IC: [My Life With Master] A Grand Spectacle

summeryclept

Three months prior:

The doors to the workshop creaked open, but from wind - there at her table, she: hunched, grabbing, teeth gritted, limbs darting, a spider at work - and on the table before, the wooden skeleton of a marionette, thick yarn-cord in lazy waves on the table, one cross dangling over, swaying, tapping into her leg - and on the creature, flesh tacked on, and in its little wooden skull, two perfect, washed eyes, frozen in fear.

From her mouth jut pins, impossibly long. Wincing with each laceration, each thread sinking then surfacing for air amid the sin - This one, this one here, could surely unravel it all! - she works fast, with built-in precision. She has not the mother's gaze, looking to her young as deity-reborn. Not here. The brow pinches down, the teeth chip and grind at each other, the knuckles white. Her labor of love seems almost not.

She prepares, knowing they'll be here soon. Mumbling so as to keep the pins in: It's not your fault, lovely. A stitch, a stitch, a long pull. No, not your fault at all. Those damned servants! They don't care, not in the least, for the work which we have done!

Her artist's fingers convulse along the needle and flesh. She weaves a pattern from frayed threads.

A mis-placed poke and the thread comes out wrong - and pulling up slowly, Velttoria Bainesly, puppeteer artisan, her hands shake and she drops it all, tools, everything, and screams. The shrill banshee-cry rolls through the manor, making doors rattle and fine plates wobble, making the structure creak and shake. The scream morphs into moan, coloring the air black, and the doors to her workshop fly open - there, framed in frame, her eyes wide, pushing out, her mouth nothing but teeth and reared-back lips, she squeezes the wood until her jagged nails chip.

It is too late. The blood, the flesh, the bits-and-bobs, all too late. If only she didn't work with such incompetence! If only they knew what it meant to get an honest day's work in! If their feeble minds but understood what it was to create, to fashion life, and to not come strolling in with parcels astray mere hours before the damned play was set to go on!

She will have blood for their misgivings. Maggots will eat their eyes. Her servants, her minions, they will suffer tortures not fit for the wardens of Hell - gripping a long, thin pin, sturdy as a railroad spike, she sulks forward, swimming through the irrepressible shadow of the place, waiting to pierce the heart of whomever she shall first meet.

MY LIFE WITH MASTER

Part One: A Grand Spectacle

Daybreak. Even now, light refuses to enter the Bainesly estate.

The minions know better than to still be sleeping at this time. Their wing is also the stockroom, and they dream while preserved eyes watch, perverse audience. Their morning chores are simple: form breakfast, do laundry (for Velttoria and the puppets alike) and with great care, the greatest!, enter the workshop and clean delicately, and if you don't know what something is or if it's trash, don't touch it!

She storms in, Great Mistress, her usual morning scowl replaced by that impish grin of - oh, dear - today is play-day. A grand show, tonight! And of course, she needs a new star in her new play.

The door swings open loudly, and she commands everyone's attention from the center of the puppet-storehouse. Her voice is thick, aged and shrill. To Susurrus, it is, as always, pure torment to listen to.

Drop your things! Ignaz!
She looks at Susurrus, searching for a name.
...The tall one! You two stay. Cook breakfast and then tend to me in the parlor, I have a special request for the two of you.

Her horrible, bulging, sickened eyes peel over to the other three. You all know the drill: here you'll be hearing who you'll go out and look for, what body Mistress needs for tonight. And unfortunately, you don't have the cover of black night in which to do your work - at best, low-evening.

Safet, Butler: bring me two siblings, no more than ten. Perfect skin, do you hear? Do you hear! Not a blemish or scrape or bruise between them. I want them whole. Then, to market, and bring back sugar and cream. Ooh! ooh, and some of those shriveled liver bits that old hag merchant loves to hock for discount.

The best thing about play night, the only good thing about play night, is that she's in a much better mood than normal. Almost happy, it might seem.

As everyone turns, slinks and scuttles off towards tasks awaiting, Mistress puts a clawed, delicate hand on Cassiopeia's shoulder.
No, dear. Not you. You stay, as well. Breakfast, you and I. Together.
As she finishes her sentence, her fingers dig in, squeeze, cause the poor girl to waver, nearly buckle. She wears an executioner's grin, and, unblinking, bores her pupils into the expression Cassiopeia spawns.

jimninja

Ignaz hunches low, bowing as much as his already-bent posture allows. Yes ma'am, yes ma'am, he scrapes. He will, of course, not be of much help to Susurrus in the kitchen, though he could perhaps chop whatever is to be prepared if need be. He keeps his eyes low, as usual, as he stumps to the kitchen.


