have respect for.

He figured it would be best if he let the others take the lead while he assist with any insight he may be willing to offer.

As the others said their piece, Gerard projected from where he stood.

"We assure you ma'am, Biscuit will be found. With four people on the search, he should be found in less time than if it was just one of us." He said with a smile.

code by valen t.

 

[miyabi]

lucíena

mood.

"Somebody get me tf outta here I already made myself look stupid asf"

location.

DOLL HOUSE DOLL HOME RAH

tags.

Ha_lfLife Pepsionne

His smile was stale, though the color of deep-red gums swirled in an instance — it caught her eye, only temporarily as another body had approached. Chipper, happy – Luciena could only wonder what was going through the young man’s head if anything at all. She weighed the two with her eyes, calculating what she’d see if she’d opened them up: red with splashes of purple, pink viscera, perhaps she could find a darkness deep down if she cut deep enough — the thought reached that of the twins once again, as well. Or, if all else failed, what nutritional value they could give to plush beds of greenery. That is, if she could stand to hear the searing voice of the woman. Luciena sucked her teeth at the thought, a possibility of having to endure that voice in such close proximity for a prolonged period of time — it was unsavory.

Lord Osluga; no, Leon Osluga. She smiled back at the quiet confirmation, reaching a hand for a firm shake, yet the sting nearly left her to pull it away at an instant. The burning ran up her arm, tingled at her shoulders, and yet she remained composed, her smile as saccharine sweet as she could conjure.

Once again, she was beaten to entry, an audacious woman filling the air with a deadly sense of confidence; her brow rose, the attention to the brother, whom she deemed far more polite. He held the door, after all. What else was she to do except extend a kind smile, acknowledgement of the manners his counterpart lacked? She had half the mind to hold it for him, but it was only a thought, never brought to an action.

An interior unsettling, though incomparable to the somber, lamentable atmosphere provided by the bricks of her own. Lord Osluga, he seemed tense, but that could’ve been excused by the simple fact that he is allowing strangers into his home: for an item, no less. The walls were of great reminiscence to comfort, mortuaries and dull lighting; it lent her peace, that of which had been short-lived.

The newest addition, in cheery demeanor, had taken it upon himself to make acquaintance; a refreshing take from the dreary, tense atmosphere befallen upon the growing group. “Camilla and Amrbose” as they’d been introduced, chirps of gentle wind entangled with a wild look of determination. It was adorable, how the woman shared such a gaze; Luciena could only hope that she could wipe it away, watch as the defeat washes over when she takes the item for herself.

“Luciena Cardenas,” Her voice was a stark comparison to the former tone she once held towards the rest of the strangers, it nearly matched his — though, she could never mimic the chirp of the fresh and colorful. Luciena had felt the vague presence of annoyance, which had only further strayed her from the quick enthusiastic glow of words; there she was again, only this time, with the performance of a lifetime. She nearly clapped, but her eyes had beaten her to the punch with a deep roll. Although, she did hope that Lord Osluga wouldn’t have noticed.

“Interesting. Pardon my interruption, but when did he ask?” Her words, from the perspective of an outsider, might have seemed far too cold — however, if Lord Osluga could recount, he coils perhaps dismiss this intrusion. “Forgive me, I just thought it inappropriate to discuss the ill during the presence of someone who has obviously lost,” her hand gestures gently towards the man, “we should be considerate of another’s situation, should we not?” In truth, Luciena could not easily endure the performative grief. Attention is turned towards the newest stranger, her eyes quickly shifting alongside the large, unnerving grin that had quickly formed --- her way of showing a pleasantness not easily uncovered. "I'm not sure if you agree, I hope that you do. To me, it's in poor taste."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AI10100]

Extra! Extra!

Tucker leaned closer when the photograph was grabbed and shown around. He squinted and it took him a couple of moments to realize the picture showed the dog— blurry and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the background— but it was certainly there! And most certainly unhelpful but, hey, whatever. He leaned back as Lady Belle continued on to describe the dog, Biscuit. So a friendly, vaguely stocky, brown dog. Sure, it isn't like there's a billion strays that look like that. "Friendly boy, eh? Least I don't gotta worry about gettin' bit." He huffed out a laugh and let a grin linger on his face.

