*slides on in here*

Hallo. :)

*ahem*

Heya

How're you?

I'm okay. Procrastinating terribly on going to the grocery store even though I know I need meals (especially since I don't think I have lunches for work), but otherwise no complaints.

There are grocery stores open today?

*check*

Eh, it'll do I suppose.

haha. Walmart is always open.

I don't know what you have in mind, but looks good to me :)

Heh. The one here isn't. It closed down at 10am yesterday. It will repoen at 5am tomorrow and go back to 24/7. :)

Something PeM came up with last night. I needed to make a character. And I can be stupid picky sometimes.

Oh wow. I have a friend who works for Walmart where she lives and she's having to work right now. The one down the street from my house is open, too.

So I just figured all were still open

haha. I get you. I'm crazy picky, too. Mostly about my character images.

This area takes New Year's Eve/Day VERY seriously. I never figured out why, exactly. I always kinda assumed the higher percentage of people of German heritage. I know my father's family took it super seriously. Bigger event than Christmas or Thanksgiving for them.

Brb, I need to go grab meds.

okay

rah

ello

And then be told to do ALL the things.

Back.

Lia. <3

Piotr looked embarrassed. "I..." He hesitated, then looked to her hopefully, those magicked eyes still large and dark and shining. "Can you take me with you? I mean, could you not use a man to keep you safe ? Anyhow, I would not mind a drink myself, or to hear you sing. Especially to hear you sing more than lullabies, or to the stove again."

He was a bit confused as Falamh swatted at invisible flies again. She then sighed. "Very well. Come along then. A moment, though."

She stepped back into the treeline, then emerged a few moments later withou the dull woolen overdress. Instead, a fine gown of white linen stiched with blue that bared her shoulders peeped out from beneath her traveling cloak, and she held her little harp where it could be seen. Her silky hair was loosed from its braid, trailing elegantly over her back, her shoulders, a glossy black cascade. A few delicate jeweled pins held it back from her face, clipped it so a slip would mean her earpoints were obscured. She had even added a hint of color to her lips and cheeks.

"Come along then," she said. He blinked as a loose lock was brushed back from her face while both hands held the harp. He surely saw it wrong, but it was hardly an uncommon confusion when she was like this, thinking a bit of hair or fabric shifted off. He knew better than to ask. "I will point you to the stable, and pay inside. You can join me when you are done getting him rubbed down and settled. You know Gwion will be sad if you do not properly baby Israfel."

There was no hiding the wings completely, but they knew her here, the pretty trader woman with her charming daughter and her curious potions. They would not be troubled here by them. They both knew that. He nodded once and followed her obediently, then went to see to the horse, feeling a bit guilty for letting her go into the tavern without him.

It was not the nicer one. He remained surprised at that, but who knew what kind of man her Ilmryn was, save "silver haired, with eyes as sweetly green as leaves reflecting on August ponds and skin as dark as new turned earth." He wondered if she even realized she spoke of him like that.

It hardly mattered.

Falamh walked in quietly, unremarked at first. She glanced to the wall to assure herself the notice was still there, as the keep had said he would leave it. And it was, lettering clear and careful. Wait here for me, she had told him in it. Your Falamh.

She could hardly leave maps to the house here, when the Kanaces had so many enemies.

It had been a trick, convincing the others to let her leave similar notes, telling him to come to this one. But they had an agreement, here, and though she could manage the money, it would be awkward to be paying for a man to stay who might never come at three inns instead of one. She gathered herself, though she knew the answer before she approached the counter. Of course he had not come.

But maybe. After all these years, maybe.

But no, she knew it before the words left her mouth. She asked anyhow, and hid her disappointment as she always had, then paid the liquor and the stable and asked for a room for the night. The last was a faint surprise, for she usually left with the shooing of the last drunk on nights like this. But she could hardly have Piotr and the horse head home at that hour. They wouldn't be safe.

Humans were such an inconvenience sometimes.

After a moment, she began to ask for a meal, then was laughed at. "If you've brought your other man for this," the keeper's wife teased, "'ell be fed so long as you play. And y'always play."

She blushed and laughed. "I do always play. But he is not my man."

"Oh? The laddie, then? Which one? The great whoppin strong one with the angel voice, or the wee quiet one?"

Falamh did not bother to even try to set it straght. It wasn't lying to not straighten them out, and there was no explanation that did not make the situation strange. "Quiet," she said finally. "He wanted to hear me play," she then admitted.

"Fair enough. I'll feed the lad, he could use it anyhow. Ought I point any pretty girls his way, or..."

"Ask HIM that, not me. I shall be playing, after I've my drink," Falamh cut her off. "Oh. And let me know when you will need soap again. We just made another big batch."

"Bring it by next month, eh? And some of that tincture for my lad, too, and th' one for the aches."

Fala nodded, then took the bottle and two glasses to the table.

--Just two, Talimah? Which one is for the boy, then?--

"I still cannot see why you said I should let him come," she whispered to Fior.

--Or am I to drink from the bottle, then? I suppose I could. --

"Master Fior," she sighed. "You are an embarrassment. I wish I had know what a fool you were before. "

--I, as well, my Tali. And so many more. You would have sung D'hasi well. --

She had just poured the first shot when Piotr walked in. He looked around, but it was a bit early yet, so there was little to see as he dropped into the seat across from Falamh. An eyebrow rose.

"As little as you are, you mean to drink that? Are you certain?"

Falamh gave a short laugh, pushed over the shot to him, and filled her own.

"As little as you are, you mean to drink with me? Or ought I ask for ale or cider for you?" She lofted an eyebrow.

--Talimah, you are going to kill the boy,-- Fior warned, sitting in the empty chair and setting a frost fine hand over Piotr's glass, as though to stop him.

Piotr grinned, then snatched the shot and gulped it. He did look a little uncomfortable, but it was not nearly as entertaining as part of Falamh had hoped.

Fala tipped her glass fractionally Fior's way, then swallowed down the first. It burned all the way down, a strong enough smell to curl the senses. It was not at all a fine drink, just strong enough to burn blue, not that it mattered for her. She refilled the glass, then looked to Piotr questioningly. He pushed it forward.

"This one is for the past," she said, letting a droplet slosh Fior's way, then gulping another.

It really was a damned fool game. There was little point in such a foul, stinging flavor when it would do nothing for her. Fior had taken that away, too, when he had made her the monster she was now. But for some strange reason, the ceremony seemed to quiet the others.

Not Fior himself. Fior looked uncertainly at the youth. --Talimah. Make sure he eats, yes? I feel as though your friend will remember you will not die after all, if you let this one come to harm.--

She and Piotr drank, then she put a hand over the bottle. "Maura will bring you something to eat. You needen't match me, you know."

Piotr gave a short laugh. "If you mean to finish that, I suppose one of us ought be sensible. A pity. I never get to indulge. But I suppose you do not, while the children are about."

"How generous." Falamh gave a faint smile.

"Well, it is a bit too late for you anyhow, is it not? Second shot and already spilling."

She shrugged, and the shrug moved through her wings.

LIA WORDS. <3

She stiffened when she felt a hand on her shoulder. But then his voice came and she relaxed, practically sagging back into her chair as she tilted her head to look up at him. She smiled then, with no reason to care that he saw her relief. The day had been bearable, but there was no doubt she felt better with him here now.

“Yes, Master. I missed you terribly. Everything is taken care of. Miss Tremblay is to come for lunch tomorrow, if that’s alright.”

She looked at it, and it was like falling into something. And she knew something now. She was going to die if she didn't have that. Not a figure of speech. It would take a few days, probably. But she would pine for it so hard that it killed her, if she went without for too long.

"Oh please, Boudica. Please."

But she wasn't going to look around. She was going to look in her bag.

One thing called to her, taunted her, tormented her. And the worst part was... Kathleen would never remember any of it. So there was no risk at all, if she used this.

Somehow, by the time Kathleen got back to the van, it wasn't in the bag anymore. Charlotte had it in her pocket instead.

He stood up, and he offered her his hand again.

"You have plenty to share. And it's a damned shame you think otherwise. C'mon, let me show you."

She found a table and ordered a drink just so no one would bother her for loitering or anything. And then Brandy was on stage, and Isabel’s attention was locked on her. She forgot about her drink. She forgot about everything but Brandy. And Brandy was looking right at her. She felt such relief knowing that Brandy knew she’d kept her promise. Brandy had seen her tonight.

Then Brandy started singing, and the world fell away entirely. She knew the song that was meant just for her. She could feel it as Brandy sang. But even the other songs seemed to touch her like feathers caressing her bare skin, despite that she wore the same modest clothes she always wore.

By the time the first set was over, she was trembling faintly. She needed to be with Brandy. But not while the others were with her. A waited came by, though, and gave her a note from Brandy. And that gave her what she should do next. Wait. She only had to wait until Brandy was done, until she left. And Isabel could be with her then, meet her in the alley.

She downed the drink in one long pull, left bills carelessly on the table, and slipped out. She might get to listen to Brandy sing more if she stayed. But she couldn’t risk not being there when Brandy left. So she went into the alley and, pulling her coat tightly around herself, she set in to wait.

"Oh that's the easiest thing in the world, isn't it? You get him alone, and you transform. He's heard the tales, even if he thinks that's all they are. He'll know what it means. It might take him a bit to get over the shock, but telling him is easy." He smiled a knowing smile. "It's getting over the fear of tellin' him that's the hard part, innit it."

AND THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR WRITING WITHOUT WATCHING THE ROOM.

Hai.

Maura rose an eyebrow as she came over, setting a bowl of stew and some bread before Piotr. She looked from the young man to Falamh. He gave a polite nod her way.

"None o' my business," she said at last, looking pointedly at Falamh, then gave a short laugh. "Tho, your father know where y'are, lad?" she added, turning shrewd gray eyes on Piotr.

He shrugged. "My uncle knows I went to be certain Miss Talimah was well," he told her in the shy and solemn tones Falamh was more accustomed to.

He was a touch confused at Maura's laughter. Falamh shook her head fractionally. Let him keep his illusions, yes? It was a comfort to men to think they were in charge, held power, as long as they were safe if matters came to blows. It hurt no one for now if Piotr thought she needed protected. And perhaps, if Jacob really did know the lad had taken the horse and followed her, he thought the lad needed this time, too. Though, she doubted it.

"I see, I see. Well. Eat up then, lad. Y'certain y'don't want for anything?" she then asked Falamh.

"A second bottle. Some water for Peter." Fala flicked a pale hand his way. "I will play when the evening crowd is here."

--I would not fetch a second bottle,-- Fior warned. --He does not know, Talimah.--

She ignored him with some effort. A cup per ghost. It had always been that. Each a dedication, and their voices would fade a while. Without spirit-walkers to turn to, with the strangeness of a Nishaa's form, it was important to sort these matters on one's own. And though she could not be intoxicated, dedication of liquor quieted the matter. If the fool lad fell asleep, very well, and she doubted he was stout enough to manage to poison himself first.

Maura's look echoed Fior's words, but there was something sly about it as she laughed, nodded, and lightly said, "It mus' be nice t' 'ave the old man out o' the way, Miss Talimah." There was a glint in her eye at that. "None o' my business, though."

Yes. She'd said that.

Piotr went a bit red, opened his mouth, then instead turned to stir the stew. It was one of those grand, living things such as taverns keep, bits of paled sausage and spent bacon and chicken peeking out in between vegetables cooked to mush. Rarities in her house, to be sure, though she knew they had come to buy meat and eat it at Kiara's stead. Humans and their habits. "To Thomas," Fala said softly, tipped her glass a little so a drop spilled, then downed her shot. Maura saw there was no gossip to have, and walked away to fetch the bottle.

