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Hello hello, I'm flights-of-fancy, or Rin. I've actually been meaning to write up an introduction (and I actually had, before I had to board a plane and lost all the stuff I wrote) for a week now, but I'm a perpetually lazy procrastinator, so well...here I am. Better late than never, I suppose.
I was actually introduced to this site by the lovely lightning-fingers Syche, so uh...y'know, you can blame her for me being here. c;
I've been rping for about eleven years now, and I've got a few precious hours left before I turn whEEZE twenty four WHEEZE oh god. My favorite genres to write in general are historical fantasy, historical, modern fantasy, post apoc/dystopian--but to be fair, if it's got a good plot and an interesting character dynamic, I'll bite. Also, I'm quite fond of gritty settings with gritty feelings--angst, conflict, drama, tragedy...feed me. I adore brainstorming and world building, and I take particular delight in character arcs and development. Like, help, I can't stop thinking about our fictional characters and their fictional lives.
I typically write original settings, but the two fandoms I do love writing for are Game of Thrones/ASoIaF and the Hunger Games Trilogy.
Anyways...yeah, here's some writing samples, if you'd like to peruse--no pressure, though.
Yep, uh...yeah.
I'm apparently pretty bad at introductions, no wonder I've been putting it off. Anyways, I'm rather pleased to be here, and I hope I'll see everyone around!
I was actually introduced to this site by the lovely lightning-fingers Syche, so uh...y'know, you can blame her for me being here. c;
I've been rping for about eleven years now, and I've got a few precious hours left before I turn whEEZE twenty four WHEEZE oh god. My favorite genres to write in general are historical fantasy, historical, modern fantasy, post apoc/dystopian--but to be fair, if it's got a good plot and an interesting character dynamic, I'll bite. Also, I'm quite fond of gritty settings with gritty feelings--angst, conflict, drama, tragedy...feed me. I adore brainstorming and world building, and I take particular delight in character arcs and development. Like, help, I can't stop thinking about our fictional characters and their fictional lives.
I typically write original settings, but the two fandoms I do love writing for are Game of Thrones/ASoIaF and the Hunger Games Trilogy.
Anyways...yeah, here's some writing samples, if you'd like to peruse--no pressure, though.
"I'm glad we see eye to eye," the redhead sang as he ceded to her arguments, the sugar in her smile preventing her tone from becoming completely smug. "No reason we can't make this a wonderful partnership, regardless of when it started."
Then he opened his mouth and told her exactly why that wasn't going to happen.
I know who your father is.
For a split second she froze. Oh yes, there was a time when all the people in her life knew exactly who her father was. There'd been a time when her father's name had been a source of power and pride in her young little heart. Now, it was a poisoned weapon, a hellish vice, a deadly secret. The way he said the words, so calm, so matter of fact--it just made it worse, because there was no clear motive to discern. What did he want from her? Was it to threaten, or to cajole? For the most minute of moments she was caught between horror and alarm, the words ringing in her ears despite the deafening sound of that all-important-question that thudded along with each pulse of her quickening heartbeat.
How…?
He hadn't realized it in the beginning, but she was about the right age.
Saoirse? That little firecracker? Far too clever for a wee lass. Just like her ol' da.
Saoirse. Saoirse!
But then the moment passed, her blank expression melting smoothly into chagrined confusion. "Know my father?" Saoirse, no, Riley repeated, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. "Now that'd be something, 'cuz I barely even know him. He walked out on me and my mother when I was three."
"I worked with him, once." His voice was knowing. His eyes were not lying--but she certainly could.
"Funny, mom's made it clear that he's never had a job other than deadbeat," she snorted bitterly, then casually took a bite of the cabbage roll. She could lie like a fish could swim, bold faced and without even a speck of guilt--just like her da. He'd never called it lying; it was being clever. Unless it was a stupid, bad lie. Then that was worth a good smack. If you're gonna do something, do it right. "Have it your way, but I really don't think I'm who you think I am. I mean, do you know how many Kavanaughs are out there?" she managed around another mouthful. She waggled her free hand in front of his face, showing off the claddagh ring adorning her finger. "Half the town is some sort of Irish mutt, y'know."