He took a few steps back to allow the Madame, er, Jacquelyn to move forward and closer to Lady Belle with the map of the city. Tucker already knew his way to the tunnel and it should be close by. Hopefully, the dog didn't follow anyone else because of how friendly he is. Or, ancient powers forbid, someone fed it something bad and threw the dog into the river but what were the chances of that, right? Offering the river a carcass sounded like a one-way ticket to some unfortunate business.

Everyone assured Lady Belle that her dog would be found— and the fact that there were a lot of them would only mean that they would be able to speed this process up.

"Mhm. We can split two and two so we get to hit both places." Tucker said as he brought his fingers to his chin with a nod. He was about to suggest that he would go with the Madame but the look in her eyes made him rethink. It was only for a quick moment, the shift in her eyes to subtly gesture to the other man. Had the thief not worked with the Madame for many years now, he wouldn't have even caught such a gesture.

So, Tucker turned to the paladin. "Seein' as it's either the shoppe or the tunnel, you 'n I should probably hit the tunnel, yeah?"

tucker

PLOTLINE: Hell Bother

LOCATION: Apartment

INTERACTIONS: Genevievve, Nicolette, Gerard

TAGS: . D O V E Steve Jobs Sylvio

ITEMS: Revolver, Switchblade

code by valen t.

 

[Colorless Spectrum]

Eryn Vermont

There was a gnawing at the back of her mind. She knew that somebody was watching somewhere, it wasn't something she needed to worry about. Whoever it was was most likely curious about what was happening where they were. That much she could guess, but she disliked the feeling of being observed. "Hi." She responded, the shock wearing down to voice the word with a sweeter tone. It wasn't often that Tammeryn saw the Apothecary, after their previous conversation she had meant to visit again but never found the time. She saw the way Iphigenia's skin turned pink, a rush of blood creeping up from her neck. Why? No particularly possible reason came to her mind.

"Move!" A man yelled, pushing her out of Iphigenia's reach. 'How rude.' Was all she could think of as the mass continued to scream and run. Chaos at its finest. Everything was now a blur, their voices seemed like nails against the chalkboard. It was grating her ears, annoying. She pushed against the wave of people, her eyes scanning the area for those she knew. Jean was nowhere to be found, unsurprising since the man was a coward but she saw her earlier companion standing next to a thankful mother and a child in their hands. A kind act, one that gave her a glimpse of Iphigenia that she had yet to know.

Her rhodolite-colored eyes finally moved to the cause of all. Oh. It made sense why the common folk would run away. This thing... this woman looked like a nightmare brought to life. The all-too-familiar scent of blood tainted the air, it was like she could taste it on her lips. It was clear to her that this woman was suffering, the way they clutched onto their dead companion spoke volumes of emotion she couldn't understand. How did she become like this? What was their connection? Who was it that did this to her?

Tammeryn's questions sought a difficult answer. There was hardly any means, those disfigured cries and misshapen mouth were all she needed to know that it would be difficult to communicate with her. She wondered if the corpse was someone the woman had loved dearly, such a shame.

The florist reached out towards Iphigenia. She could feel a faint magic coming from the apothecary's frail-looking body. It was clear enough to Tammeryn that Iphi wanted to take action but she reached out, quick was her fingers to claw themselves on those bandaged wrists. Her face was almost blank, save for the small crease of her brow and the worried voice that she spoke, "It looked like it came from the alleyway..."

"It... She does sound like that, looks like that even. You seem eager to help, and while it's admirable— it's best not to be hasty, Iphigenia." Tammeryn uttered. She's tied by her oath not to use her skills outside of contracts, and if her companion were to charge in and get hurt she can't do much. Unless it is to protect yourself. That was what he said to her. "If you want to go and help then I'll come with you, but we can also wait for the guards to come."


Mention: yokai. neon reverie mother of sorrows

Color: #ffa7b6

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
Joyful, curious

LOCATION:
Balefly Estate

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:
miyabi Ha_lfLife mother of sorrows

the apprentice

Björn

✧ THE INHERITANCE

Björn's gaze was a pinball of movement after entering the grand estate. Somber clung to every breath within the hall, soaking a gloom into the walls that seemed to infect even the morning light that stretched inward lazily. The fresh sharpness that it held from the snow outside turned laden and soggy. Yet somehow, Björn found wonder. He held the brim of his hat as he looked upward, mouth ajar at the intricacy of the ceiling.

