mochimiri
Relic’s smol snacc
- Local time
- Today 5:57 AM
- Messages
- 330
- Pronouns
- She/Her
An outsider that finds acceptance
He rubs his sleep covered eyes, taking in the small musty room that he awoke in, long velvet curtains draped the Victorian sash windows. His voice is hoarse from his drug induced slumber as he croaks his sister's name "Clara?"
Feeling the rough Russian carpet beneath his calloused farmers hands, he lifts himself so that he can better survey his surroundings, discovering a manilla envelope beside him, his name neatly written in cursive 'Pierre'. It was an invitation to a party at the Tchaikovsky manor, the most famous family in the city of Ratston. In the vast city, full of poverty and businessmen, beneath the thick smog, everyone hungered to breathe their air. Pierre turned the parchment in his hand, noting a scribble on the back 'join us in the ballroom'. He stumbled clumsily towards the door where a suede cobalt suit hung on the frame with another note 'for you'.
Slipping the clothing over his toned arms and torso Pierre wondered if the costume was made specifically for him; he had only ever worn what his mother mended for him. Living day to day limited the opportunity for such luxuries and being taught to read by the minister was the only skill he owned, other than working someone else's land. In a world where he was invisible, what had caught Tchaikovsky's eye? And how had he come to be lying on the ground of this stunningly maximalist room?
Now fitted in the fanciest attire, Pierre revolved the door handle, exiting the room to be welcomed by classical music reverberating off the walls.
Once he arrived at the ballroom, Pierre was met by rows of piercing red eyes behind masquerade masks as he shuffled anxiously down the center of the room, their heads snapping to follow his steps. A booming voice with a strong Slavic accent boomed over the music "Welcome, Pierre Stahlbaum, as he joins us in our first dance of the evening, the strigoi waltz." The guests step in unison, back and forth, circling one another, stealing glances as Pierre squeezes between them. A family in wine-coloured garments hold their place at the top of the room, like vultures contemplating their prey. A tall, remarkable man opened his arms, like the jaws of a shark, yet Pierre could not resist stepping into the crushing embrace. The ravishingly handsome man leaned back, just enough for Pierre to catch a glimpse of the pearly fangs behind his lips, "welcome to the clan."
He rubs his sleep covered eyes, taking in the small musty room that he awoke in, long velvet curtains draped the Victorian sash windows. His voice is hoarse from his drug induced slumber as he croaks his sister's name "Clara?"
Feeling the rough Russian carpet beneath his calloused farmers hands, he lifts himself so that he can better survey his surroundings, discovering a manilla envelope beside him, his name neatly written in cursive 'Pierre'. It was an invitation to a party at the Tchaikovsky manor, the most famous family in the city of Ratston. In the vast city, full of poverty and businessmen, beneath the thick smog, everyone hungered to breathe their air. Pierre turned the parchment in his hand, noting a scribble on the back 'join us in the ballroom'. He stumbled clumsily towards the door where a suede cobalt suit hung on the frame with another note 'for you'.
Slipping the clothing over his toned arms and torso Pierre wondered if the costume was made specifically for him; he had only ever worn what his mother mended for him. Living day to day limited the opportunity for such luxuries and being taught to read by the minister was the only skill he owned, other than working someone else's land. In a world where he was invisible, what had caught Tchaikovsky's eye? And how had he come to be lying on the ground of this stunningly maximalist room?
Now fitted in the fanciest attire, Pierre revolved the door handle, exiting the room to be welcomed by classical music reverberating off the walls.
Once he arrived at the ballroom, Pierre was met by rows of piercing red eyes behind masquerade masks as he shuffled anxiously down the center of the room, their heads snapping to follow his steps. A booming voice with a strong Slavic accent boomed over the music "Welcome, Pierre Stahlbaum, as he joins us in our first dance of the evening, the strigoi waltz." The guests step in unison, back and forth, circling one another, stealing glances as Pierre squeezes between them. A family in wine-coloured garments hold their place at the top of the room, like vultures contemplating their prey. A tall, remarkable man opened his arms, like the jaws of a shark, yet Pierre could not resist stepping into the crushing embrace. The ravishingly handsome man leaned back, just enough for Pierre to catch a glimpse of the pearly fangs behind his lips, "welcome to the clan."