There was no way she was going to admit it, hell or high water. To call it a career ruiner was a severe understatement--why was this man so full of potential career ruiners for her? No one would believe that she wasn't dirty; she'd never be allowed to even think about being on a mob case. And worse, if he'd truly worked with her father, then that meant he had to be dirty. If her father was to find out that his missing daughter was right under his nose…
The dread balled up in her gut, even as she shrugged with a noncommittal smile. "These aren't bad," she noted, taking another huge bite as she subtly studied the lines of his face again. Of course, he looked familiar. How could he not? She'd been up close and personal with that face just last night! But as she scoured her memory back to the first time she'd caught his eyes in the dim light of the pub, she thought she remembered feeling the same sort of familiarity from the warmth of his brown eyes, the set of his jaw, later, the crookedness of his smile. She hadn't thought much of it. This had been her home. Every bit of it seemed strangely familiar to her, the gritty beat of the city that had lulled her to bed, the shadowy alleys that had been her playground adventures. What was one familiar face within it all? It was clear now she should've been much more wary.
Then he opened his mouth and told her exactly why that wasn't going to happen.
I know who your father is.
For a split second she froze. Oh yes, there was a time when all the people in her life knew exactly who her father was. There'd been a time when her father's name had been a source of power and pride in her young little heart. Now, it was a poisoned weapon, a hellish vice, a deadly secret. The way he said the words, so calm, so matter of fact--it just made it worse, because there was no clear motive to discern. What did he want from her? Was it to threaten, or to cajole? For the most minute of moments she was caught between horror and alarm, the words ringing in her ears despite the deafening sound of that all-important-question that thudded along with each pulse of her quickening heartbeat.
How…?
He hadn't realized it in the beginning, but she was about the right age.
Saoirse? That little firecracker? Far too clever for a wee lass. Just like her ol' da.
Saoirse. Saoirse!
But then the moment passed, her blank expression melting smoothly into chagrined confusion. "Know my father?" Saoirse, no, Riley repeated, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. "Now that'd be something, 'cuz I barely even know him. He walked out on me and my mother when I was three."
"I worked with him, once." His voice was knowing. His eyes were not lying--but she certainly could.
"Funny, mom's made it clear that he's never had a job other than deadbeat," she snorted bitterly, then casually took a bite of the cabbage roll. She could lie like a fish could swim, bold faced and without even a speck of guilt--just like her da. He'd never called it lying; it was being clever. Unless it was a stupid, bad lie. Then that was worth a good smack. If you're gonna do something, do it right. "Have it your way, but I really don't think I'm who you think I am. I mean, do you know how many Kavanaughs are out there?" she managed around another mouthful. She waggled her free hand in front of his face, showing off the claddagh ring adorning her finger. "Half the town is some sort of Irish mutt, y'know."
There was no way she was going to admit it, hell or high water. To call it a career ruiner was a severe understatement--why was this man so full of potential career ruiners for her? No one would believe that she wasn't dirty; she'd never be allowed to even think about being on a mob case. And worse, if he'd truly worked with her father, then that meant he had to be dirty. If her father was to find out that his missing daughter was right under his nose…
The dread balled up in her gut, even as she shrugged with a noncommittal smile. "These aren't bad," she noted, taking another huge bite as she subtly studied the lines of his face again. Of course, he looked familiar. How could he not? She'd been up close and personal with that face just last night! But as she scoured her memory back to the first time she'd caught his eyes in the dim light of the pub, she thought she remembered feeling the same sort of familiarity from the warmth of his brown eyes, the set of his jaw, later, the crookedness of his smile. She hadn't thought much of it. This had been her home. Every bit of it seemed strangely familiar to her, the gritty beat of the city that had lulled her to bed, the shadowy alleys that had been her playground adventures. What was one familiar face within it all? It was clear now she should've been much more wary.
The days of the Reaping are always different—there is almost an eerie, somber fog settled over the whole district. Even the animals seem to catch on to the collective stench of fear and dread being exuded by every child and their family. Everything is out of sorts on Reaping day, but if there is one place that it never does seem to affect completely, it is our dining room.