No real shock, the winged songstress was never much of a gossip. She simply smiled like old tears at questions about the wings, the child, her husband, the man she waited on. To know the lad was a nephew to the ugly old A'skani who usually came to town with the pretty young bard was more than she'd had before, as useless a prize as it was. Really, he looked older than the girl, already pouring a fourth shot as the lad ate his soup.

Lucky man, old Jaques. Perhaps. You never knew, with the pretty ones.

It did annoy Maura a little, that each shot came with a small spill. And it was strange, how she always spoke to the air before each drink, the rare times she drank. But the pretty songstress always cleaned her spot, and even if she was mad as a hatter, she brought in extra silver when she sang. Gold, now and then, and whispered pleas she perform at some fine lord's manner, but she supposed the old man had his hooks in her, somehow. What a waste, a girl like that making soaps and simples and living with a chap who looked old enough to be her grandfather.

Piotr nudged his cup over as Falamh finished pouring. She shook her head, pointed at his plate.

His dusky hand went over her own glass. "Who are you drinking to?" he asked her, the spoon half sinking in the old stew.

There was another roll of shoulder and half obscured wing. "Those I have lost. I told you, I traveled long."

"Then is it not poor dedication, to drink alone?" he asked her.

"I thought you were here to care for me," Fala said, not really a question.

Piotr offered a spoonful of his stew forward in answer. Her pale nose wrinkled, and she drew back a little. "Meat," she pointed out.

He laughed. "Plants live, too, and I have seen you talk with them more than the goats. If I need to eat first, why not you?"

Falamh gave a soft vocalization, no real word, then poured him a half shot. "There. Give me my peace, or I send you home."

There was a wobble in the bottle when she said it. A small wince. Of course she lied, the lad was lore wise, but not near so trained as Jacob, and she worried about Jacob when they parted on the hunts more than enough. She would never send that fool boy alone with the horse, not through those woods.

The offending spoon was withdrawn. "Who to this one?" he asked pleasantly enough, picking up his glass.

--Oh for all that is BRIGHT, Talimah Amrahni. You will kill him and more.--

She didn't bother to tell Fior he would get distracted long before the list was done. After all, he was the only one too stubborn to leave her in the ceremony, so why bother? Instead, she gave her little splash, and said, "To Samten, like an uncle to me."

"Samten," Piotr spoke, and if it was affected solemnity, it was affected well. They both drank. She pointed to the bowl, poured slowly. He was no large man, surely he would be drooling on the table well before time for her to play.

(Yo.)

She was out in the alley before too long, dressed in street clothes. And she grinned at Isabel.

"You came!" She wrapped her into a tight hug. "Did you like the show? I was hoping you would."

Any priority preferences?

"That will be just fine. She's going to have a special guest here, too. The siren who she's been following. She hasn't been very truthful on her reports."

He dropped some photos of the hotel room Brandy and Isabel had been in together.

"So. When the two of them show up. I want you to take Miss Tremblay down to the room where I... helped you realize your true desires yesterday. And I want you to wreck this Watcher. Speed up the process of her becoming... captive. She has a new role coming. Filling reports on other Watchers."

(Whatever's clever. I have to leave in less than an hour or so, so it's not like you won't have a chance to catch up on the rest.

I'm holding off on Hollie/Charlotte because Maura/Gilroy and likely Brandon are showing up at the inn for dinner so I want all my rows in a duck there, will check on the other Loch stuff.)

Okay, cool. :)

Frowning just a little, she took his hand. And she stood, even allowing him to help her (though she didn’t really need it, her leg wasn’t that bad anymore, and getting better all the time). But she had no idea what he thought he could show her. She had nothing of her own to share with him, while he had a whole house of things. The closest she had to anything of her own were the clothes Brandon had been generous enough to buy for her. And somehow...she didn’t think Jack was much interested in sharing those.

And she looked down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes. But she didn’t want to put those shoes back on, either. Her leg was better, but they still made it ache. Well. It wasn’t as though she minded being barefoot for whatever it was he planned to show her.

“I don’t understand, Jack. I have nothing. I know that.”

I'm doing a checklist in my head of places to put this and none of them feel right. So I might end up doing a very bad thing and coming up with a setting just for this.

She let him eat a while before finishing filling the glass, a half for him, full for her. He seemed well enough. A little bright in the eyes, perhaps, but his hands were steady.

"How is it?" she asked him, ignoring the murmurs, the touches, the cries. Pointedly ignoring that Fior in his own seat seemed fixed on how the lad was holding up, a bit worried almost. What. it had only been two? Three? Pah. She'd lost count already. Well. The bottle was not quite empty yet, anyhow, and any man worth his salt took more than that. She remembered that from when Samten had realized she could not get drunk, and had set her in contests when they were low on coin and their songs could not charm more than a few coppers from the folk on the road.

It was better than what some men might have expected a pretty girl to do for coin along the road, for certain.

A few men had drifted in. There was a little talk of the 'angel' here to sing tonight. One sent a younger friend along to fetch a few others to the tavern, and the keep's wife seemed pleased enough to note it. Piotr smiled, a slow and warm one, warmer for the liquor. "You've a following, I see. How often do you sneak away, Talimah?"

Fala slid him his glass. "Not enough to worry Jaques," she told him.

Another name. Another drink.

"Should I be insulted, you fill mine less? Or do you only play for crowds pickled?" Piotr asked in a low voice, as he slid his glass to her again.

--Bright as midnight, that lad,--Fior said with a shake of his head, his silvery hair sliding over frost fragile collar of robe, an eartip twitching slightly. --If you had kept such company in Dh'asi, songbird, I would have taken you to your mother by your ear.--

Fala spilled a little liquor his way, then poured full cups for both of them. "As you would. We've many names, though. I meant to make it last longer." She peered into the bottle, then held it up and motioned Maura's way. This was a bit more expensive, with another expecting to keep up.

Hah. It hardly mattered. Even with all the humans to think of, they did well enough.

Another name. Another drink.

Oh no. How horrible. I don't know how to cope with that.
😐

Her lips quirked.

“Fear isn’t the problem. Not of tellin’ him. I wanted to do that last night. Before He called me to the shore. Before I knew what I was here for. I’ve had to stop myself from tellin’ him. Or...showin’ him. There’s somethin’ about him that makes me want to show him who I really am. Fear of drivin’ him away, now that’s another issue.”

She shrugged with a sigh.

“I’ll manage. I want him. I’ll find a way to convince him he wants me too. Until then, I make a life here. How… How would you like to arrange to collect my things? I can call my landlords. They’re nice people. They’ll pack up what they can for me, which will help your boys when they can get up that way.” She hesitated, then laughed. “Well. I noticed there was no phone in the cottage. So I suppose I’ll have to see if I can use a phone hereabouts.”

When she returned, she was, if anything, smiling even more. She had nothing with her, but it was still clear she was pleased. After she climbed in, she buckled her seatbelt and started the van. But she didn’t pull away quite yet. She turned to Charlotte instead.

“Two new rosebushes for the garden this coming spring. Shame it’s months away. I can hardly wait.” She laughed, then made a visible effort to rein in her enthusiasm. “Sorry about that. Ready to get home now, or did you think of anything else while we’re out?”

It was surprising, that she'd gotten this far. She was someone that would have been a pariah, if she wasn't so fearsome. But she was kept at arm's length. She didn't have power enough to survive an entire fey onslaught if they ganged up on her. So it was best if she minded her business. She fled her home. And she went off, to learn, to study. She discovered much, about her own power and the other powerful things in this world. And how the two could intertwine. And she became obsessed with the thought of one thing, and one thing alone.

A nephilim.

And now, here she was, back in Bright Bay. A bustling city, in the Pacific Northwest. It had once been her home. And now, it was home to a nephilim. She was risking much to be back. But, if she could do what she knew she could... she could bring this whole place to its knees. She could rule here.

But first, she just had to rule one woman. Oh how she looked forward to that.

Ooooooooh.

Hrm.

One of these days soon I need to get myself a map and put, roughly, where all these places are on it. Just because it would help me, if nothing else.

She’d known the girl was being set up for something. After all, he’d told her to pick someone young, someone that wouldn’t be missed, that wasn’t set to a particular task already. And Isabel Tremblay was who she’d picked. And it wasn’t a surprise to her that the girl wasn’t being truthful in her report, which had come late as it was. Something about it hadn’t seemed quite right. And the girl was too young, and far too inexperienced, for the task she’d been given. Set up for failure.

“Alright.”

And that was that. She would do as he wished with the girl. It wouldn’t even be particularly difficult, she thought. If the siren already had hooks into her, she could build off of those. She hadn’t done work like this personally in a long time. But she hadn’t forgotten how. And she had a much better selection of things available to her now compared to the last time she’d had a personal hand in breaking someone.

“Am I to leave whatever connection she has to the siren intact?”

It wasn’t as long as she’d been afraid it might be before Brandy appeared. It made her very glad she’d come out when she had, rather than waiting to hear more of her lovely voice in song. And she clung to Brandy during that hug, breathing her in, basking in the moment of being so very close to her.

“I promised. I was almost late, but I hurried as much as I could. I… I loved the show. Brandy, I love your singing. It’s always so beautiful. I forget everything else when you sing. I love it. And you… You sang for me. You sang just for me. It made me feel so special.”

Come on. Give me something to do with you. -_-

Her smile, when it came, was so gentle and tender and loving. But it held lurking within it a hint of wickedness, a hint of darkness. Margaret’s plea for the thing that would seal her fate and make of her a slave, body, mind, heart, and soul, was deeply satisfying to the part of Boudica that she’d struggled so long against. The part of her that was now in control, that was her now.

“Only because you showed me you know how to ask so very nicely, Margaret.”

And she leaned forward, fastening the collar around Margaret’s neck. There was no buckle, no tie, no snap, no clear way to fasten it together at all. And yet, when she was done, it was fastened nonetheless. More than that, it was a solid circle of indestructible material. It would never come off. It would never need cleaned. It would never fade, and never fray. It was forever, and it made Margaret Boudica’s forever.

She stroked her fingers over it, letting Margaret feel her touch through it. And, of course, that set the magic within it. So she leaned back then, and watched the human’s face avidly to see what, if any, outward reaction she gave to the magic that would be threading its way into her mind and making her a caitiff. Not just any caitiff, but Boudica’s caitiff. Boudica’s slave, plaything, whore. Anything Boudica might wish.

The bottle came, and Falamh opened it without comment, pouring them both half measures this time. There were many to go. Hopefully he stopped soon. Maybe some pretty girl would come in and distract him, or something. So many names, to follow.

He was a little flushed, maybe. But nothing terrible. His movements were still natural, as he set the empty bowl aside. He didn't seem uncommonly loud, as they drank the next. Nor yet the one after. A silvery hand stood over his cup, as Falamh poured the next half measure, the flow uninterrupted as it went through the old elven man's hand.

"You can see him," she hissed in the old language, eyes narrowing as she looked to the empty chair. "He is fine. Stay out of it, old man."

--Old man. You used to know that meant wisdom, Talimah.--

"So wise that I am this, and I am in these dead lands," she retorted, flicking a bit of the dribbled liquor off the table at him. Piotr looked a tad concerned and reached for her glass. Of course, he had no idea what she was saying; she'd yet to meet anyone who knew an old dialect of an older people, who lived in isolation a world away. But that the talk had grown more was worrying.

"Perhaps you should be done a while, Miss Talimah. The folk will be disappointed, if you do not sing," he pointed out. He then laughed, a little more brightly and loudly than usual. "I doubt they would take joy in my croaks; my art was...was another."

She plucked her hand away, took both glasses, and frowned at him pointedly. "The dedication will make me feel better," she scolded, then spoke a name for each and drank them on her own.