He fumbles at the door, his 'hands' useless at the knob, and he must wait for another to open it for him. He moves through without thanks.

In the kitchen, he busies himself peeling carrots, his claws going scrape scrape and the orange strips of skin falling into a bucket.

simonwolf

And Cassiopeia, she opens her mouth to say something, but close back up immediately; gone from her is the exhilaration of being touched by the moon's light, and being able to speak, to sing, to laugh and cry. Now it is day, and all that would come from her throat if she tried to say anything to her Mistress would be a slight push of air.

She feels those hands, digging into her shoulder, sees those eyes glaring right at her, and she does not do anything but nod her head, eyes starting to moist up with tears of pain. Nod and follow along, that's all one can do when the Mistress wants you to be with her, speak with her.

Wonders, for a brief moment, what face does the Mistress see?

But there is no time for idle thought, not when the Mistress commands your attention. Blind to any other task or matter, Cassiopeia follows her to the parlour, where she awaits to hear her duties for the day.

IAmUnaware

Susurrus nods his assent quickly and gladly withdraws from the suddenly noisy room, opening the door for Ignaz as he knows he must. As he passes through the door behind Ignaz, he feels the Mistress's gaze on his back like hot pokers in his spine and he trips over his own feet, crashing to the floor face first. Cheeks burning with embarrassment and head throbbing from the sound of his own body striking the floor, he pulls himself up quickly and slinks out of her sight.

In the hall, he stays behind Ignaz, grateful for his fellow's disinterest. It's so much easier to move without the terror of being watched, without every little movement being analyzed by those watching, without knowing what they must be thinking, the mockery brewing behind their lips....

In the kitchen, Susurrus makes a point of staying out of Ignaz's sight as much as possible, knowing that he will be punished if he breaks any cookware. No one must upset the Mistress on the day of a performance. With Ignaz's attention on the carrots, Susurrus is able to quickly and deftly whip some eggs and stored meat into omelettes.

jimninja

Ignaz and Susurrus make a good team--Susurrus' desire to avoid Ignaz's gaze being matched only by Ignaz's desire to avoid the terror of contact and the accompanying loathing. He balances the platter on his forearms when breakfast is prepared, to spare Susurrus the agony of dropping it in front of the awful Mistress.

summeryclept

While they await breakfast, Mistress invites Cassiopeia to sit, while she does the same. Opposite ends of the long table. Worlds apart.

Dear, she says. It's no surprise to me what you do with the windows open, under the moonlight. I can hear your voice. Those songs. I won't begin to say I know what the night air does to you, or why I can't get a word out of your useless frame otherwise - but it was passable.

She settles her elbows on the table, propping her face in her palms, fingers curled to obscure her mouth.

How would you like to be in a play, dear?

Crimson King

The Butler adjusts his cravat, taking care that it lies no more than two and a half inches above the third button of his dinner jacket. He sighs in displeasure as he notes that the pocket-lining is quite worn through. The Mistress has no interest whatsoever in how he looks, of course, but it-is-important-to-keep-up-appearances, a lesson so long ago learnt that it has been forgotten except as instinct. He steps out into the early-morning sunlight, already categorising every sibling in the village by degree of skin perfection. Of course, there are standing orders prohibiting him from harming those below thirteen years of age, so the Butler need only concern himself with the abduction of adults. The village, however, is ripe with poxes and skin conditions, and the Butler was not blessed with a memory for medicalities. He shall go to town and find some pretense for the inspection of siblings. And he must do it early, for the market closes at six, and the Mistress was very clear about the order in which she wished these tasks performed.

simonwolf

The question hangs in the air for a minute, waiting to be answered by a voice that will never come. Cassiopeia opens her mouth once more, a thousand questions that she wishes to ask of her Mistress, though she knows that asking anything is both impossible and unrecommended, by any means.

She does not begin to think that the Mistress means her well, nor does she fool herself into believing that maybe, just maybe, this will help her situation at all.

Doesn't dare think of who her fellow actors will be, marionettes made of stitched flesh and tugged around the stage by the Mistress and her crooked hands.

Cassiopeia just nods her head, her eyes down low so as not to meet the Mistress's.

summeryclept

The Parlor

Of course you do, dear. By the night, so we may hear what you have to say?
She pulls from her pocket a small penknife, the kind used for delicate puppet surgery.
You promise not a sound before? Not a single sound, until the play? Just to rehearse. You hardly need practice, though.