It's clean, crisp space, immaculate of dust or grime. While it can't be called spacious or grandiose in adornment, the fact that we have anything that remotely resembles a dining room tends to make jaws go a little slack. At the opposite end of the table, my father sits, going through his breakfast plate like any other day. Cocooned in the typical, comfortable silence, I spread honey onto my toast before biting into the soft bread. It's breakfast time, like any other day. He pauses a moment during a draft of coffee, his eyes meeting mine over his mug.
"How did you sleep?" he asks conversationally, cutting into his own toast.
"Just fine," I answer with a small smile, reaching for the pepper. I douse my eggs with a generous amount. "How are the numbers going?"
"Good," he replies with a nod. "The breeders are doing better than last season. I think we can expect at least a 3% growth at the end of this one." He takes another sip of coffee, then continues, "Of course, I'll be reevaluating those numbers when Jakob brings in his report tomorrow."
"Oh, I'll help you with those then," I volunteer. "There's been a little bit of a lull in schoolwork."
"Excellent," he answers, a faint tug at his lips that tells me that he's pleased. "I won't have you falling behind with school, mind you."
"Of course." I reassure him. He returns to his breakfast, and I, mine, but I steal glances at him between bites of my eggs. There's something quite remarkable in this man, my father. From his posture to expression, there is an iron clad calm. If he feels any of the fear sweeping through the alleys of the world outside our doors, he hides it well.
We both hide it well.
When we part, he presses a perfunctory kiss to my temple, and I am off to join the masses of other children being herded into our rightful sections like our own livestock. I smooth down the skirt of my dress, and the material yields willingly under my hands like water. It's one of my best dresses, a blue dress with tiny white rosebuds embroidered along the cloth. A span of real lace trims the hem of the skirt and the sleeves—it's a sharp contrast to anything the girls around me are wearing. (The princess dress, Sage had called it.) In truth, I stick out like a sore thumb. I always have, because of who my father is.
I want to turn around and try to catch a sight of my father, but I don't. He's perhaps the most well known man in the district besides the mayor himself—Tomas Rosenfeld, the owner of practically all of the local butcheries. While there is nothing about him that can be called soft, he is at least a fair man, and that has translated into him being respected, if not well-liked. His business savvy has made him a wealthy man, perhaps the wealthiest in all of District Ten. It was into this wealth that I was born into, holding the distinction as his only child. I have never gone hungry since I was a child, and from the day I turned twelve to this very day, I have never had to take out tessarae to sustain myself or my family. I understand that my life is a stark difference to so many, and that I shouldn't have anything to complain about. I can't complain—and I mean that in more ways than one.
As we line up, I spot my classmates in the crowd. Sage is five girls down, and May is in the row in front of me, next to Kaylee. None of them look around., not for each other, not for me. They are afraid, as they should be—their fear consumes them whole. It's too much to worry about someone else's safety when yours is on the line.
Arabella takes to the stage and goes through her cheery speech. Her purple lips stretch and form the glossy, sugar coated words. No one listens. "Ladies first," she trills in excitement, dipping her bejeweled hand into the glass jar. The stench of fear increases, and I straighten my back, clasping my hands together.
"Madeline Rosenfeld!"
There is a ripple of gasps, then a wave of murmurs. May and Kaylee turn around, their eyes wide and shocked. I can hear my name being echoed among the crowds in stunned tones. Oh, I know. The irony! The drama! Who knew that it would be darling Maddy to be reaped? What were the chances? The wealthiest girl in the district!
All I can do is think of how terribly ironic it all is, even as Sage bursts into tears. I move forward and the girls part like skittish lambs. Perhaps I've gone numb, or perhaps it's all the years of being taught to play the part. I climb up the stairs without a squeak of fight, without a tremble in my step: if I saw my own face in the mirror, I wonder if I would see my father's iron-clad composure. Her father's daughter, they'd said, compliment and insult alike. I guess I will see for myself just how true that is.
Sage's face is blotchy and red, and she keeps dragging the coarse cloth of her sleeve over her eyes. May and Kaylee are holding hands, their gazes fixed to me. Now that their lives are safe for another year, they have the capacity to worry about mine. I don't think any less of them for it. It's just how it is, isn't it? Way in the back, I see my father, and I can't help but admire him still. Standing straight to attention, he looks like a soldier. I stand taller still, squaring my shoulders. I won't let them see me crumble. I can't disappoint their expectations of Madeline Rosenfeld. Then I see something in his eyes, something I recognize. Before I can capture it fully, however, Arabella is ready to pick out the next lamb to the slaughter.