At that, Piotr looked a little troubled. He took one of her dainty white hands between his dark ones, looked over the whole with his dark, magicked eyes. "Talimah. No. You...you are done a while. Come, lady. We shall walk a while, and return, and then if still you would play..."

Falamh closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He released her hand and brushed back a stray lock of her hair.

"Lady, please. Come with me a little while. It is not well, to drink so much." He thought he was speaking quietly. It wasn't worth correcting him. "Not for sadness. Not for memories."

She could feel them being watched by human eyes, and she felt the color rise in her cheeks. She sighed, then picked up the bottle and a glass before rising. "Maura," she called, "I shall leave my harp with you. He needs a walk." Her pale eyes rolled a little, her lips quirked as though to say, men, right?

This earned a laugh. Piotr looked to the bottle, then sighed and took her arm. His own hold was very slightly unsteady, but she felt no need to call his attention to it as she let him lead her to the counter, then take her out.

She walked slowly in the chill night for his sake. A slow and indifferent snow had started. He loosened his bright jacket a little, pulling her a bit closer. Perhaps he read his own faint unsteadiness for her own. "I never thought," she told him with a faint smile, "that you were such a mother hen."

At least Fior was gone a while. Either mournfully staring at the liquor, or...well, why ponder what the more solid hallucination did? A worthless occupation.

"I have been counting," Piotr told her. "I do not know that you have. How many more names have you?"

"Twelve, I think."

"And you always drink for each? Little wonder you keep talking to no-one." He sighed. "Yes, I know. Uncle does that, too. And Aunt Kiki. But Aunt Kiki..." He trailed off then, and looked a little concerned as he lead her further from the tavern. He thought his voice was hushed when at last he said, "Do you see spirits?" with real concern.

"Probably not. Lad. You really needen't worry for me. I am stronger than you think." Falamh patted his arm, only to have him take her hand between his again and rub it a bit.

"You...you are always so cold, Talimah. You should dress warmer. Are you warm enough? Need you my jacket?"

She pulled the hand back and sighed, then poured off a shot and held it his way. "I am fine, and I cannot wear such jackets. You do not need to care for me, Piotr. I am at least thrice your age; I am fair sure I am older than your uncle, actually. And he has grandchildren."

He drank it off, breath steaming, then dropped the little glass in his pocket. She sloshed a drop to the road, then spoke a name before taking a swig from the bottle. He stared at her, and she shook her head.

"Did you think the glass was for me? It is more polite, I suppose, but...I do this every year, Piotr. How are you feeling?" This, before another drop, another name, another sip.

"Fine, I am fine. Do you drink like this with Uncle?" he asked her, shaking his head a little.

"Never," she told him. Another drop, another name, another drink.

"You go there with him, then." It wasn't a question, and it was uncomfortably loud. Falamh sighed.

"He took me there to recover a few times, I suppose. But mostly, it is a matter between Maura, Thom, and myself. They watch the road for me. I sing." Another name, another pour.

"Only to recover?" She hardly knew what that was supposed to mean, but in the same moment, she realized she'd said more than she meant to. She simply took another drink, made another dedication. "You...you always look so...so tired, when you come back. So...so sad. And you do things like this?"

Another sip. Another name. By the Light within, what WAS the boy on about?

"Why do you let him hurt you?" Piotr then asked, and at least this time his voice was as low as he thought it was. His shoulders tightened, his hands curled, and his eyes were narrowed a little. "You...you are so kind to us. To all of us. But you go with him, and you, you come back...you come back like that. And you do things like this?"

Falamh sighed. "This has nothing to do with your uncle." She let another drop fall, drank another swallow. "None of these were people he knew. Some would be older than him now, if they yet lived. Do not blame that man for another's misfortune." Her pale eyes narrowed, and she spoke another name to the night, drank though a snowflake had settled on the bottle's cool rim. Her dark hair was starred with flakes by now, his as well.

She sighed, then unfastened her cloak and draped it around his shoulders, standing on her toes to do it. Small for a human was still taller than her. "I do not know what you see, Piotr. But everything is well. This is an old matter. Think of it as one of my people's traditions, I suppose." The bottle jittered a bit in her hand, and her wings flexed a little.

The people here, they already knew. It was old habit that had her hide the glossy wings, for none troubled to fear her in this village.

"Well. My OWN tradition. Samten taught me, among his own. When a friend dies, we bless them with a gift of drink. And the dead are lonely, so we share. And it quiets them a while, gives them peace. He used to dedicate many sips." This was true, anyhow. The old man had taught her such things. Counting cards, and gifting drinks, and grifting folk without lying once while drinking men thrice Piotr's size under the table. Selling her voice to folks who fancied themselves fine without selling herself.

-falls in-

heya

hihi

*grin* I tinkered

so I see!

*peeks back from finishing cooking dinner*

hey Cass

Heya, JC. How're things?

With Patience tending Malone, Rebecca was free to make a social call. Her fingertips lightly brushed along the split rail fence that was put in between her family's yard and the road until the fence came to an end, from there she crossed the dirt street and followed along its edge until a break in the vegetation signaled the path to the O'Leary house. She was taking her time on the stroll, not only due to being cautious, but also simply enjoying the peace that was a rare thing with a one-year-old.

At length, she got to the door and gave it a knock.

Maeve and his siblings were gone, it was only him. He opened the door and smiled brightly, 'Rebecca, ever so good to see ye, lass. Maeve's not here at the moment, she's on the train to the city, I'm not sure where Grace and Aidan are.' He grins, 'what brings you here?'

((Dinner... I should probably consider that. I never did make it to the store. So I'll probably be doing corn dogs tonight.))

heh

sphaghetti for me

Becca smiled as Gavin answered the door. "Patience volunteered to spend some time watching Malone, so I thought I would come visiting while I was available to do so without having to worry about what the baby was into. I am sorry to hear that I missed Maeve."

((I used the last of my pasta a couple of nights ago))

hmm. ramen.

I was required to make ham. I might even get to eat some of it. lol

'Let's go into town yes?' He smiled, 'Family matters, royal business and all.' He closed the door behind him, 'She even took Cieran, a rarety, normally he says with us.' He offered his hand to Rebecca, 'Shall we sup in the town?'

he'll enjoy moms love cooking

((Yeah, my parents are big on the whole traditional first day of the new year meal. I probably have ham in my freezer somewhere, but even if I do, it's so old it needs to be thrown out))

Traditions here are Lebanese, so less with the ham. But this was purely because my mother decided at the last minute she wanted ham while she watched her game.

we've not done black eyed peas, ah well

"I hope all is well," Becca said in concern as he spoke of her reason for going to the city. She nodded at the offer for going to town, "I believe Patience will be able to handle Malone that long. So yes, town would be lovely. Thank you."

Truth told, she didn't often go into town, except the occasional trip to drop off homemade lace for the local dressmaker or sometimes she would accompany on errands. More often, she was apt to just send one of her siblings on such things. It was easier than dealing with the whisperings about the paternity of her child who had inherited many of the features of his Blackfoot father. But she figured with Gavin at her side, perhaps it would not be an issue.

"Miss Talimah." Piotr shook his head, snow drifting from his dark hair, falling on the folds of the dark cloak. He reached back and drew it off his shoulders. "You are so cold. Obviously you are drunk."

"I have feathers," she pointed out with a sigh, mantling the wings slightly and giving them a faint shake. The snowflakes fluttered and slid free, and the faint light seeping from shutters and rare glass windows flowed across them in dark rainbows. "I am not one of you. You...you realize that, yes, Piotr? Keep it. You are shivering, even if you cannot feel it. I have never been drunk a day in my life."

She poured and drank, then shook the bottle and sighed. "That will have to be good enough. Be at peace." She then looked to him once more, all delicate pale features and deep dark hair and fragile loveliness. She seemed so young, so small and lost and lovely. "Is that why you followed me?" she then asked him with a sigh, moving to sit atop a fence lightly dusted with snow. "Because you thought I left for your uncle's sake?"

"For Lady Liana's, really," he said, sitting beside her and draping the many folded cloak over both of them. "She is not stupid, and I doubt you are. He has her. Why would he need you? I..." He shook his head, his dark curls swaying with the motion.

Oh.

Oh. That.

Falamh sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. "That is...not what she thinks. She could not do that for him. It is nothing I would wish on her, and he? He would NEVER have her do such things. We both love her too well, I think."

If the fluff of wings had put him in mind of an angry, startled hen, then surely the squack that came when he abruptly pulled her close must have conjured such images. The bottle tumbled to the ground, shattering beneath them on the scattered stones. "But why, Talimah? It is your house. There is no reason to listen to him. We would all take your part, you know that. Even her, if for her own reasons. He has no eyes for you like those he turns on her. Why let him hurt you? I would never, never hurt you."

Her squeak of protest suggested otherwise, but she hardly wanted to hurt him, so she let herself be hugged much, much too tightly until he relaxed his hold. She then shifted to the side, her side of the cloak now slipping to cover him. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "He does not hurt me, Piotr. I do not know what tales you have made for yourself. But he does not hurt me, and what we do must be done."

"Does he tell you that?" And that, that was much, much louder than she liked. She sighed. The snow had grown heavier, but his barked words hung in hazy breath fog in the air between them.

Her wings drooped, brushing the ground beneath the plank fence. "Never. He fusses over me like an old maid when I am recovering. Your uncle has his troubles, Piotr, but he does not hurt me. Please. Do not worry about it." She stepped down, taking care with the glinting glass, then began to walk back towards the tavern with a sigh.

At least he had said nothing of how her own breath did not steam and puff like his. It was always awkward, explaining that away.

And off to help clean. woo.

Take care, Lia. <3

Dear brain, come up with something for Min.

Welp.

'Well to the village we go.' He said in his thick scottish accent. 'Let's be off, what might you desire ta et?'


He rarelywent to the village, only went if Maeve went. The siblings were highly protective of their baby sistrer, her rape hd changed them, as had her sexuality

"Oh... gracious. I have no idea. We so scarcely eat at the cafe, I do not even know what they might be serving today. I suppose we will just see when we get there unless you have a suggested dish?" She held out her arm to loop it into his.

“O-- oh.”

She knew what Ronnie said deserved so much more than that. But words failed her. She felt so much all at once that she simply couldn’t untangle enough of it to form any sort of a proper response. And most of what she felt she couldn’t understand. It was too much. And she was so used to...so much less.

That was behind so much of it, too. Her husband. Her late husband. On some level, she understood Ronnie was taking his place in her life. Not just in her bed, but in her life. It was to be Ronnie that guided her now. It was to be Ronnie that she must behave for. It was to be Ronnie that she must strive to be worthy of. All the things her husband had been to her, Ronnie was to be to her now.

And had Ronnie been as cold as he had, as dismissive as he had, as stern and harsh as he had, she would have slipped into that role without a ripple of disturbance. She was simply too well conditioned to it. She couldn’t remember properly a time before that anymore.

But Ronnie was different. And Ronnie wanted different things from her. She was still trying to understand them. It made her hesitate too often. It made her feel uncertain too often. Ronnie had done enough to tell Helen that she was the one Helen should look to. But she hadn’t truly taken Helen in hand the way she was conditioned to.

But now, those deepest levels of her where all that conditioning resided recognized that this might finally be where it happened. That Helen might finally have what she needed, what she’d needed since Ronnie had come into her life. That she might have her Master (or Mistress) once more. It was all on such a deeply subconscious level that it never quite reached her awareness. That, too, was as her conditioning required. The perfect concubine, the perfect slave, the perfect...whatever was required when it was required. But consciously, merely the dutiful wife.

“What… What do you want from me, Ronnie?”