She begins to clean her dirty, frayed nails with the pen knife.

Good. Nothing to muddy your throat, then. The finest of teas, that's all you'll have, until the grand spectacle. It shall be in exactly one month! I'll have your lines ready when you return.

Ignaz! ...Susurrus, that's it - Susurrus! For the girl, bring only tea! And she is to have nothing but warm, soothing tea from now until the play!
Looking back at Cassiopeia, eyes focused, furrowed,
Finish your tea when it arrives, and then into town with you. Speak with the military guard in town. Ask if their children would just love to attend a special play!

You know first-hand - all of you - that only the foolish and ignorant send their children to these plays. And you're running out of foolish and ignorant Townspeople.

IGNAZ! SUSURRUS! WHAT'S TAKING SO LONG?

============================

The Cruel Light of Day

The first walk into town is down off a hill and into the thick of the main section of houses, where livestock and children run and yell and play, and where there is a fence with a loud creaking gate, the feeblest of barriers between this town and the Bainesly residence.

Already, ahead of you: several children, dirty and scruffed. Adults stand around talking while they work. A donkey brays, swatting flies with its tail. A cat curls lazily on a flat roof, hugging the warmth of the chimney's protrusion.

Up ahead further, a few scattered officers, taking nips from flasks, swords at their sides, next to their horses. Even further ahead, a caravan pulling into town to trade.

summeryclept

Gandalf? you have betrayed us all

Crimson King

The Butler picks his way through the throng, avoiding piles of horsedung and yelling children alike. Some stop and stare as he passes in morbid fascination, and their conflicting desires bear down on him - curiosity mingled inextricably with repugnance. One of them, braver than the rest, shouts 'Look at the old freak!' The Butler's hands knot into fists, but he dares not respond. It is not his place.

He passes the cavalrymen, feeling the throb of their baser urges - drink, meat and women, none of which he is in a position to provide. They eye him, too, looking for any excuse to abuse him, which the Butler takes care not to give. He approaches the peddler's caravan, though uninterested in whatever petty goods it has to offer, waiting to see who else approaches. The whole village buys scraps and trinkets from the travelling traders. Perhaps a perfect-skinned brother and sister are out shopping today. If not, he has a list of siblings whose doors he can approach, but he would rather not interact with people unless he has to.

summeryclept

The Cruel Light of Day

Here, a hunched over man sells fine leather, dried and ready for use - at his wagon there is also great spools of thread and yarn and fabric. Some sort of sewing supplier. The leather, pale, tan, in scraps and piles, carries the odd color of...

Buy 'em, now! Here, now! Take'er in bundles o' eight or twelve! Never see more quality than mine, you won't, now!
He holds up scraps and thread, and they dangle in the morning sun, dancing, attached to invisible sockets.

A younger woman, quiet, offers baked goods which smell of home-churned butter and sweet glaze, an all together unfamilar scent but still identifiable.

A ways down from her? Clara. Her display is a dissection of swine, a jigsaw of skin, showing all parts for equal measure. Feebly, she calls,
Come get 'em. We got pigs.
And she sits with a heavy Oomph! Her manner shows she's tired.

Scattering all over, little boys and girls yelp and cheer and run around the market, one little girl carrying a long purple ribbon, and two boys following her screaming their fool heads off. They all run around like chickens headless, engaged in some unanimous, invisible game, the rules never spoken but all together understood. Have they blemishes? Little monsters won't stand still long enough for you to tell. But they're there.

Crimson King

The Butler inspects the peddler's wares. They're nothing more than scraps, likely worthless, and the wretched man clearly wants rid of them. Why else come all the way to this backwoods cluster of hovels, if not for the fact that no other village would take them? Still, an order is an order, and he selects eight of the least rotten hides for his purchase. This happens often when he comes to market. The traders have an unfortunate tendency to frame their huckstering in the form of commands. He has been known to return to the manor with piles of old cloth, a strangled chicken and bands of wildflowers dangling from his neck - everything, in short, except what his mistress asked for. How he was punished, the last time. He shudders to recall the needles, and with an effort turns his mind to the business at hand.

Barely glancing at the hunched traveller, who eagerly accepts the better part of his coins in return for useless rags, the Butler turns his attention to Clara. He's not quite sure whether he can justify talking to her - he was not to purchase the liver until he had located the siblings, as he recalls. But perhaps she will know some local gossip, a brother and sister over the age of thirteen, who nobody in the village will miss or mourn? In that case. talking with her would be work, not idling, nor putting his own pleasure above the Mistress's. Work. And a blessed relief from the constant strain, the tension, of being forever on guard against the tyranny of orders. But that, of course, would be mere coincidence.