When she reads out the name, I don't recognize it. Then, admist the crowd of boys, a laugh rings out. A skinny boy with straw colored hair leaves the mass, and the reaction of the people is a stale one. As he steps up the stage and stands next to him, I get a better look at him. I remember him. We've never spoken, but I've seen him around--he's an orphan, if I remember correctly. I absentmindly wonder what made him laugh.
I toy with the thought as we're led away by the Peacekeepers. Arabella tells me that my friends and family will be here soon. I'm tempted to ignore her. "Thank you very much," I tell her instead with a saccharine smile that rivals hers. I feel a gaze and glance up, only to see Thistle look away. Sharp tongued and never-smiling, Thistle is the other brooding presence at ever reaping—our sole Victor, and now our mentor. I get the feeling she's not happy with her pick of this year by the way her icy grey eyes sweep over me and the raggedy orphan boy. If I were her, I'd probably feel the same way.
I'm swept into a separate room—a small, bare-walled room with a single pair of benches in the middle of the concrete floor. I don't sit, opting to stand. They'll be coming soon, I reckon, the tidal wave of visitors and well-wishers. If only I could tell the Peacekeepers I don't want any visitors. I don't bother, though. I stand there, perfectly poised like a performer on a stage. I must play the part until the end, after all.
It's clean, crisp space, immaculate of dust or grime. While it can't be called spacious or grandiose in adornment, the fact that we have anything that remotely resembles a dining room tends to make jaws go a little slack. At the opposite end of the table, my father sits, going through his breakfast plate like any other day. Cocooned in the typical, comfortable silence, I spread honey onto my toast before biting into the soft bread. It's breakfast time, like any other day. He pauses a moment during a draft of coffee, his eyes meeting mine over his mug.
"How did you sleep?" he asks conversationally, cutting into his own toast.
"Just fine," I answer with a small smile, reaching for the pepper. I douse my eggs with a generous amount. "How are the numbers going?"
"Good," he replies with a nod. "The breeders are doing better than last season. I think we can expect at least a 3% growth at the end of this one." He takes another sip of coffee, then continues, "Of course, I'll be reevaluating those numbers when Jakob brings in his report tomorrow."
"Oh, I'll help you with those then," I volunteer. "There's been a little bit of a lull in schoolwork."
"Excellent," he answers, a faint tug at his lips that tells me that he's pleased. "I won't have you falling behind with school, mind you."
"Of course." I reassure him. He returns to his breakfast, and I, mine, but I steal glances at him between bites of my eggs. There's something quite remarkable in this man, my father. From his posture to expression, there is an iron clad calm. If he feels any of the fear sweeping through the alleys of the world outside our doors, he hides it well.
We both hide it well.
When we part, he presses a perfunctory kiss to my temple, and I am off to join the masses of other children being herded into our rightful sections like our own livestock. I smooth down the skirt of my dress, and the material yields willingly under my hands like water. It's one of my best dresses, a blue dress with tiny white rosebuds embroidered along the cloth. A span of real lace trims the hem of the skirt and the sleeves—it's a sharp contrast to anything the girls around me are wearing. (The princess dress, Sage had called it.) In truth, I stick out like a sore thumb. I always have, because of who my father is.
I want to turn around and try to catch a sight of my father, but I don't. He's perhaps the most well known man in the district besides the mayor himself—Tomas Rosenfeld, the owner of practically all of the local butcheries. While there is nothing about him that can be called soft, he is at least a fair man, and that has translated into him being respected, if not well-liked. His business savvy has made him a wealthy man, perhaps the wealthiest in all of District Ten. It was into this wealth that I was born into, holding the distinction as his only child. I have never gone hungry since I was a child, and from the day I turned twelve to this very day, I have never had to take out tessarae to sustain myself or my family. I understand that my life is a stark difference to so many, and that I shouldn't have anything to complain about. I can't complain—and I mean that in more ways than one.