Hrm.

Squall of the Dai
His Divine Shadow - Psychopomp - Patron of Communion After Dark

Image Theme: Sanctuary of Shadows by Nox Arcana

*measures Cassiel's cranium*

'I do adore the griggles and bacon, but when it comes to lucnh, I've no idea, it will be an adventure. He looped his arm with hers, using his other hand to cover hers, 'I'm so thrilled you've come, I've missed you

Mushy brainz.

I've no brains

Well, you clearly at least have a language center.

Rebecca's cheeks colored a bit and a small bashful smile came on her face- it was an expression Gavin managed to get out of her often with his complimentary words. "I've missed you as well. I am terribly sorry I've not come to visit more often. I scarce get a moment to myself apart from when Malone sleeps, and those moments are frequently occupied with mending or laundry." In addition to keeping on top of items for her own home, some of the hands at the farm where her brother worked would send torn items for her to repair. To ensure his daughter would make a good match in the high society of Boston despite being blind, he saw to getting her a thorough education- academics, social graces, and the arts. Though fancywork wasn't as useful out here, the needlework skills did prove useful for earning a little money mending clothing.

((I'm on my final days of having brains. I'll probably lose them again on Thursday when I go back to work))

According to all the MRIs, I have a brain. It just doesn't function correctly.

Rawr.

Mattchew. <3

She couldn’t imagine wanting anything more.

(Well, except the taste of her Master’s blood on her tongue. But that was a thing that had surpassed want into need. An addiction. One she was feeling more heavily on her now. But she would wait for that. She must have what she needed before she could have what she wanted. Food, which she’d had. She wasn’t sure what else she must have before she could have that one specific pleasure. But she would be a good girl and wait as patiently as she was able as the ache grew.)

“Will you help me, Master? If Dolores is meant to be mine, to show her her place. Will you help me? It was so hard for me to understand how to manage her.”

But she found she did want this thing now. What had seemed nothing more than a burden before, it was now something she wanted. She wanted Dolores to obey her, to be broken to her will. The thought of it made a little thrill run through her.

Caaaaaaaaaas. <3

How goes, Matt?

'I do miss Malone and Cieran having fun, you must bring him back. I know maeve's son misses his best friend.' Malone and Cieran got on like thick and thievesd, almost like brothers. 'You know, Grac is always willing to aide ye lass, I know us Scotspeople seem strange, but we're quite proud of our own, and do what we can to help.'

To be fair, their employees had pretty much medical and such, ahead of their time, they were.

The Lady closed her eyes, and it felt as though the bottom had come out of the world. As though she were falling without end. But she couldn’t be feeling that. So that meant that Darcy was. And that meant, of course, that she was meant to make her feel better. Somehow. But Sveta never knew how to make herself feel better. So how was she supposed to comfort this powerful creature?

With a sigh, she laid down beside Darcy. Hesitantly, she took the fey into her arms and held her gently. And, at a loss, she started to hum a half-remembered lullaby from her childhood, something her mother had used when she was troubled and unable to sleep. A think with just the barest touch of magic in it meant to soothe a restless child.

Rebecca nodded agreement, "I am sure I can bring a basket and work just as well there as at home. Perhaps I will do that soon after Maeve gets back. Did she indicate how long she will be gone? And, as for the strangeness... I do not find there to be anything strange about you at all." She chuckled a little and added, "Though I suppose many consider me strange so perhaps I may not be the greatest judge of such things."

And yet, the only desire she remembered feeling was to free Alison from her pain. To give her a chance at happiness. And… And that desire to see the Lord that had done this to her Alison suffer, to see him on his knees, to…

Oh.

She brought her hand to that collar and stroked it gently. The collar was meant to bend the girl to her desires. And she had put those aside to see to Alison. But they had crept in anyway. And Rhia… Rhiannon was tired of carrying that burden wrapped up from everything. She had to embrace what she was. And that meant that dark thing. She had to allow the dark thing out to play. She had to indulge it. And Alison…. Alison was hers. Why should she not share in all of what Rhiannon was, that dark thing included.

“Something in me. Yes. There’s something in me, my Alison. Something dark. Something more terrible than any Lord. And with so much power behind it. And it has desires. Do you feel it now? Do you feel my desires? Tell me about the Lord that hurt you. I want his name. I want to know anything you can tell me.”

She needed plenty. But nothing she was going to ask Gail for. She was giving enough. Even if Skye didn’t know exactly what had been worked out between Gail and Miss Ishi, she was sure it was going to cost Gail more than Skye could ever hope to repay.

She took off her shoes and set them beside the couch carefully, out of the way. Then her purse and the little plastic grocery bag that contained everything she had got set with them. Pulling out the phone and the charger, she plugged it in carefully so it could be set on the end table out of Gail’s way. Her clothes were something she would have to figure out later.

And then she laid down on the couch, not even bothering with doing whatever one had to do to it to make it into a bed. She was sure that would take up more room, and the place was small enough as it was. She could get comfortable enough on the couch. It was better than an out of the way bench on the streets, at least.

But, just like she’d known, sleep didn’t come. She laid there with her eyes closed, trying to be as still as possible. Trying to at least seem asleep. But she could hear every move Gail made in the apartment. And, to her, it seemed like every little sound, no matter how innocuous, was an accusation against her for putting Gail in this position in the first place.

"Did you think the glass was for me? It is more polite, I suppose, but...I do this every year, Piotr. How are you feeling?" This, before another drop, another name, another sip.

"Fine, I am fine. Do you drink like this with Uncle?" he asked her, shaking his head a little.

"Never," she told him. Another drop, another name, another drink.

"You go there with him, then." It wasn't a question, and it was uncomfortably loud. Falamh sighed.

"He took me there to recover a few times, I suppose. But mostly, it is a matter between Maura, Thom, and myself. They watch the road for me. I sing." Another name, another pour.

"Only to recover?" She hardly knew what that was supposed to mean, but in the same moment, she realized she'd said more than she meant to. She simply took another drink, made another dedication. "You...you always look so...so tired, when you come back. So...so sad. And you do things like this?"

Another sip. Another name. By the Light within, what WAS the boy on about?

"Why do you let him hurt you?" Piotr then asked, and at least this time his voice was as low as he thought it was. His shoulders tightened, his hands curled, and his eyes were narrowed a little. "You...you are so kind to us. To all of us. But you go with him, and you, you come back...you come back like that. And you do things like this?"

Falamh sighed. "This has nothing to do with your uncle." She let another drop fall, drank another swallow. "None of these were people he knew. Some would be older than him now, if they yet lived. Do not blame that man for another's misfortune." Her pale eyes narrowed, and she spoke another name to the night, drank though a snowflake had settled on the bottle's cool rim. Her dark hair was starred with flakes by now, his as well.

She sighed, then unfastened her cloak and draped it around his shoulders, standing on her toes to do it. Small for a human was still taller than her. "I do not know what you see, Piotr. But everything is well. This is an old matter. Think of it as one of my people's traditions, I suppose." The bottle jittered a bit in her hand, and her wings flexed a little.

The people here, they already knew. It was old habit that had her hide the glossy wings, for none troubled to fear her in this village.

"Well. My OWN tradition. Samten taught me, among his own. When a friend dies, we bless them with a gift of drink. And the dead are lonely, so we share. And it quiets them a while, gives them peace. He used to dedicate many sips." This was true, anyhow. The old man had taught her such things. Counting cards, and gifting drinks, and grifting folk without lying once while drinking men thrice Piotr's size under the table. Selling her voice to folks who fancied themselves fine without selling herself.
"Miss Talimah." Piotr shook his head, snow drifting from his dark hair, falling on the folds of the dark cloak. He reached back and drew it off his shoulders. "You are so cold. Obviously you are drunk."

"I have feathers," she pointed out with a sigh, mantling the wings slightly and giving them a faint shake. The snowflakes fluttered and slid free, and the faint light seeping from shutters and rare glass windows flowed across them in dark rainbows. "I am not one of you. You...you realize that, yes, Piotr? Keep it. You are shivering, even if you cannot feel it. I have never been drunk a day in my life."

She poured and drank, then shook the bottle and sighed. "That will have to be good enough. Be at peace." She then looked to him once more, all delicate pale features and deep dark hair and fragile loveliness. She seemed so young, so small and lost and lovely. "Is that why you followed me?" she then asked him with a sigh, moving to sit atop a fence lightly dusted with snow. "Because you thought I left for your uncle's sake?"

"For Lady Liana's, really," he said, sitting beside her and draping the many folded cloak over both of them. "She is not stupid, and I doubt you are. He has her. Why would he need you? I..." He shook his head, his dark curls swaying with the motion.

Oh.

Oh. That.

Falamh sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. "That is...not what she thinks. She could not do that for him. It is nothing I would wish on her, and he? He would NEVER have her do such things. We both love her too well, I think."

If the fluff of wings had put him in mind of an angry, startled hen, then surely the squack that came when he abruptly pulled her close must have conjured such images. The bottle tumbled to the ground, shattering beneath them on the scattered stones. "But why, Talimah? It is your house. There is no reason to listen to him. We would all take your part, you know that. Even her, if for her own reasons. He has no eyes for you like those he turns on her. Why let him hurt you? I would never, never hurt you."

Her squeak of protest suggested otherwise, but she hardly wanted to hurt him, so she let herself be hugged much, much too tightly until he relaxed his hold. She then shifted to the side, her side of the cloak now slipping to cover him. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "He does not hurt me, Piotr. I do not know what tales you have made for yourself. But he does not hurt me, and what we do must be done."

"Does he tell you that?" And that, that was much, much louder than she liked. She sighed. The snow had grown heavier, but his barked words hung in hazy breath fog in the air between them.

Her wings drooped, brushing the ground beneath the plank fence. "Never. He fusses over me like an old maid when I am recovering. Your uncle has his troubles, Piotr, but he does not hurt me. Please. Do not worry about it." She stepped down, taking care with the glinting glass, then began to walk back towards the tavern with a sigh.

At least he had said nothing of how her own breath did not steam and puff like his. It was always awkward, explaining that away.

Lia. <3

Meow.

None too shabby thus cfar, Cas. And yourself? <3


Liiiiiiiia. <3

I'm okay. The usual, plus struggling with starting off a new character from an idea Colin had last night.

She shrugged, even as she was getting up and going for the fridge. She’d anticipated Rosemary’s hunger. She’d been there, starved enough that you just wanted to eat every chance you got. And she wanted Rosemary happy and comfortable. She wanted her well able to control Irena, especially with the current plan. It simply left her too vulnerable to Irena’s influence. She would have to trust Rosemary to guard against that.

She pulled out another container of the stew Rosemary seemed to adore so much. A few moments in the microwave and it was steaming hot and ready to eat. Putting it down in front of Rosemary, she went and sat back down. And only then did she answer, after having given it some thought as she heated the stew.

“I truly don’t know.” Well, thinking about it didn’t guarantee a good answer. “The change of timeline has changed all the plans I had, to some degree or another. She’ll need to feed. At least some of that will probably have to come from me. But I can’t feed her enough. I...don’t think. If… If you truly can keep her under control, perhaps we should take her out to hunt tonight. I’ll need to rest. And be sure you’re cared for, of course.” She shook her head wearily. None of it was going to plan. “I just don’t know, Rosemary.”

-has to pause, ubber sleepy-

She didn’t really want to get up. Or to move at all. But Robin’s room was surely better than the back of a car. And she so wanted to please Robin. She couldn’t give her any reason to decide to send Tara away. She simply couldn’t bear that. She would rather just...die, than that. Besides, it felt nice doing what Robin wanted. It felt nice to...obey.