His gaze quickly focused on the fractured splendor at his typical eye level, impulse unable to be collared when itching fingers reached hold of a decorative sculpture. A small piece shook loose from the force of his movement, clattering to the ground with a sharpness that had him sucking his hand back into his cloak in a flash.

Björn cleared his throat, eyes wide and flickering between the group before him. There was an electric tension set upon them, one that even the withering drain of the estate’s melancholy could not subdue. The woman who introduced herself as Luciena turned her sharp gaze to rest on the apprentice, followed quickly by the rest of the group.

"I'm not sure if you agree, I hope that you do. To me, it's in poor taste."

“Well,” He began, and when no reprimand came for the decor, the guilt for sticking his hands where they didn’t belong melted easily. “Lady Camilla said the doll is for a dying niece?” His bright gaze turned to her, innocent amusement dancing In his eyes as he added. “It's a bit of a waste to give the doll to someone who's bound to wind up dead in a couple of months, wouldn’t you say? I hardly doubt she’ll have the time to enjoy it.” He placed a hand on his chest, this time addressing Osluga himself “I on the other hand do not happen to be dying anytime soon. I’m sure I’d find more ways to enjoy its company.”

He paused, scratching at the hair under his hat, scalp beginning to itch from the sweat of his earlier jog. “No offense,” he smiled to the twin. Her face was a mask of porcelain. Carefully crafted, refined and practiced. Not a flicker of emotion out of place. Despite the apathetic cruelty of Björn’s words, thrown so factually between them all, he remained a vision of innocent ease.

Attention as short as it was, Björn’s eyes drifted to the servants still milling within the backdrop of their group. Someone who had obviously lost, Luciena had reprimanded Camilla.

He looked then toward Osluga. The heavy infection of what Björn assumed was grief sat tight within the man’s shoulders, almost as if he would collapse under the weight of it at any moment. Much different from the sighing lament of Camilla. Everyone grieved differently, he supposed, and Camilla’s niece was not quite dead yet.

Regardless, emotion alone would not stop him from forfeiting the doll. It was not often that Björn was allowed to pursue tasks of his own desire. Madam Ania had him up to his neck recently in enough tasks to make any servant balk in horror. He would not back down so easily. Not for this.

coded by reveriee.

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

The Inheritance

It all happened quite too fast for Lord Osluga to peel back his reaction. Greetings aside, the situation devolves from stiff, vague politeness into tension that feels far too fragile for the occasion. Lord Osluga hesitates at the lamentations, stuck between being cynical and possibly denying a dying child, the deathly silent canvas of his face cracking into a soft frown. And yet he is spared an answer, as the other woman - Luciena Cardenas - steps onto the words, crushing them below her heel. The gesture towards the crisp black of his mourning clothes makes the man recoil as if he had been struck, mellow stare blanching away with offense. He goes pale like raw bone, expression turning as if not knowing where to settle. His lips go tight, an almost snarl; and the utter disdain for this little group only rises at the last words.

What cruelty. Lord Osluga casts unflinchingly cold eyes at Björn, debating whether he is more offended at what he had said, or his suspicion that this stranger might have been pawing at his possessions.

A silence descends, like a pillow pressing over a sleeping head. Lord Osluga fixes his arms over his chest and glances over the twins that are either great actors or the only sane people here. It goes to the noble woman, commenting on things she should pretend to not notice. And the last of it, the man that Lord Osluga is starting to assume might actualy be an idiot. What great guests.

Note the sarcasm, of course.

''How about you see the doll first, before you start scrabbling for it?'' There is an open touch of venom to his tone now, all solemn, destructive gloom gone, the man quite irritated.

Ha_lfLife miyabi Pepsionne

 

[Steve Jobs]

PLOT LINE: Hell Bother

LOCATION: Woodash Apartments, Room 08B

INTERACTIONS: @svetnica (Lady Bell), . D O V E (Madame G), Sylvio (Gerard), AI10100 (Tucker)

nicolette barlowe

"Aw, okay," Nicolette sighed. She understood that the apartment building was small, but she was sure that the Fae had to have guests before right? At the very least there should have been enough room for the two of them. The notion that she wouldn't get to discuss the case details over tea and crumpets disappointed her, but the feelings melted away once Lady Bell presented the group with a picture of her Biscuit.

