(( No, no, I love it. It was actually kinda funny at some points. SD, you, you.
Haven't written or played OM in a while, so. Am also reading Les Miserables
, so expect unnecessarily long sentences. ))
Sit up, keep your back straight. A lady must have good posture at all times.
She must always look presentable and decent. Compose yourself.
She does not have her head in the clouds--this silly humming will not do.
And close your eyes--it's only polite.
Her skirt was rumpled, her hair still twisted into its nightly braid except at the ends, which were somewhat undone, as if she had begun to comb it out with her fingers but had moved on to more pressing matters, such as finding something to wear. The chosen garment of pitch and crimson was thrown carelessly on her tired form, resting almost lazily over her shape. She hadn't cared to smooth out its wrinkled fabric or finish tying the ruby-colored ribbons lacing down her back. Waking up had been a difficult task on its own, much less washing and dressing herself. She padded around the tent with bare feet, singing quiet snatches of songs that centuries in the troupe had almost faded from her memory, had she not held so tightly to them with such ridiculous hope. Scarlett had hated her incessant whistling and humming--"You drive me mad, you never stop,"
was what she would say, hands clamped over her ears, sometimes getting so irritated that she would send the smaller witch off so that she wouldn't have to deal with the pesky child--and sometimes Mag wondered if that was the only reason she kept her music, if the songs themselves lifted her spirits or if the memory of her mentor's constant vexation did.
She was a mess, bruises, tangles, and unkempt clothing, though she had been raised as strictly as if training for the day she would dine with royalty. She would kill me if she saw me now,
though many years before, the older witch may have been almost proud.
They had been rather successful when they had started; children and adults alike were drawn in by the magic spectacle of it all. There was never a day when the grounds weren't full of people, especially at night, when the show was only beginning and the sky was lit up like no one had ever seen. The language sometimes presented a tricky barrier, as her accent was thick and her vocabulary minimal, though she quickly learned and was able to contribute more than a silent nod and unsure smile to conversations. Though her favorite time was after everyone had left and the troupe had gone to sleep and it was only the two of them, huddled together, drinking and enjoying the velvety black serenity of whatever new town the circus had settled in. And they respected her--they knew she had been there the longest, that he favored her and had granted her a high position as a result, and she treated them well in return. She was fond of all of them and especially loved the children, providing guidance and company for the little ones who had been rejected for their oddities and had found their home with the rest of them.
And now here we all are
, she couldn't help but think. All deceived and bound under that devil's contract.
How could she have been so blind? She had eventually realized his true motives, but too late, and not without being reduced to her current circumstances. As he "did away" her, the rest of them eventually forgot about her, even the ones she had practically raised as children. But that changed when a small, rat-like infant had appeared one day and was taken under Renfield's wing, one who was not happy to play second to anyone, especially another female. That's where that
rumor had sprang from and undoubtedly many more that tarnished her name further--though she never changed it, as many circus people had. That was how they forgot who they were, how he controlled them--and Changeling, poor Changeling, who probably didn't even have a real name of her own except the one from Renfield and had no identity apart from him. Sometimes she felt complete and utter loathing to the pink-haired child who hated her so much, though other times she couldn't help but feel pity and guilt concerning her--perhaps if she, instead of Renfield, had cared for the little one, the shapeshifter wouldn't have grown up the way she did.
And the necromancer
--he was sleeping heavily at present, breathing deeply--he had fallen in the same way many of them had, lacking the necessities to live another day and had come here looking for home. It was a foolish, inevitable mistake that she herself was not blameless of. And he was still so young and innocent--perhaps not sinless, but naïve without a doubt--that it was much too easy for Renfield to trap him. She sighed softly as she turned to face him while he slumbered on, unaware. It took everything in her to leave him alone as he had requested. Caring for him had become instinct even though he had been in the troupe for a mere two days; she had found herself taking an extra plate for him when she had gone for breakfast and scooping her leftovers onto it. There was something a bit more than responsibility she felt for him that he may have also felt for her, but he was just a child yet and she experienced enough not to make the same mistake twice, and so she trusted the both of them not to act on irrational impulses--though she trusted him more than she did herself.
Changeling had even stopped her that morning on the way back to the tent, Daichi's plate in hand.
"Whatever you're trying to do, you better cut it out. Renfield's got him already. Just because we managed to get you out of the way doesn't mean you have to go messing things up for everyone else, so leave the necromancer to us and stop trying to get your filthy hands on him. You're too late anyway."
The shapeshifter was about to do something else, maybe tack on her (and Daichi's) favorite insulting name at the end of that sentence, but one hard look was enough to warn the rat not to. As the child scampered away, she was grateful that she still had enough authority to be able to scare the other off like that. But there was one thing Changeling was right about--she was
A quiet groan from the ground made her pause in brushing her hair, alerting her that Daichi was awake. She allowed herself to briefly imagine what she had once seen, his dark hair messy and deep eyes heavy with sleep, before resuming her previous task.
"Good morning. Breakfast is on the table, and you would do good to eat it before it gets too cold. Your presence has also been requested by Renfield as soon as you are finished. He doesn't care to run late, so please don't delay."
And the necromancer--had she failed him too?
(( . . .Egh. Tried to explain a bit of the plot and it turned into this. It's terrible, I'm sorry. ))