So she took Robin’s hand. She got up and she followed Robin into the house. She was aware enough of the place, but she didn’t pay any attention to it. What attention she managed to bring to bear at all was focused on Robin. Robin was… well, Robin was the center of her entire world now.

I hear that. My brain wants me to make a few more, and I have nothing more than names. :/ <3

I hate it when that happens.

Okay. Hunter's in bed now. Serious thinking.

"Nothing does not take recovery, Talimah," he protested as he hopped down from the fence, stumbling a little on the landing. "What would he make you do that he would not ask of his wife? That makes you so weary and, and, and....and sad?" He shook his head a little, the cloak hanging askew from one shoulder.

"I would rather not speak of it. It is nothing a wife should worry over." Falamh sighed. "Nothing I enjoy, but it is necessary. There is no one else, and it helps him to be part of it. As little as I like it, as little as he likes it, it brings him peace to do it as he does." She tented her wings against the thickening snow, holding her skirts aloft to keep the hem from gathering chill flakes. "And it must be done. It is nothing to speak of in the street. Just...think on what song you would like, and I will begin with it."

She would not look behind her. She heard the stiff creak of snow underfoot, the rhythm only a little off pattern. Assuredly him. The shots must have caught up with him, but as she had told Fior, he would be fine. He was not even throwing up, yes?

"Talimah, wait. Please. I...he has her, why..."

His voice died away, as she left him down the path. She spared a glance back as she shook her wings and prepared to enter the bright tavern again. There he was, following along, looking frustrated but no longer calling after her. So he kept his sense alright when there was drink in him, at least.

It had grown crowded and loud, full of smells both revolting and familiar, and therefore comforting in their unpleasantness. A few cheers went up at the sight of her. She smiled demurely, tapped her shoes free of snow at the threashhold, then retrieved her harp and settled as Piotr tramped back in. She gestured to their abandoned table, saved and now with water keeping the lone shot glass company, Fior looking sullenly at the glass in his yet pushed in seat.

He managed a sorrowful, watered smile for her, then tramped over and sat beside the unseen.

At least the others had quieted. She laughed as a few called out suggestions, half less than polite matters. "You know the rule for bawdies," she laughed to one. "It must have a tune that interests me, and YOU must sing it me first to prove it." It was a kind of pleasure to see the fellow elbowed by his friends, urged to manage, and she played along obediently as he croaked out some just awful thing about milkmaids. They all cheered for that, and then laughed and clapped along as she returned it in her sweet, rich voice, a voice that could call stones to burn and waters to part and bones to mend. It did for this, too, and her fingers danced over her harp strings to play a merry, tinkling accompaniment.

When she played, even the dour hallucination that now sat with Piotr smiled, if a distant and sad smile. The dark fellow himself seemed to relax as he watched her sing and joke, draw out sweet sad ballads and manage delicate and intricate pieces alien to the ear, but stirring in a way the rest could never match.

Never mind silk. They would have dressed her in cloth of silver, and set her before the King, he admitted to himself as he watched her perform. That sweet voice was familiar enough, singing the stove to light, singing the lights to bright or dim, singing the trees to grow, singing their hurts to heal swifter. But this...oh, this.

His smile became dreamy and wistful as he imagined what that performance with 'charmed smokes' and a gown stitched with jewels enough for Liana, who had ever been draped in gold and amber and flashing things, to envy, must have been like.

Mew mew mew to those I have missed.
*lol* I feel a bit silly carrying this on, but AAAGH GETTING BACK TO WRITING. *gnaaw gnawww*

Meh, be a bit silly. Matthew and I are basically doing soap operas with our vampires.

"Soap" operas. >_> Gotta clean up the dirty bits.

But the dirty bits are the best.

>.>
<.<

Soaps are who's sleeping with who and aliens abducting others... ours is who's sleeping with who and a damn angel.

And, I mean, if you want to talk silly. I once played out a character playing Connect Four with another character. Move by move.

I don't know why Colin puts up with me. I really don't.

I need my brain prodded to come up with what to do with Min.
Or EST.
Something like that.

*lol* Fair enough. I was just like, eh. Whatever. My oldest character got left with a whole family and change living with her, and it was like, eh. Play with that since it doesn't affect anyone's fallen storylines. :p

Fala used to do a lot of chilling and drinking tea with people. >>

Dirty bits are the best bits. ^_^

Hence why the vampire play is devolving into a smorgygasboard.

Beautiful, Matt.

Beautiful, Matt.

^___^

The basement is a rockin'. And the table in the main room of Sin. And, well, all of NYC.

I am making no progress with Min. I give up. *sigh*

And now it was done. That deep ache was... if not satisfied, at least numb. But she felt empty. And she felt her whole life slip away.

"The red dress... you said it would give me everything I wanted. You never said it wouldn't last."

"She 'as terrible taste," a voice said at hand. Fior's chair got pulled out, and affronted spirit moved on to Falamh's abandoned seat as Maura sat beside the mage.

"Mh? No. I think it is some Elven something," Piotr said distantly. A heavy mug slid in front of him, and the smell of hard cider touched his nose. He laughed, then. "Oh. That." His dark eyes turned to the keep and he smiled. "You are too kind."

"They buy them for her. She'll have nothing but that. Never more'n two bottles. Never so much as a wobble, tha' girl." There was almost a hint of envy in the older woman's voice. She tucked back a gray streaked curl that had escaped from her ashen braid. "Won't try m' stew for nothin, either, unless y'uncle buy it for her."

"She never eats much at home, either," Piotr allowed, his eyes still only for Falamh. "Though it is like as not the meat. She is odd about that."

"Odd about many thins, but never you mind that. None of m' business." She laughed, round and warm and bright again, but low. Even she did not like to break the sweet spell of that strange, wonderful song. "Y'kae, when there's but a few in, an' she feel it safe, she make pictures in th' smoke while she sing, too? Right beautiful, that. All kin' o stories. She tell me one, once, bout a gel fell in love wi' a...a faerie, I suppose? She said there weren't a word good for it, in our language. Got turned a flower, because why shoul' any maid be 'appy in a song, eh?"

He glanced the woman's way, smiled a bit at the wry distaste on her soft, worn face. "Too much make believe. Much easier t' believe a gel turn a flower," she continued.

"I could see her thinking that," he allowed. "She does not often smile like that, Miss Talimah."

"Not at home, either, ei? Y' should tell y'r uncle t' be sweeter to a girl like that. Such a dour sort, I 'ardly see what she see in 'em. The chil' don't look t' be 'is."

"Honey? Oh, certainly not. His son is too young to come along, and the grandchildren are but babes," Piotr told her with a shake of his head.

"Grandchil'n?" At that, there was a little tch from Maura, a faint frown that creased her ruddy, warm face. "No taste, some girls." She looked as though considering saying something else, then shook her head. "Not mine t' judge. She seems to like 'em well enough, an' sure enough he cares her well when sick comes on 'er and they out and about gatherin herbs or whatnots."

Piotr took a drink, then, and turned away from the songstress, considering the woman. An ashen haired lad, all angles, and an older, pleasantly plump girl with mousy hair were caring for the tables now, it made more sense that she felt she'd time to chat.

"Oh? She has taken ill while out?" he said with what he hoped was mild surprise.

"Aye. Poor girl. White as a sheet and tremblin, and sometimes cain't even walk. 'e fusses until she's a proper meal down 'er, a wrinklin her nose all the while, an' carry 'er up to rest, and come up an' down for whatnots for her until she feelin better. She always well enough t' walk home, but p'aps that's why she settle for a man like tha'. T'aint every man, be tha' gentle about such matters."

"I suppose it is not," Piotr admitted. "But she says she usually comes alone?"

"Tha's her matter," Maura scolded gently. "O'ws the cider?"

He wasn't about to let the old gossip know it was terrible, and brought back memories of some distant cousin whose fine orchards had produced brews that danced upon the tongue and lingered in the senses like the flash of gold on the church-towers, so clear and pure they were. "Alright, you make it yourself?"

"M'lass there, an' her 'usband. So don't you go troublin her. She mightn't have the punch Miss Falamh has when she's the mind to stop trouble, but she's still no patience for silly lads."

"My compliments, Miss Maura," Piotr told her politely. He didn't really want it, the back of his throat burned still, and his stomach churned, but maybe it was worthwhile. Maybe.

A few ladies had come, but most were with their lads. One was dressed fancifully enough that he vaguely wondered if she was the mayor's daughter or some such. Whatever the leadership was here.

Uncle did not encourage asking too many questions while they sold their wares, and this was his first time here without him, he was fair sure. All the holes in his memory had him wary of insisting anything. But she was whispering to the smartly dressed fellow beside her, who laughed, then shook his head a bit.

When she took a break, a few came to speak with her. And there was the familiar Falamh, looking a little uncomfortable at the attention. The gentleman came to her reluctantly, and Falamh smiled that sweet, sad smile, and shook her head a little. Surely, they'd asked for a private performance. Or something for a function.

Part of Piotr wanted to tell her she should, that it would hardly be any risk to any of them for her to put that beautiful voice on display, to share it. The Art of music was one that must be shared, spread. It could not be passed around or left behind, it lived only so long as the singer. And so, singers were greatly honored, when Kanace stood.

But he did not like to trouble her.

A lad gestured at her wing. Lad? A fellow at least his own age, he realized, when he looked again. It was just the damned silly smile that made him think him younger. Asking a feather, likely, for he had seen her wings tuck tight like that many a time when one of the children asked her for one.

They were, he had to admit, very beautiful feathers.

Some fellows began arguing in the back, and with a huff and a sigh, Maura left him to deal with the matter.

She laughed.

“Are you so sure it didn’t? You chose to come back. You chose to tempt me. You wanted me. It seems to me you got what you wanted. But there are always consequences for choices.”

"I'm only human."

She started to cry. She didn't really know why. She just knew she needed to do something. And she missed the sweet Boudica from before, the one who was kind to her.

It took only a few moments of that, and then Boudica pulled Margaret up into her lap and stroked at her hair as she had before. She had gotten what she wanted. She had Margaret. And she could do as she pleased with the human. But, for the moment, that meant soothing her, showing her kindness. Boudica knew it wouldn’t always be that way. Once that part of her had been freed, it could never be contained again. But it wasn’t the totality of what she was, either.

“It’s alright, my lovely Margaret. This will be a better life for you. You’ll see. You’ll forget what it was like before you were mine. It will just fade away.” She touched the collar lightly, giving some power to her words. “It will be like a dream, what came before. And you’ll understand you were always meant for this, for me. And you’ll be so happy.”

"Okay."

There was no point in arguing. She could see that. She just wanted to know why happiness couldn't com now, instead of later. Why she had to remember desires other than this. It seemed so cruel.

Falamh began playing once more, sweet and calm, a drowsy thing. The combatants seemed to forget their troubles, and there was many a head propped and a calm smile. A few drifted off, and one older fellow had tears gleaming in his eyes as the complex, yet fragile tune spun out, woven through with that high, sweet voice. The world was more beautiful, was living and growing and kind, in that moment.

Even for Piotr, it was so. He smiled dreamily as he was reminded of the golden beams of the church, and imagined how that sweet song would have swelled and filled it, stirring in the incense, trembling in the blossoms. He remembered Uncle Gwion performing now and then, with a very young princess...which one, he could hardly say. None that lived now. An elder one, too, with silken straight hair all woven with pearls, old for an unmarried woman. Younger than him, now. For even among the royals, a fine voice must be shared, must be spread.

For even royals died, and no song would be there once the singer was gone.

Her question came back to him, then. Is there any song you would like to hear? And as Maura rejoined him, bringing another unwanted cider, it occured to him he would very much like to hear that song again. But how would she know Kanascan music? Especially a song he could not sing, like that old blacksmith had croaked out the bawdy for her. And would not sing, in a room like this.