So a couple of things; one, this is the bit where I try to gain Love, yes? You're going to have to help me understand how that works. And two; are we keeping to the rule we established before that the Mistress won't hurt children?

summeryclept

when you want to gain love from a connection, you have to say, in spoilers i'd imagine: "I want to make an overture to (whomever)", and then i will set up a scene for you to do so, usually immediately following the current one! Clara is there right now just to sort of provide a contrast between work for the Mistress and emotional needs of the minion.

if you want, though, you can say you want THIS scene to be an overture, and then suddenly it is one, and you're gaining love. The decision rests solely with you, whenever you say it.

to get love, then? you roleplay emotional risk / attempt to deepen the relationship, and make the required roll. i interpret the results and let you know how it goes.

also, yeah, kids be safe yo

Gandalf_the_Crazed

I just now saw this thread. Was the link posted in the OOC thread or anything?

And I have to go to bed now.

jimninja

Ignaz hurries as best he can down the hall with the tray, not stopping to see if Susurrus is in tow... and then stops at the goddamned doorknob! He stares at it awkwardly for a moment and then turns to ask for help. Nothing like a little fear of the Mistress to put a little politeness into someone's actions.

"Coming, Mistress!" he calls past the door. "Coming!"

IAmUnaware

Susurrus is right behind Ignaz, hurrying down the hall, when the Mistress's cry for tea cuts through his mind like a knife. The tea! He turns back, skittering down the hall as quickly as possible. He fetches the tea kettle that had been whistling right where he left it on the stove, then hurries back down the hall to find Ignaz there waiting impatiently. Susurrus places the tea carefully on the tray and then opens the door, stepping aside as he does so both to allow Ignaz to pass and to avoid the Mistress's gaze as long as possible. He winces at the horrible creak of the door's hinges, but it's hard to notice, lost amongst the perpetual lines of pain creasing his face.

jimninja

Ignaz allows himself to heave the tiniest little sign of relief that Susurrus' legendary clumsiness has not come to a head as he moves into the parlor.

"Breakfast, Mistress!" His voice is young and low, but tinged with doubt and ugliness. He approaches the table and offers his cargo, unable to really set it down since he's supporting it from beneath.

summeryclept

The Parlor

Mistress ignores the two as they bumble in, eyes fixated on Cassiopeia.

Ignaz, take your awful limbs to town as well. To the steel merchant, and bring back chains and locks, as big as you can find. If you see the Butler, ensure he has not fouled up my requests once again - but beyond that... your claws. They can tear easily, yes?
She cuts her eyes to him, head stationary.
The Butler shall bring back our assistants for the evening. They need masks. Faces, Ignaz - faces of those frozen in moments of final horror. Collect them, clean them, bring them to me.

Susurrus,
her voice like steel grating on screams,
You'll prepare the theater room. Something... passionate, fiery, with your decorations. You'll see I've laid out curtains and sheets already. Bridgette,
-you know her, Arron the captain's wife-
Shall be coming shortly, to return a favor her husband owes the Bainesly family. Retrieve her parcel and see her out promptly.

Floating, Dreary Limbo

ah, sorry for the confusion there, gandalf. didn't even think to post a link. i will sing at your wedding to make up for it

Crimson King

'Ah, Miss Clara. How good to see you today.' The Butler speaks stiffly, taking care to maintain the proper distance as befits their respective classes. 'I am... I am attempting to locate individuals who would be interested in seeing one of the Mistress's fine new performances, but all the populace, I fear, has already been exposed to the... uniqueness of her vision, and inexplicably refuse to come a second time. Perchance you would know of some newcomers to town, ones with more artistic sensibilities?' And whom no-one has yet got to know well enough to miss, he tries and fails not to think.

jimninja

Ignaz blanches a little but bows deeply to Mistress. Yez, yez, and he scuttles out of the room.

Oh woe is I, he thinks, lowly I who must commit such crimes against the innocent. He hunches through the manor to the entryway and fumbles a little at the door before he gets it open. Sunlight! It screams through his skin, laying bare his sins past and future, and he feels as though everyone can see his gruesome task.

Tis all I'm good for, after all, he thinks, and securing the twisted knives of his hands within his sleeves, he scuttles down toward town.