As we line up, I spot my classmates in the crowd. Sage is five girls down, and May is in the row in front of me, next to Kaylee. None of them look around., not for each other, not for me. They are afraid, as they should be—their fear consumes them whole. It's too much to worry about someone else's safety when yours is on the line.
Arabella takes to the stage and goes through her cheery speech. Her purple lips stretch and form the glossy, sugar coated words. No one listens. "Ladies first," she trills in excitement, dipping her bejeweled hand into the glass jar. The stench of fear increases, and I straighten my back, clasping my hands together.
"Madeline Rosenfeld!"
There is a ripple of gasps, then a wave of murmurs. May and Kaylee turn around, their eyes wide and shocked. I can hear my name being echoed among the crowds in stunned tones. Oh, I know. The irony! The drama! Who knew that it would be darling Maddy to be reaped? What were the chances? The wealthiest girl in the district!
All I can do is think of how terribly ironic it all is, even as Sage bursts into tears. I move forward and the girls part like skittish lambs. Perhaps I've gone numb, or perhaps it's all the years of being taught to play the part. I climb up the stairs without a squeak of fight, without a tremble in my step: if I saw my own face in the mirror, I wonder if I would see my father's iron-clad composure. Her father's daughter, they'd said, compliment and insult alike. I guess I will see for myself just how true that is.
Sage's face is blotchy and red, and she keeps dragging the coarse cloth of her sleeve over her eyes. May and Kaylee are holding hands, their gazes fixed to me. Now that their lives are safe for another year, they have the capacity to worry about mine. I don't think any less of them for it. It's just how it is, isn't it? Way in the back, I see my father, and I can't help but admire him still. Standing straight to attention, he looks like a soldier. I stand taller still, squaring my shoulders. I won't let them see me crumble. I can't disappoint their expectations of Madeline Rosenfeld. Then I see something in his eyes, something I recognize. Before I can capture it fully, however, Arabella is ready to pick out the next lamb to the slaughter.
When she reads out the name, I don't recognize it. Then, admist the crowd of boys, a laugh rings out. A skinny boy with straw colored hair leaves the mass, and the reaction of the people is a stale one. As he steps up the stage and stands next to him, I get a better look at him. I remember him. We've never spoken, but I've seen him around--he's an orphan, if I remember correctly. I absentmindly wonder what made him laugh.
I toy with the thought as we're led away by the Peacekeepers. Arabella tells me that my friends and family will be here soon. I'm tempted to ignore her. "Thank you very much," I tell her instead with a saccharine smile that rivals hers. I feel a gaze and glance up, only to see Thistle look away. Sharp tongued and never-smiling, Thistle is the other brooding presence at ever reaping—our sole Victor, and now our mentor. I get the feeling she's not happy with her pick of this year by the way her icy grey eyes sweep over me and the raggedy orphan boy. If I were her, I'd probably feel the same way.
I'm swept into a separate room—a small, bare-walled room with a single pair of benches in the middle of the concrete floor. I don't sit, opting to stand. They'll be coming soon, I reckon, the tidal wave of visitors and well-wishers. If only I could tell the Peacekeepers I don't want any visitors. I don't bother, though. I stand there, perfectly poised like a performer on a stage. I must play the part until the end, after all.
"I mean, what're you doing out here?" he hastily asked, limping closer. It wasn't a surprising question; young women had no business traipsing about at dusk alone, and they were certainly not to be rolling around in the grass. Alice, however, who'd been carelessly breaking those rules since she was a child despite her pearl-clutching keepers, was no stranger to letting that question go ignored.
Instead of answering she stood and mirrored his actions, walking up to the fence that divided the two of them and letting her gaze wash over him. He looked much more like an Abbey son now, decked out in an ill-fitting formal suit, and despite the soft light of the rising moon he positively glittered, the medals pinned to his chest polished to a brilliant shine. A decorated war hero. The same twisting, bitter smile began to well up within her. How many of her people had he slaughtered to earn those pretty trinkets, she wondered. On his shoulder was the familiar patch, the symbol of the empire that had torn her home apart, the very same she'd seen on uniforms and flags alike the day she lost her family. However, like many of the people he would have met that night, her attention could not help but stray to the most decadent of all his accessories--the gleaming rapier at his hip. Like them she stared, though the thoughts running through her mind were not ones of admiration or even envy. While his was encrusted with gold, she could recall plainer models gracing the sides of the soldiers who had overrun their camp and dragged her from the barrel her mother had hidden her in.