"Oh he is absolutely adorable!" the noblewoman said, nodding along to the other details Lady Bell provided. While brown fur and black eyes were common traits, all household dogs had one thing in common: a resemblance to their owner. Whether a product of domestication, epigenetics, or innate animal magic (if such a thing existed), the longer that it lived with its owner, the more of their features would be mimicked. It happened her favorite bartender, her former partner (may she rest in peace), and even her own pup.

Once Lady Bell gave the group team two possible locations, Nicolette gave her a thankful bow in tandem to Gerard's tip of the hat. She turned towards the group, a finger tapping her chin as she decided between the shoppe and the River Tunnels. The shoppe offered more witnesses; however, the tunnel seemed more...adventurous? The future duchess opened her mouth to announce her choice before closing it again when the assistant suggested splitting up. Beyond where to go, the question was of who to go with. The mysterious woman? The unassuming boy? Or the straight-laced paladin?

She didn't know enough about any of them to make an informed decision, but Jacquelyn gave off an authoritative yet intriguing aura and that was enough for her!

"Jacquelyn! If those two are headed to the tunnels, what say you that we visit the shoppe?" Nicolette asked.

code by valen t.

 

[neon reverie]

• .
• .

• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  VIII
  art by ares valto

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  THE MASKED PAINTER

  STORYLINE

  Witness my Word and Deed
  
  

  LOCATION

  The Market
  
  

  MASK

  Silver steel
  
  

  INTERACTIONS

  iphi yokai. Eryn Colorless Spectrum
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  A corpse forced back to life drags itself through the street, cradling death itself in her arms-- a child, lifeless and ashen. It is a grotesque parody of motherhood, with eyes so vacant they might as well be two empty sockets peering into the abyss. Her face is a canvas of torment, etched with lines as deep as the graves that litter the city's landscape. Every steps she takes echoes with the hollow clatter of bones, every wail clings to the buildings looming like tombstones.
  
  A mask watches how the crowd recoils as soon as she steps into the feeble light; they scatter like rats fleeing a sinking ship, horrified by the senseless. Viktor merely watches, still in movement and attention calm. It is a familiar thing, to witness horrible things. He still remembers the first time he saw the essence of a person slip out, only to writhe between black stained teeth. For some people, even the moment after death is not kind. He knows, that no matter how many times the maws of Theodan split themselves wide, no matter how many souls are devoured in their wake, the city will always hunger for more.
  
  The people scream, and not too far away, the Gamarina churns out a laugh. Mercy here is not a reprieve, but an ending—a final release from the clutches of this accursed city, paired with the slim hope that one might awaken in a new life somewhere far away. This? This is just another day, the opening of another blood-inked chapter of Theodan's anthology. You have the same kind of cowards who run despite knowing they could never truly leave, and the same fools who wishes to play hero in a city that scoffs at such endeavours. Viktor is neither.
  
  But he is curious.
  
  Curious enough to part some wisdom to the two below, his gaze descending upon the cautious and the determined. "If one wishes to treat the symptom, one must find the cause first." syllables rake through coarse sand, the voice one barely used. "But sickness rarely listens to swords." the briefest of glances towards the clinking of armor. The mask does not smile, never smiles; it only crawls, slowly, while turning to the brave one. "Magic can be powerful. But it is best to remember that the shadows hunger for such gifts, eager to swallow them whole."
  
  The painter drags his paintbrush across the balcony's white stone, leaving behind a leaking streak. Don't you know? Maroon always stains the lightest things the best.
  
  
  
  

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Sylvio]

MOOD: Slightly annoyed, exhausted

OUTFIT: Paladin Uniform

LOCATION: Apartment

ITEM: Revolver

basics

MENTIONS:
. D O V E
Steve Jobs
INTERACTIONS:
AI10100

tags

TL;DR With the group splitting up, Gerard agrees to go with Tucker to find Biscuit. Although he seems a bit too anxious to find the dog.

tl;dr

Gerard

Gerard observed the photo of Biscuit, through the grainy photo he could see his defining features and gave a smile to the photo. Already the boy turned to him asking if they could search the tunnels. "We might be faster in the tunnels anyway." He said. "I'm Gerard by the way."