"Oh, lad. Are you alright?" Maura asked him kindly. "Y'look so sad, for such a pretty song."

"I...yes. It...she sings so well. I mean, I am well. I. She does not sing like that for us, that is all."

"Your uncle not like singin, then? Tch. What a waste."

"Oh, no. I think she just sings for the children, that is all," Piotr assured. "He likes...he likes singing quite a bit. He used to be so proud of his brother and sisters, when they would sing in church." And he knew it was true, for he could remember that smile, like the smile he gave the children until he started getting fidgety again. He even got that smile, now and then, when he did well at his potion work.

"Ah, have a big family, then?"

He shook his head a little. "He is old," he said with a laugh. "He has grandchildren. Family is like music. It is only there when it can be seen, and then it leaves with the singer." His eyes returned to Falamh, and he drank, regretted it, forgot and drank again. She plied him with questions again, spoke of her son and her other daughter, wandered off to swat a staggering fellow who had tried to leave without paying with a nasty dishrag.

The last earned a bubble of laughter he did not like to own up to. Had he ever even been in such a place before? He did not think so. Nothing so mean and poor. Nothing like this. He was unsure if a place so truly ugly could have even existed in Haven. The lumbers would have been carved and painted, the tables turned beautifully, and great arching windows would have been open to the sweet, sea-touched air and the flickering rainbow flow of the sky above, drifting through the blue in patterns he now only saw in soap bubbles.

Maybe, in some lesser provence, such a mean place might have survived? But he doubted it. Like as not, one would have to go as far as Bryoni or Havali for such...what WAS the kind word for all this?

Well, it hardly mattered. It was still bright, because SHE made it bright as she played, as she sang, and even though it was uncomfortably hot, he could not bring himself to leave to breathe the fresh cold air without. He would miss this. He would miss seeing her, savoring her songs.

He was a little confused to realize he'd finished the cider, slid it aside, and rested his head on his elbow again as he watched her play. The crowd was thinning a little now, but no miracles were called out of lingering pipe and woodsmoke. It surprised him that she would endure the woodsmoke. In her home, she permitted no burning of wood, even deadfall. She said it was like burning bones, and instead enchanted stones for heating, for cooking.

The smell of them was clean and tingling. It made him think of summers' days, gleaming. Of shaping stone and resting against the high and arching walls of the palace, or his family's humbler home. A pleasant thing, but never quite the same as that good resinous smell of sweet woods. But these smokes were mingled with too, too many things.

An alchemist's nose was not suited to such a place. Discreetly, he tucked his nose against his jacket now and then, breathing in the good herbal soap and faint lingering scent of where her hand had touched it earlier.

He wasn't quite sure when another terrible cider appeared. He was less sure why he drank it. There was some vague memory of being asked about their home, but he'd offered mostly just some babble about clean and bright and bread and the cat stealing his pillow, which had left Maura more than disappointed.

The next he knew, he was being helped up. "The room?" he heard. Then, "Maura, just how many did you let him have?" There was laughter. There was a nudge.

"Your somethin' younger shan't remember a thin' t'morrow. All ready for ye," he heard someone say.

"That's terrible, poor Peter. Ready to drag upstairs, you mean. I should make YOU do it," he could hear Miss Talimah scolding gently. "And why would you think such a thing? Ilmryn is not SO old. Younger than I, really."

"Dreams an' memories get a bit cold a' night, tho. I'm sure y'r ol Jaques is warmer than y'r green eyed lad."

There was a sigh as he felt himself steered, and he was vaguely aware of being taken to a room, of trying to argue about the single bed, then there was just dreams, wistful dreams of sweet song and smoke making miracles, and laughter.

Falamh left the lamp burning, ignoring the smell of oil as best she could as she sat on the floor, watching Piotr drool on the thin pillow. The rooms here were cleaner than one would expect, small as they were. They brought back memories, not all bad ones.

"He is going to be sick as a dog tomorrow," she told the frost-fine figure sitting by her harp, tracing its carvings, "but he will be fine. See?"

--Never mind that he fell asleep babbling about...--

"Yes, well, I am fair sure someone thought she was doing me a favor, and who knows what she told the lad? I pity her husband, if she thinks like that. But perhaps she thinks it a better story than the ballad of Saranelle." Falamh smiled faintly for Fior.

Certainly it did not downplay madness, that she chatted with the last hallucination, the one who would not be silenced, now. But it was dark and cold, and now that the other voices were silenced, the old elven man reminded her so, so much of her lost home. It was not as though she would find any other from Dh'asi in her travels. Her imagination had certainly not drawn forth any others in the ghost-times.

--He fancies you. That is not so terrible. I mean, he is a human, so he is hideous, songbird. But they all are. Please, tell me this Ilmryn you always talk on is at least not human?--

"They are not SO bad. But I am beyond such things, Grandfather. You made me so. I doubt your wife longs for such now, either."

There was a grim look on the ghost's pale face at that. --Fair enough. Though you needn't be so cruel. You realize it would be simpler to tell him you just go murder people with his uncle, yes? He is clearly jealous. His uncle gets two beautiful women, and he has only the comfort of...-- Fior seemed to think on what he was to say, had the decency to look a little embarrassed, thought on it a moment, then filled in the awkward silence with, --stolen distillation spirits and what, staring at his cousins and knowing them forbidden? It is dangerous, keeping a young man like that.--

"So, what? You would have me comfort the lad? And when he realizes it cannot be more than a pat on the head or a kiss on the cheek, have him...I have at least THREE who were that stupid I dedicate to, Fior. And no, all three were not human." Falamh rolled her eyes at the spirit before her. "Besides, he is not well. It would be taking advantage, and neither of us would be happy. I will try speaking to his uncle about letting him out a little, letting him find a nice human friend. Before Honey gets much older, because that...no."

--Not ugly, but you would not let him have your daughter, ah?-- Fior laugh, a spirit's ghostly cool chuckle, like the breaths of the snowy air without.

"Among their people, consent is fifteen. That is much, much too young." Falamh's nose wrinkled. "I will not have him troubling my little girl."

--Fair enough. But still. Telling him you murder is better than letting him think what the vaguely pretty one thinks.--

"Oh, come now, Grandfather. Liana would be beautiful even among our own people, even so round and with such curls. Admit that. But murder? It is not that. It is..."

--Warfare. Killing. Hunting, save not for eating. So it is murder. I, too, worked for murderers. Your kind is a tool for it. You were crafted, honed for it. You follow your nature with him, and he is forged as a murderer too. You are right enough that the golden one would be useless for it, but you and he are murderers.-- It was hard to say how the ghost, hallucination, dream was feeling about it. His pale features were turned from her, focused on his tracery of the delicate harp on the floor. But she knew it could not be approval, that she killed for the Kanaces. That she killed for anyone, on purpose.

She had left many dead behind her, in her years searching for death. A small handful still, when Honey was young and she had abandoned her search to live for her daughter. But not purposefully. Not like now. It was almost better to be suspected an adulterer than to admit they hunted men, and the beasts that served them. Almost.

There was, in that single word, discontent. And that caused a flare of annoyance, which brought out all sorts of nasty little thoughts. And she seemed wholly unable to resist the little whims that came with having finally given in to her darker natures. So, with a thought, her finger still stroking at the collar, she took that from Margaret. She didn’t want to wait for the collar to make it’s slower transformation. She told Margaret she would be happy, that her old life would fade away, would be like a dream. And so it would, her power working into the human’s mind relentlessly.

Her life before this day, a dream. Her desires bent toward serving Boudica, pleasing Boudica. Her joy centered on affection from Boudica, praise from her Mistress. (Not Lady. Never Lady. She wasn’t fey, she was so much more than merely fey.) And the certain knowledge that she was Boudica’s, had always been meant to be Boudica’s, would do anything for Boudica.

When she withdrew those tendrils of power, she felt a touch of weariness. Her power, beyond the little she used in her work or the little prophecies that would come over her, had long laid unused. And like anything, it needed regular use to strengthen. Something that would happen, now that she no longer restrained it. But, for now, she was tired. And she only wanted to be with her Margaret, to be cared for. But...she couldn’t take her home. The place she lived wasn’t fit for her anymore. And she couldn’t go to Mother’s. Not...yet.

She would have to think on it.

“Margaret, my lovely girl, do you feel better now?”

"No."

She sounded... confused. She hadn't felt badly before. Why should she feel any different now?

Man, Boudica is swinging wildly, and I feel so bad for Margaret.

She was so precious, but so damaged. Someday, Ioannis thought, she might find a way to help the girl. Though, that might not be a kindness. Her very simplicity was a protection against some of the terrible things that happened in the world.

“Take what you like, Stacy. Eat your fill.”

And to be sure the girl at least got a start at it, she took a forkfull and offered it to the girl herself. And she thought with a dark sort of amusement how her Lord Husband would rage at the very idea of her feeding a caitiff like this.

01-Jan-2019, 20:45:28 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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-chachaslidetrip.

So, I think I saw when backreading that you were figuring out if you should make Boudica's mom or if I should?

Anyo.

I was fucking with dice. The dice suck.

Anony. <3

Well. What did she expect, really? But the sound of discontent was gone. That was all Boudica cared about in the moment. She nudged gently at the human.

“Get down. We’re going back out into the shop. The couch there. I don’t want to go all the way home, and I’m...tired.”

And when Margaret had gotten off her lap, she forced herself up and went out to flop with exactly zero decorum onto the couch. She’d done this thing. But she’d had no plan. She had to figure things out. She was ill-equipped for this, and she knew it.

01-Jan-2019, 20:46:25 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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Colin.

Carvis. <3 <3 <3

Well. That was it then. It seemed distasteful to her, but she had to subdue Gwendydd until she could make the potion and try to fix the mess she was in. (And the begging, it did something to her, made something within her stir and whisper to her.)

She moved the rod to purpose now. Working Gwendydd with it in every way she could think of. Seeking to pleasure her until she simply couldn’t take anymore. If that didn’t subdue her, Juliana just didn’t know what else would at this point.

Well, I think we're fast approaching the point one of us should.

I know. I have my eye on two or three things that might need a character or two added, or sommat. But...eh.

Rah to people I need to rah at.

Oh? What are the others?

01-Jan-2019, 20:51:45 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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rah back at you Lia. :D

Charlotte's Mommy and Daddy.
And I know there was another one I was thinking might need someone made. But it escapes me who or why right now. So either I'll remember, or I won't.

How's Anony tonight?

And I guess the first one there is less 'needs made' and more like 'Bran can't leave shit well enough alone.'

01-Jan-2019, 20:54:12 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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Good, way less itchy after I took claritin this morning. -lean.- How about you?

Good.

I'm tired, but so what else is new.
Stupid shit with Mum, stupid shit with Ame, fuck people.

She obeyed instantly. And as soon as Bouidca went, she followed. And she was not too proud to crawl right beside Boudica as soon as she had laid down. She needed Boudica. She knew that. And she knew so little else.

Okay. Sorry about that. I'm over being grumpy.

01-Jan-2019, 21:02:59 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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I think I know what's bugging me about Sabrina.

It's too dark at times to see.

Laptop? Fiddle with the gamma? I mean, I could see it okay on my tablet, so I dunno.

01-Jan-2019, 21:05:22 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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It's brighter on the laptop, it was dark on the tablet.

I have all the things bright on my tablet or I can't see. I gave up watching on there before Netflix and stuff were canceled because it hurt my eyes too much. Roku someday, oh yes.

And I honestly don't know what to do with Boudica now. Sorry. I'll be on Whatsapp, and I'll be back when I have words again.

The first time, she just got lost in it. It took away the thoughts of Lyric. That was enough.