"Fuck! The little bitch bit me!" she could still hear the soldier scream, taste the iron on her tongue, feel the unpleasant chunk of flesh in her mouth. The rapier held high, glittering harshly in the dying light--
"Shouldn't you be out with the rest of the staff?" he asked, and Alice forced her gaze away from the weapon and back up to his bespectacled eyes. "The lanterns are all still lit in the Square, most of the stalls still open too I think." After a day of grueling work, some of the nurses and orderlies had still found it within them to try and enjoy themselves in the square. She'd overheard a group or two promising to meet up at such and such an hour, filled with the kind of excitement she believed was better off left to children. No one had invited her, of course, but Alice had no interest in parades or carnivals. It all seemed to her like a paper thin farce to mask all that was rotten with this place--no, she'd rather be buried in the tall grass, making fireflies her lanterns.
"I'm not fond of crowds," the dark haired girl answered simply. It was an honest answer--she saw enough of crowds and staff members during work hours anyhow. "Shouldn't you be inside with the rest of the socialites, doctor?" she turned the question back on him, tit for tat, arching a brow. "It seems to me we're both a bit out of place," she concluded, daring to equate herself to the young master of Abbeyshire. Before any sort of wounded pride could rear its head within him she tilted her head, a spark of mischief coming through in an impish half-smile as she leant in conspiringly. "I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."
In that short exchange alone she'd established common ground and bound them together with an inconsequential promise, a shared secret, an inside joke. This sort of game was child's play to her by now--turns of phrases, a certain look in the eyes, the curve of a lip. It all began with finding out the kind of woman a man wanted. Some wanted innocent virgins too pure for the earthly world, while others wanted a devilish temptress or a scornful ice queen. She could be any or all of those, a man's fantasies come alive to flesh and bone once the bedroom doors closed. Had Nicholas Abbey been introduced to her as a customer, she would have perhaps pegged him as the type to respond well to a shy, wholesome maiden, blossoming to attention beneath kind words. Of course, that mask was going to be a difficult one to don since he'd already encountered her as a very different creature indeed, but Alice was not concerned.
There was a large amount of things one learned in her profession, but one of the surprising things she'd come to understand was the very simple key to building a relationship. No matter the kind of relationship, feigned or genuine, platonic or romantic, people wanted to feel special, to be an unique existence to another person unable to be replaced by just another body. Men always seemed to want to forget that they were just another customer to her, even if she was just another whore to most them. Therein lay her simple but effective ploy; she would have him believe that he alone was able to see through the cracks in her cynical, barbed mask. Real skin turned to a mask, a mask inverted into skin.
Perhaps it was all madness, a delusion of a mind that had started to fester too long ago. There were many reasons why people played the game of seduction, but at the end of the day it was about desire, want. Some wanted a fleeting, torrid distraction from the boredom of their lives, and others chased after a desirable marriage. Many of her fellow girls continued to play the wretched game out of a base desire for survival, while ones like Evangeline thirsted and hungered for every scrap of power that could be wrested from between tangled sheets, climbing higher and higher on the teetering ladder. As for Alice--well, once as a silly child she had wanted nothing more than a pair of wings so she could fly free from this cage, but now she understood it was an impossible dream. She'd long given up on such folly. As she regarded the young man before her, her piercing stare momentarily took on the starry, pious gaze of a girl kneeling at the altar. Her wants were of a smaller, more humble nature now; she'd learned, she'd repented. A single match would suffice, one little match to have it all go up in flames--oh, just a tiny wish, she thought--won't you grant it, dearheart?