Gerard was no stranger to the tunnels, some weird fish folk tend to lurk down there. In one instance there was a sewer siren who lured people to the grates with their song of sorrow in the middle of the night only to drag them down to never be seen again. Gerard hoped that he wouldn't find Biscuit's remains littered in a gory mess.

He then looked at the boy, he seemed like he had something of a survival instinct who had a trick or two up his sleeve so that he could outrun whatever was down in the tunnels and if he couldn't Gerard was there to fight off anyone who tried to get close to them whether with a bullet to the skull or a smite graced by the beacon itself. Although he was unsure if a smite in the tunnel was the safest course of action. It could shake the underworkings of the city. Regardless it seemed like the four of them had their designated roles

"So I think we have that settled. If we're lucky we'll have Biscuit out before sundown." Gerard said. To the intuitive ones, they could mostly sense a bit of anxiety in his voice. For whatever reason, he wanted to get this done before nighttime even though there was never such urgency. It was subconscious to him but again, someone could pick up something was up with him.

code by valen t.

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

Attend a Sermon

Time passes. It always does, regardless if you notice or not.

The period of internal insight ends with the slow crawl of music starting up, the singing a sub-tonal vibration of gurgling and screams. A slight shiver runs through the ground, as if the instruments are buried deep beneath the foundation. Church-goers slowly make their way to the wooden pews, still talking; it seems the sermon will start soon. You should find a seat, unless you prefer to stand. Before you can make a decision, however, you notice a woman; and she notices you, too.

She is tall. Easily 6'3 feet, lean as a spider. Her figure reminds of a rolled line of dough, without any curves or sharp edges. Frail, almost white hair falls off her head in a spin of pale lace, rougly chopped to her shoulders; she is almost bare above her stomach, and her face smiles with hysterical clarity. The woman watches you, eyes kind like a dying sheep's, almost crazed.

But that is not what you notice first. It is her arms that draw your attention the most.

Or the number of them.

Below the spills of her shoulders and her arms, there are stubs. Charcoal black, like the counsequences of a vicious fire - rotting or dead flesh sits on her torso as if it were a large birthmark, though you smell no decay. Veiled attendants step aside where she walks, chattering like ants.

The woman approaches you.

''Hello,'' She talks, recites, teeth set in a smile. ''Did you come for the sermon or the art?''

Spoiler: DIANA

She looks important. Her clothes are gold and white, the church-goers watch her with gutted admiration.

@Uxie

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

Hell Bother

''It's decided, then.'' Lady Bell chirped like an eagle, apparently still a bit shaken from this colorful company. Her beetle eyes bounced from one person to the other, taking in all the words and different faces. ''The shoppe is just down the road, like I said. It's named the Sleeping Coach.'' The fae pointed a wiry finger to the right, out into the dust filled road. ''The tunnels are in the opposite direction. Really, you can't lose it. And I'm sure some of you must know this place.'' For that statement, she seems to have meant Tucker; she gave him an expressionless stare, apparently taking him as a local.

Decisions made, there are now two paths for each group. This ought to be easy.

''I'm sorry, but I have more chores to do.'' Lady Bell adds in hurried, rough politeness, looking downright harrassed by the sound of steam and pans. ''Come find me when you're done.''

AI10100 . D O V E Steve Jobs Sylvio

 

[yokai.]

plotline :

witness my word and deed

location :

the market, about to go to the alley

outfit :

mentions :

Rune ( Sear )

interactions :

Tammeryn ( Colorless Spectrum ), Viktor ( neon reverie )

iphigenia

✶ the lamb

Iphigenia turned her face upwards to the balcony with undisguised bewilderment and some fear. She looked to Tammeryn, questioning her silently if she knew who this person was. She could not tell if they meant to harm or aid the woman, and despite how hard she fought the instinct, it was difficult to see their impassive shield of a mask as anything but an echo of the past. The red pigment that coated their hands and brush also painted them in a much more suspicious light. An artist, that much was clear, armed only with paint and canvas. Though they didn't seem particularly harmless, either. Underneath it all, she glimpsed past the gilded embellishment for what lay at the heart of their words: Find another solution. With a breath, she dulled her inner spark of magic, like snuffing out the wick of a candle, and nodded.