But it didn't stop. And she was surprised at how long her body could go along with this, how much desire there was brought forth by a human of all things. And soon, soon she couldn't think of Lyric, couldn't think of anything. She writhed, moaned, screamed, and flopped. Finally, she was so subdued at it, so meek. And she looked at Juliana... and for a split second, Juliana could finally believe that Gwendydd was hers. And then Gwnedydd's eyes fluttered shut, and she was still

It would be nearly seven hours before she stirred again. Barely enough time to get the potion finished, if Juliana did everything perfectly.

01-Jan-2019, 21:21:54 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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Ohh... when her white dress turns black nder the eclipse. Pretty.

Charlotte fingered what was in her pocket. It would start to glow, not that it would be seen there. And Kathleen would start becoming... suggestible.

"I think we should just drive around the country for a little bit. Nobody's waiting for us. And it's so peaceful out here. So nice and quiet. Just a chance for you and me to enjoy each other's company, no other stress involved."

"Everything."

She slipped her fingers into Helen's hair, and grabbed tightly.

"I want you to need me, I want you to ache for me. I want to do things to you that would make what I just did to Becky seem gentle, and I want you to beg me for more. And I don't know why I want those things. But I do."

Although she was starting to understand. This house... the spells on Helen. She thought she could claim these things and not be tainted by them. But she was wrong. Oh, was she wrong. She just couldn't bring herself to care anymore.

01-Jan-2019, 21:28:49 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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Me, watching Sabrina: -SNAPS.- YOU GO GIRL.

01-Jan-2019, 21:42:18 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
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take this sinking boat and point it home...
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I meant to come in and type something, but my brain is like "HI WHEEEEEE."

And somehow. Somehow that helped.

She wanted to say so much. But none of it would come. She was too afraid to say it. Afraid of what Sveta might say.

(And oh, a part of her burned to have this thing out of her, so that she could claim Sveta the way she yearned to.)

She tried to think. It was so hard. So muddled.

(In truth, it just hurt to think about it.)

"Daegan. Lord Daegan. He was... not as strong as he thought he was. He never would have subdued me on his own, with my power. He had help. He thought... once he had me, that help was no longer needed. And I bided my time. And then I escaped."

The morning came with a thunderous headache, a queasy feel of vomit in the back of his throat, threatening, and the sweet smell of herbs, flowers, and poplars. One of his hands had slipped to tangle in that wealth of rich, dark hair. Talimah herself had fallen asleep against the bed, half sitting, her wings splayed around her in a glory of flashing oilslick darkness and moonstone shimmer, a leg half revealed by the fall of her dress as she had shifted in her slumber. Her dainty foot was bare.

So, elven folk had five toes, too, then, he thought in a vague amusement through the glancing pain. It was not the best way to wake, but far from the worst.

She frowned a little in her slumber, and her dark lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, as though she dreamed some sorrow. He winced as he frowned a little at that, and slowly freed his fingers from her silky hair. Her harp sat against the little table with the water she'd brought up sitting upon it, her pale toes pointing to it. It was dim in here, shuttered as it was. This was no inn with high glass windows, after all, but with small, oiled paper matters. A small comfort.

He moved with care, washed his face, and escaped to go find somewhere to be quietly sick where she mightn't be troubled by it. She ought have taken the bed. Though, he supposed, it might have been hard for her to fit the wings.

He shook his head at himself at the thought that waking with her on the floor would have been better. Because she had wings. Hah. He hoped he had not said anything too foolish. It was still better than being at home longer.

There was a wide grin for him, as he waved the woman off downstairs, then thought better and had sense to ask where he might, ah, freshen up. Or at least empty his stomach of a rotten orchard mixed with spoilt potatoes. Ugh. At least once he emptied his gut, Israfel was glad to see him. He'd taken the enchanted collar off, because damned if it made sense to leave the horse happy to be stolen. It was still odd Gwion hadn't taken him along. It was odder that Uncle let them take the horse out, when they were supposed to be so hard to notice, for it was obviously a knight's charger, and that was damned hard to hide.

Well, so be it. He wandered a while, free of everything but lingering nausea and a pounding headache, and troubled a few shopkeepers for bits and bobs for the children, and Liana, and looked for something fine enough for her.

She wasn't the sort you bought ribbons for. There were not chains of silver with blooms like stars enchanted to sift through hues from dreams, or even good songbooks about these places, and he knew better than to ask for the fool things he would have wanted for her at home.

He came back at last some hours later, to find her sitting with Maura, sharing a pot of indifferent tea and nothing more. She wore the beautiful white linen garb of the night before, her dark hair rearranged with those little gleaming pins, and she wore a faint smile as she listened to some talk of Maura's younger daughter's new babe. She then fluttered a pale hand his way, inviting him to join them.

"Have you eaten, Peter?" she asked softly.

"Oh, ah. Yes?" he lied, hardly wanting to.

"Have some tea with us. We will get some salt and sugar before we go, maybe a little pepper and some peppermints for the children and lemon drops. And some nice thread, I think."

He nodded and sat down, nursing unwelcome tea and earning a pat on the back as Maura rose. "You come around right well, lad. Have a good night?"

"It was well enough," he said softly. Everything was still too loud, even after all that. He knew what would help, of course he did. But he couldn't be bothered. "Maybe less hard liquor next time, I am out of the habit," he then admitted with a watered smile. "I do not remember much."

Maura gave a knowing sort of look, then walked away with a switch of her washrag.

"Have you had any distillation of willow, or..." Falamh began to ask, looking mildly concerned. "You seemed fine, when I left you. I am sorry for not making certain you had water. I told you. I do not get drunk."

"You certainly look better than I feel," Piotr confessed. He then waved it away. "Never mind it. It is not so bad." He finished the tea and rose, and then it was quiet and polite trading, and he noticed that Talimah was picking several gifts for Liana, and absolutely nothing for Uncle. Eh. Her own matter.

He doubted that would make up for her agitatedly trying to wave the woman out of the laboratory, then racing off into the midday without explanation.

They walked Israfel out of town, and she ducked away to fetch the dull overdress, to return her hair to its dull and plain braid. She made no complaint as he lifted her to the saddle, then mounted ahead of her.

The snow was crisp and bright about them, burningly so. The pounding in his head made it hard to think, to talk. He glanced back now and then, sighed, began to ask something more than once, then let it trail away.

Even in her high necked woolens and with her hair plainly bound, she was still beautiful. So beautiful. Even with a hint of pipesmoke and ale about her, she was still...

Oh, better not to dwell on that. He wished she would smile, as she had when she was playing her harp, though. As lovely as she was now, she had been truly beautiful when she smiled. But to ask a woman to smile was a dangerous game, with no trule winning, he remembered some distant cousin telling him once. He'd laughed, but there had been a fluttering nervousness behind it. He'd known something, sure enough.

"I," he managed at last. "hope I might come along again some day." He managed a pleasant smile for her, painted clear enough with his uncertainty. He honestly could not remember if he'd made a fool of himself or not, the night before.

"Certainly, if your uncle will allow it. We shall need to find a way to get Liana out sometime, too. I have been thinking on masks...your uncle says she is too potent for them to work, but...it is a problem for later." She shook her head, her glossy braid slipping over her shoulder. He noticed she did not hold round his waist today, or lean against him.

He hoped, so hoped, he had not made an ass of himself.

"It is no good for any of you," she added, "to be kept so isolated. I think...with him, it is different. But for you, and Liana, and the children when they grow older...they will need the world, and you do. We will puzzle it out."

She fell quiet again, her gaze going out to the dazzling snow.

"But you do not?" he asked, turning to look upon her again.

She continued staring out into the dark branch laced dazzle.

He turned his eyes away, focusing on the fading path. "I am sorry if I was unpleasant."

She made a sound of confusion, blinking a few times. "Ah. I was watching the path. I have lived with snow longer than without, but it still muddles me sometimes. Turn there."

He nodded, and remained silent for the rest of the way. The children were certainly happy to see them back, all but Honey, who hung back until her mother was hefted down . She went to Falamh silently, slipped her arms around her, and pressed her cheek to her, sighing and smiling warmly. All the world felt right then, a spreading warm tingle that seemed to come from the two of them. She kissed the top of the girl's head, then offered a faint smile to Liana and Jacob as they stepped out to meet them. Usually solemn Donatien ducked past his father to throw his thin arms around her as well, and then the children piled on, before following Piotr and the horse and demanding to know what they'd been brought.

She walked up to the couple a bit sheepishly. "He said he'd permission," she told them uncomfortably. "I kept an eye on him the while. He just listened while I played at the tavern, and I did not want him riding home at night."

Jacob looked uncomfortable, but nodded once. Liana considered her with pursed lips. "It is great inconvenience, you do not tell the children goodbye before leaving, Talimah," she said coldly. "They are upset, especially Honey."

Fala looked at the ground. "I am sure. I am sorry. I needed air. I..." She took a breath, looked to be sure the children were distracted, then motioned to the house. "I will put tea on. We can...we can talk, yes?"

Liana looked to Jacob, then nodded once.

*peeks back*

Okay. I stopped to play a game with Aidan and now I will try to word again. Or figure characters out. Or something.

I, uh, I might be taking a liberty.

Um. Okay? With what?

(*presents*)

Pretty.

(I was looking at some of the Imgur stuff you sent the other day, saw her, and was like, "Boudica needs a mommy." So, I can slip her into the play if you're okay with that. Otherwise, I can find another use for her.)

I really like that name, too.

Oh. I mean, whatever you want. Every time stuff gets complicated, it seems like it falls on you. I was trying to avoid that.

(I like the complications.)

It was such trouble, sometimes, having a daughter like Boudica. And it was Eireen's own fault, she knew that. She could admit it sometimes. She was weak and betrayed her Lord for a night as a demon's whore. It was out of guilt that she managed to persuade the Lord to let her keep the child close, to care for her as best she could. But she could only ever be a fey mother. And she didn't know what to do with Boudica sometimes.

Still, she kept watch on the girl, in case she had another episode. And she didn't know what was happening, only that a human woman had come in with a confused look on her face, and now the shop was closed. So she decided to investigate herself.

She was unprepared for what she saw. A weary Boudica laying next to that human, who now wore a collar.

"Oh, Boudica."

There was such pride in her voice.

01-Jan-2019, 22:10:41 MST

[ Ano. : silencioesoro. ]

Out of Character | co-host | occasional player
-------
take this sinking boat and point it home...
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Hopping off. -wave.-

Take care, youse.

Oh. There Ano is. Or...was.

Take care. <3

For a moment, she just looked at Charlotte. And for that moment, her eyes grew vacant. Then she was nodding, smiling once more. She put the van into gear and circled around to pull out of the nursery’s lot. But instead of turning right to go back to the highway, she turned left to head further down that isolated country road.

“It’s such a lovely day today. Hot, but it’s nice out here in the country. Cooler. Quiet. No stress. You’re right. This was a good idea, Charlotte.”

She whimpered when Ronnie grabbed her hair. But there was need in that sound as well as pain and fear. There was desire. And all of it grew while what Ronnie wanted was being explained. There was a part of her that did ache for it. That cried out with the familiarity of it and how she’d missed it, how she needed it, how she didn’t know how not to need it.

“I do, Ronnie. Oh, I do. Please, I want that. I want...”

She whined in frustration now. She wanted. She needed. She felt it, the sensation of it. But she couldn’t quite touch it. Couldn’t put it to words. Her mind skittered around it, not letting her quite think about it, not allowing her to recognize it.

That...is not the right one.