Instead of answering she stood and mirrored his actions, walking up to the fence that divided the two of them and letting her gaze wash over him. He looked much more like an Abbey son now, decked out in an ill-fitting formal suit, and despite the soft light of the rising moon he positively glittered, the medals pinned to his chest polished to a brilliant shine. A decorated war hero. The same twisting, bitter smile began to well up within her. How many of her people had he slaughtered to earn those pretty trinkets, she wondered. On his shoulder was the familiar patch, the symbol of the empire that had torn her home apart, the very same she'd seen on uniforms and flags alike the day she lost her family. However, like many of the people he would have met that night, her attention could not help but stray to the most decadent of all his accessories--the gleaming rapier at his hip. Like them she stared, though the thoughts running through her mind were not ones of admiration or even envy. While his was encrusted with gold, she could recall plainer models gracing the sides of the soldiers who had overrun their camp and dragged her from the barrel her mother had hidden her in.
"Fuck! The little bitch bit me!" she could still hear the soldier scream, taste the iron on her tongue, feel the unpleasant chunk of flesh in her mouth. The rapier held high, glittering harshly in the dying light--
"Shouldn't you be out with the rest of the staff?" he asked, and Alice forced her gaze away from the weapon and back up to his bespectacled eyes. "The lanterns are all still lit in the Square, most of the stalls still open too I think." After a day of grueling work, some of the nurses and orderlies had still found it within them to try and enjoy themselves in the square. She'd overheard a group or two promising to meet up at such and such an hour, filled with the kind of excitement she believed was better off left to children. No one had invited her, of course, but Alice had no interest in parades or carnivals. It all seemed to her like a paper thin farce to mask all that was rotten with this place--no, she'd rather be buried in the tall grass, making fireflies her lanterns.
"I'm not fond of crowds," the dark haired girl answered simply. It was an honest answer--she saw enough of crowds and staff members during work hours anyhow. "Shouldn't you be inside with the rest of the socialites, doctor?" she turned the question back on him, tit for tat, arching a brow. "It seems to me we're both a bit out of place," she concluded, daring to equate herself to the young master of Abbeyshire. Before any sort of wounded pride could rear its head within him she tilted her head, a spark of mischief coming through in an impish half-smile as she leant in conspiringly. "I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."
In that short exchange alone she'd established common ground and bound them together with an inconsequential promise, a shared secret, an inside joke. This sort of game was child's play to her by now--turns of phrases, a certain look in the eyes, the curve of a lip. It all began with finding out the kind of woman a man wanted. Some wanted innocent virgins too pure for the earthly world, while others wanted a devilish temptress or a scornful ice queen. She could be any or all of those, a man's fantasies come alive to flesh and bone once the bedroom doors closed. Had Nicholas Abbey been introduced to her as a customer, she would have perhaps pegged him as the type to respond well to a shy, wholesome maiden, blossoming to attention beneath kind words. Of course, that mask was going to be a difficult one to don since he'd already encountered her as a very different creature indeed, but Alice was not concerned.
There was a large amount of things one learned in her profession, but one of the surprising things she'd come to understand was the very simple key to building a relationship. No matter the kind of relationship, feigned or genuine, platonic or romantic, people wanted to feel special, to be an unique existence to another person unable to be replaced by just another body. Men always seemed to want to forget that they were just another customer to her, even if she was just another whore to most them. Therein lay her simple but effective ploy; she would have him believe that he alone was able to see through the cracks in her cynical, barbed mask. Real skin turned to a mask, a mask inverted into skin.
Perhaps it was all madness, a delusion of a mind that had started to fester too long ago. There were many reasons why people played the game of seduction, but at the end of the day it was about desire, want. Some wanted a fleeting, torrid distraction from the boredom of their lives, and others chased after a desirable marriage. Many of her fellow girls continued to play the wretched game out of a base desire for survival, while ones like Evangeline thirsted and hungered for every scrap of power that could be wrested from between tangled sheets, climbing higher and higher on the teetering ladder. As for Alice--well, once as a silly child she had wanted nothing more than a pair of wings so she could fly free from this cage, but now she understood it was an impossible dream. She'd long given up on such folly. As she regarded the young man before her, her piercing stare momentarily took on the starry, pious gaze of a girl kneeling at the altar. Her wants were of a smaller, more humble nature now; she'd learned, she'd repented. A single match would suffice, one little match to have it all go up in flames--oh, just a tiny wish, she thought--won't you grant it, dearheart?
Yep, uh...yeah.
I'm apparently pretty bad at introductions, no wonder I've been putting it off. Anyways, I'm rather pleased to be here, and I hope I'll see everyone around!