“Very well, stranger,” she said hesitantly. “Although if you know such wisdom, perhaps it would be best to come down from your perch and apply it yourself." A pause. “Respectfully.” Iphigenia, shocked at her own boldness, uneasily returned her gaze to the matter at hand. She didn't know where the gall came from, only that perhaps there was some of that old wariness colouring her perception of the newcomer once again. Tactless. Unthinking. She shook her head, then tilted it in thought as she considered the monstrosity once more, mouth slanting in pity at the sight of its misshapen form.

Was there a possibility it would answer to reason? Would it have the means to answer a few questions if by some small chance it still understood the common tongue? Tammeryn had referred to it as if it were still human, an act that Iphigenia couldn't help but notice was almost instinctual. It gave her immeasurable relief to know that her friend could look at a beast and still see the humanity within it, even when it seemed past the point of no return. She felt the urge to embrace her, though decided against it in favour of smiling softly at her, something in the lightness of her eyes baring a small piece of her soul.

“What if we headed to the alleyway before the guards arrived? Find out what it is that's caused her to be this way?” Iphigenia suggested quietly. She belatedly realized the situation was not unlike treating an ailment, as the masked stranger had said. That, she could do. “Though she might need some defending against the city guard, as well… I don't think I'm very capable in that regard, however.” There was also the fact that the presence of law enforcement never failed to make her feel a foreboding sense of unease, though she kept this to herself. Tammeryn seemed to be formidable enough to handle her own despite her small stature, almost as if she were comfortable with violence, and though the reason why eluded the shopkeep, she was grateful to lean on her friend's rationality in the current moment.

At the sound of chain metal and shouting of men, Iphigenia lifted her gaze to watch the steadily approaching brigade of guards. With their arrival appeared an imposing figure who was weaving their way through with ease, standing at an impossible height that mirrored the monstrous, elongated form of the woman. This person, too, had a mask that hid their true visage, though they had a distinct quality about them that reminded Iphigenia faintly of tilled grave soil. A fellow Duskwallow regular, perhaps? Death did have a way of following those who spent most of their time visiting the cemetery; it seemed to seep into fabric, even down to the skin, somehow.

The ram-horned girl turned back to Tammeryn, feeling the intense urge to run before a guard happened to catch sight of her. “Yes, I think I'll head to the alley. I would appreciate the company if you'd like to join me.” The invitation was not only extended to the woman at her side, as signalled with a cautious but kind glance in the painter's direction, her voice projected loud enough to be heard a few flights above. Though it would be safe to assume that they would be staying given their obvious inclination towards passive spectating, Iphigenia was curious to know what their true intentions were.

coded by reveriee.

 

[jones573]

Neither Georgina nor the Captain seemed phased by the Duke's melancholy demeanor- Gigi perhaps did not even pick up on it all, and to Crane it was to be expected of a man who had suffered so much in recent years.

"Well, that's the wonderful thing about the arts! They are always there for you, waiting to be indulged in," she said kindly, clearly not feeling that his recent negligence was worth fussing himself over.

When Duke Barlow offered to share his box with them, a bright smile split Gigi's face nearly in half, like an egg cracking over the rim of a cup to reveal a yellow sun beneath.

"We could not impose on-" Crane began, but he barely made it to 'could' before Gigi began to speak over him.

"Oh! We would be absolutely delighted, what an honor!" Again, her excitement seemed almost palpable, and could be heard in her breathy exclamation and the way her skirt rustled against the floor as she shifted her weight back and forth in her eagerness.

"You should lead the way," Crane suggested to the Duke, holding back his sigh at Gigi's antics. "As I believe the show will be starting soon."

"If you are interested in getting back into the arts," Gigi said as they made their way. "I might recommend that the museum across the square currently has several canvases on exhibit by that mysterious new masked painter. Some of the subject matters are... Not to my taste," which in this case was a polite way of saying that she found them to be somewhat lurid or even a bit dull, "But the technical skill with the brush- I've never seen anything like it! I believe the pieces shall be returning to their owners within the month, but it is simply not to be missed," she gushed.

@ cwosont ​

Bird Song

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

• filler tab!
• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hello

  
  
  
  

  goodbye

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  hello

  
  
  
  

  goodbye

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

Hell Bother

THE TUNNELS.

The bustle of washerwomen and factory workers on their business trickles away into a disintegrating park, reserved by broken alcohol bottles and old shoes and rusting equipment. Yellowish grass cut low by the river stench sits below overgrown bushes, the stone path falling under the floral pressure. It is not worth to see, unless you are a lover of the abandoned.

Here you find the tunnel. The main one, anyhow.

It's carved into a cliff of wet cloggy soil, one that acts like clay if you push a finger into it. Above it is a raise of thin buildings, built right above this cavern you are to enter; and while Theodaners are taught to be skeptical of the arhitectural stability of anything in this city, the tunnel looks very stable. What it's purpose was, you can't aim to guess.

Spoiler: GERARD & TUCKER.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 01.
There is a draft coming out of it, just shy of a breeze. You could have missed it, if you didn't pay attention. Though the tunnel is dark, you assume there must be an open end to it somewhere.

AI10100 Sylvio

 

[mother of sorrows]

code by yousmelldead

Hell Bother

THE SHOPPE.

You can smell the shoppe before you can see it; the road on which you walk on is adrift with the smell of crisp bread and cooking meat. THE SLEEPING COACH is engraved onto a filmsy piece of wood, one that has been marked by old vomit and coffee stains, quite possibly from a drunkard or a malicious spirit. It is nothing too nice or too clean, with only a few chairs dragged around sticky tables out in front and a truly sad bench.

The inside is not that much kinder on the eyes. It's only one large room, the ceiling stained by smoke and overfilled with customers - you have to take great caution to not step on someone's tail or foot. Large tables meant for eight people and more are taken up by sullen-faced workers, all involved in their own meal and sparing little conversation. The decoration consists only of a few cheap oil reproductions and risque drawings of devils.

A waiter stands at the bar, nervously washing away unseen damage. He does not look happy.

In fact, he looks almost hostile at existence itself.

Spoiler: NICOLETTE.

𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐍 - 01.
And he keeps glancing at the back. Every few seconds, you notice. You can't see beyond the bar into the door behind him, but it takes up all of his attention.

Steve Jobs . D O V E

 

[Steve Jobs]

PLOT LINE: Hell Bother

LOCATION: The Sleeping Coach

INTERACTIONS: @svetnica (The Waiter), . D O V E (Madame G)

nicolette barlowe

Nicolette let out a sigh of relief when she and Jacquelyn exited the apartment. Unlike the mildew that coated her nostrils, the path to the shoppe was lined with the smells of freshly baked bread and cooking meat. The Sleeping Coach, unfortunately, did not look as good as it smelled.

This shoppe wasn't one she frequented, in no small part due to the dreary atmosphere. She could tolerate coffee stains, little leg room, and even the occasional patch of vomit but the patrons were just buzzkills. More interested in themselves than spreading joy or merriment, these individuals exuded all the whimsy of a ornery dock worker (with the grittiness to boot).

Shaking her head, the noblewoman lifted the skirt of her dress and walked forward, careful to avoid tripping over any errant legs or tails. The clusters of bodies made it hard to tell whether Biscuit was absent or merely hiding among them. She didn't care to ask anyone to peek under their tables or chairs and instead, tried to hail the attention of the waiter wiping away at the countertop.

"Hello, we'd like a table for two please!" Nicolette chirps, a faux softness coating her voice.

Unfortunately, she'd forgotten how terrible the service was around here.

Strutting over to the bar, it became clear that the man was nervous, jittery even as his eyes darted to and from the door behind him. He seemed unable to decide whether to keep his attention on the shoppe or what lurked behind it.

Was he scared? Angry?

"Excuse me sir," She says, slapping her hand down atop the rag he was using, "we'd like to know if you've seen a brown dog with black eyes. Kind of short, four stubby legs."

code by valen t.

 

[Ha_lfLife]

LOCATION: The Osluga Estate

INTERACTIONS: miyabi mother of sorrows Pepsionne

LUCINDA & EZRA

His sister traipsed like a moth towards a bright flame - both flirting with the object of her desire and pulling away from it in due turn. When to be forward? When to feign timidity and reluctance? When to bite? When to be bitten? Such questions, such games, made Lucinda’s skin tingle with euphoria. Whereas one much better than she would be relieved to be rid of such a situation as what was at hand, Lucinda craved it as an addicted gentleman fallen to the wiles of opium. The others likely did not see it, but Ezra - inseparable from his equal since birth - knew his twin so, so well. He caught with discerning eye the glint of mischief that glistened in her irises as they shone from green to brown to green again.

After her (admittedly) ludicrous tale about some dying and lamentable niece, quite forward even for her tastes, she now chose to retreat to the comfort of the shadows, to act an injured gentlelady, one so entirely undeserving of the criticism coming unto her by the others in their party.

To the woman’s blunt assertion that such a story was unnecessary, and the newly joined man’s additive that such narrative was a reason even more for their elimination from the running, Ezra watched his sister clutch delicately at her chest, blighted by the words, and lament in reply: “How awful of you to say such a thing. Have you no tact?” Like a leech, Lucinda suckered onto every modest cue given by their reserved host, sensing his growing discomfort and irritation at the party of prospective owners of his former tangible personal property. Lucinda would play her hand. Alienate the others. Make it so only her and her brother were the only suitable candidates left.

She directed an offended glance towards the man of the house, as if disbelief that they, gentleman and lady cut from a particular cloth in this cesspool of a city, should be in the company of such riffraff dragged in off the street like stray pieces of waste blown from the gutters by a particularly strong gust of wind.

Yet the host insisted upon decorum, imploring guests to instead join him first in viewing the object of all their desires.

Meanwhile, Ezra, quiet at his sister’s side, festered a growing discomfort at their being there at all. Endless was his patience for Lucinda’s scenes. Indeed, it was her tact in many and all social settings that allowed them as much leverage as they’d had in the past. Were he acting alone, droll and cautious as he was, no one would dare seek to do business with him. Her talents were exquisite almost always, if not a tad overzealous. One merely needed to take the present moment into consideration … Why did they have such a compelling need for an old and abandoned doll?

Their shelves were graciously depleted each and every week by wide eyed charlatans and enchanted nobles seeking cures and comforts for all their maladies. Whatever skins they sold, elixirs they concocted, they could replace them with any sort of nonsense on a whim, with a fair chance that such sweet nothings would sell just as easily… And yet his darling sister insisted on such endeavors as these.

He knew, as she did, that she cared quite little (possibly, nothing) for the object itself. Indeed, if they had arrived upon this man’s doorstep alone this gray morning and she detected even the trace of imperfection upon the free doll’s face, Lucinda would turn up her nose at the endeavor as a child offended by a crumpet riddled with dates. It was the thrill of the offense, of winning, that he recognized in his dear sister in that very moment. For once she recognized that the junk was an object of more than one sorry soul’s eye, Lucinda for the simple principle of victory would not bow out of the chase. With a lamenting sigh, Ezra accepted that they would not be leaving the estate without the treasured doll securely tucked under her arm. Both a source of admiration and the bane of his very sanity his sister sought to bring.

Much to his Lucinda’s chagrin, Ezra once more loitered behind the group to hold the door from the foyer to the parlor open for the others. If the foyer seemed bleak, the room they entered into forthwith was quite worse. The room itself was, in not so many words, distinctly unloved. All such colors offered by dated settees and lounges, paintings draped with clothes, were drained in the cold winter morning, shadowing the scene unto which they entered with an unignorable gray. Even the light offered from the windows was filtered by a formidable layer of dust. Ezra, repelled by even the slightest sign of filth, recoiled at first and wished to leave. And yet, while his hand twitched for the kerchief tucked in his vest pocket, to clamp it over his face to keep out stale air, he did no such thing for the sake of his sister’s endeavor. Surely, Lucinda would’ve been mortified as to how offensive such action would seem to their beloved host.

“Oh, isn’t she a dream!” Lucinda exclaimed at the figure propped up lifeless in a wicker chair by the window, porcelain complexion and blonde hairs reflecting lifeless in the dull daylight. Lucinda had made a point to stop herself, having led the group’s procession, indirectly in front of the others, so as they could not get such a grand look at the doll as she.

code by valen t.