She whimpered when Ronnie grabbed her hair. But there was need in that sound as well as pain and fear. There was desire. And all of it grew while what Ronnie wanted was being explained. There was a part of her that did ache for it. That cried out with the familiarity of it and how she’d missed it, how she needed it, how she didn’t know how not to need it.

“I do, Ronnie. Oh, I do. Please, I want that. I want...”

She whined in frustration now. She wanted. She needed. She felt it, the sensation of it. But she couldn’t quite touch it. Couldn’t put it to words. Her mind skittered around it, not letting her quite think about it, not allowing her to recognize it.

Eh.

Creeping off to a pr to spam shit to myself until words come.

And she waited until she couldn't see anyone else around. She rubbed at the gemstone set in the bracelet in her pocket. Fed magic into it.

"Go ahead and pull over here, Kathleen."

And when the car was pulled over, she put the bracelet on Kathleen. And that would give Kathleen a distant look in her eyes.

"Now turn the car off and get in the back, Kathleen.

Her arm came up around Margaret as she settled next to her. She was warm, and that was nice. The feel of her against Boudica, and knowing the human was hers, that was even better. She thought she could even sleep like that. It would be welcome. And what did she care that it was in the shop. Really, for now, what did it matter?

Until the door that was supposed to be locked opened, letting in cool air. And as she was stirring herself to look at who had dared to break into her shop, to intrude, that achingly familiar voice, with an emotion in it she’d heard so very rarely: pride. She bolted up to sitting, back straight, eyes wide, a mix of that rage at someone daring to intrude and shame that she had been caught at having given in to what she’d tried so hard for so long not to.

“Mother.”

Above all, she was wary. There was something about the situation that troubled her. Vague memories of other times her mother had intruded in her shop, but little to no memory of what had come after for some formless period of time. And, in truth, she wasn’t sure she could keep that anger in check. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

There was a wider spot in the shoulder of the road just ahead. One of those places on country roads where you could turn around without using someone’s driveway. She nodded placid agreement to Charlotte’s suggestion and pulled over. Putting the van into park, she caught Charlotte reaching out and a flash of something bright at her wrist just as she felt cool metal against her flesh. And then…

Everything became distant. She unbuckled her seatbelt with mechanical motions born more of muscle memory than any conscious action. Then she got up and, bent to accommodate the low ceiling, she went into the back of the van. Once she was in the center of that open space, she stopped and waited for….something.

She sighed. They had had one moment, and now... now they were back to this, at odds. It was such a shame.

"I worried about you. I always worry about you. So I came to check on you. I did not expect... this. If I had, I might have left you alone until you were ready to show me." She sat down. "But now since I'm here, could you tell me how you're doing?"

Oh boy. This was working this was really working...

"Get undressed, Kathleen. Neatly, don't get anything dirty, don't... mess anything up, just get undressed and set everything neatly off to the side."

She produced a vial of what Helen considered her medicine. That elixir.

"Is this what you think you need, Helen?"

She nodded.

"Of course I will, darling. That's the whole point of this. But tell me now. Tell me what you think of your Dolores, as she is now. I'm so curious."

And she brought Frankie's eyes to her own, and brought her into that trance. Sometimes it was so hard to be honest, especially to one's own self.

Before Charlotte was finished, Kathleen was moving to disrobe. Again the motions were mechanical, born more of muscle memory than any conscious thought. As each piece of clothing came off, they were folded neatly and set carefully on top of the bags with the other clothes on them so they wouldn’t get messed up. Her new shirt. Her new jeans. Her bra. Her panties. And she set her shoes on the floor of the van next to the bags.

And then, once more, she stopped and waited, without once showing any hint of any emotion, any thought about what she was doing.

"You can... go now. If you want to. But... I'd prefer it if you would stay the night."

And she looked at Sylvia so hopefully, and with an odd sort of vulnerability to it. Like she didn't normally ask for this.

(And she didn't. She really didn't.)

She took it all in. It was a sight. Not just the body, the way that it happened at her command. She was giddy and guilt-ridden all at once.

"Tell me... tell me what you think about Charlotte. Especially the things you don't want her to know."

"Oh yes. The siren is to be her new minder. And, well... it gives me such a jolt to see someone like her end up with someone like her. It's good, clean fun." He smiled. "Tell me, are you looking forward to getting your hands dirty again? Or do you not care, so long as you're doing what I ask?"

Her eyes followed her mother, right up until she sat down. Then they turned downward. It seemed shame might be winning out over anger. Though she was self aware enough to know that could change with no notice. There was simply nothing left that even resembled any real self control for her anymore. She had been, perhaps, sweetly insane before. She was a mad thing now, and it was made worse because she knew it.

“I’m crazy, Mother. How do you think I’m doing?”

She pulled Margaret close to her, but didn’t look at her. She didn’t want to see her reaction to the fullblooded and highborn fey that sat across from them. Boudica could never match that beauty, that sheer force of presence. Hers was a more subtle beauty, and a more subtle power.

Oh, she saw that jealous act. She had to be careful here. She pulled herself into looking... less radiant. Still beautiful in a way humans struggled to reach, but nothing to upstage Boudica. It wasn't for the human's benefit -- she seemed unconcerned with anything but Boudica. But it was for Boudica, to see that there was no contest here.

"You have your good days, and your bad days. If I couldn't hear your tone of voice, I'd say it was a good day. You have such a lovely creature there, staring at you like you mean the world to her. I'd think that would brighten your mood some."

"That's good. That's very good." She pulled away just enough to look at Isabel. "We... can't spend tonight together. I have... something to do for work in the morning, first thing. But I'll see you again as soon as I can." And she kissed Isabel. "And I want to give you such sweet things to think about before we part."

She blinked. Once. Twice. A third time. And then she finally answered in a flat voice.

“She’s a lovely girl. I’m grateful to her for being so willing to get along with me. Sometimes, though, she… I feel strange around her. I imagined her in a bikini once. I dreamed one night of her coming to me and coming into my bed. I feel awkward when I think of it. She’s my step-daughter. And she’s younger than I am. Not...as much as if I were really her mother. But still. It’s so wrong. So I feel confused around her sometimes, too. But she’s...interesting. She surprises me.”

She frowned, looking up at her mother. Practically scowled, even. And she felt the stirrings of that anger again, though she tried to ignore it.

“A good day for you. You always wanted this. Wanted me to pretend I was fey, so you could forget how I got put in your belly. Better that than to listen when I said over and over I would never give in to this power. That I would never hurt anyone the way you have. The way fey do. The way demons do. If you’d listened to any of that, you’d know it’s a bad day because she’s here like this.”

Oh that was awesome. And it gave her even more ideas.

"It must be so difficult, to be around her when she makes you feel like that, and to feel you have to keep it bottled up. I know what might help you. Pleasure yourself, Kathleen. Pleasure yourself and think of Charlotte."

And Charlotte would simply watch the show.

"I have never wanted to forget how you were put in my belly."

And if Boudica paid attention to her gifts that she had long struggled against, the demon's gifts, she knew that was true on more than one level. Eireen didn't want to forget that night, because it was perhaps the most pleasurable night of her life, and she treasured the memory of that, in the depths of her heart. She had such longing in her for that. But on another level... Eireen's shame was not in having a half-demon daughter, but in not being able to provide for her daughter the way she could if she were full fey.

"I wanted you to find a way to be at peace with what you are. All of what you are. And this... trying to live like a human, which is none of what you are. That's been so hard on you, Boudica. And I just... wanted you to be happier than that."

Stooped as she was to accommodate the low van ceiling, she couldn’t do much effectively. So she went down on her knees, her legs spread a little. And without any hesitation, she reached between her thighs and she began to rub at herself. She started off slowly, clearly unused to what she was doing. But as the pleasure began to filter in, her fingers’ motions gained confidence.

It was only a few minutes before she was moaning loudly and working to bring herself off with abandon. There was no restraint, no inhibition in anything she did. Her lips remained parted. She panted nearly in time with the motions of her fingers. Her hips worked, grinding against something that wasn’t there. After a few more minutes, the moans took the form of a name. Of Charlotte’s name. Over and over, until she finally climaxed.

The moment that happened, her hand went limp, and her expression returned to placid vacancy.

Her expression went through a range of emotions in rapid succession. And then her face crumpled, and she began to sob, clutching Margaret to her not unlike a child might a stuffed animal, for comfort. She felt it. She always had. But no fey felt love like that, or so she’d been told by so many. And certainly never for a halfbreed child. Worse than halfbreed, because at least human-gaj were useful. But demon-gaj were worse than nothing. But here it was again, that love. That concern. But also that hint of shame surrounding her, which she always felt, but couldn’t puzzle out the source of, any more as a child than she could now (even though she really wasn’t that far from being a child, especially as both fey and demons reckoned it).

“I feel so lost, Mother. I don’t want to be this...thing. I didn’t want to hurt Margaret. She came and she wanted me. She tempted me. And I just….it was too much. I didn’t want to hurt her. I wanted to love her. I wanted...to make someone love me.”

Oh Charlotte loved every moment of it. And she wanted more. But she thought she should be careful.

But she couldn't help this next bit. Trying to see if she could leave a suggestion that would linger.

"Now. If any thoughts about Charlotte get to be too much, you should find a way to be by yourself and do what you just did. Pleasure yourself and think of her. Do you understand?"

“Pleasure myself and think of her when my thoughts of her get to be too much.” Her voice was, again, flat, toneless. No reaction to what she was being told beyond acknowledgment. But the last word came as a soft sigh. “Yes.”

"You haven't hurt her, child. She's not hurt. She's a human with a collar. It happens every day. And she seems contented. Oh, yes, she's not quite what you want her to be yet, is she. She needs to learn how to be a caitiff. And you need to learn how to be her Lady. But it can be taught, my darling daughter."

And Boudica had already made someone love her, although she couldn't remember that. Remember what power she had, and how wild it could be, as a child. Eireen loved her. Oh, it was the love of a fey mother, to be sure, but it was love.

"You just need to take it easy, with both of yourselves, until you get used to it." And now... now Eireen dared. "And... and please don't be angry with me, Boudica, but it would be so much easier for you and her to learn these things at home. On the estate. My husband is unwell at the moment, constantly bedridden." And she didn't know if Boudica was ready to know the cause of that. To learn a lot of things about her step-father. "He wouldn't know you were there." He had hated Boudica, and she thought the hatred was mutual. She had grown to hate him for that, too.

Well now this would be fun. And she had ways of watching Kathleen when she was alone. Oh, Charlotte was giddy over it.

"Now get dressed, and start driving. As soon as you're back on the main road, you're going to forget about anything that happened after we left the shop with the flowers, and think that we just went straight home, and not worry about it."

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. To go home (and she did still think of it as home, more often than she wanted to) would be to give up. To give up her life here. She knew that. It meant going back into that world, with all it entailed.

But it was Margaret that decided it for her. She needed to provide for Margaret. And that would be done if she went home. Margaret would be provided for. And...so would Boudica.

Maybe it wasn’t so much submitting to her mother as it was letting her mother be...her mother. She was so young, after all. She knew she was. And she wasn’t ready, hadn’t been ready when she’d left.

“Okay, Mother.” She sighed, her grip on Margaret loosening, one hand moving to pet at her hair as she looked at her mother. “I want my things here. I like to make things. It...helps sometimes. I don’t care about my apartment. But I want my things here. I want a workshop.”

She meant to sound forceful. She was certain she did. She didn’t know she sounded plaintive, achingly young and afraid, and that only became more clear as she added one last thing.

“And I don’t want my Lord Father touching Margaret.”

She nodded.

"I can send some of my caitiff to fetch whatever you like. We'll set up an apartment for you in the estate, a private little place. Margaret won't have to be with the other caitiff if you don't want her to, she can stay with you at all times. And the Lord won't touch her. I give you my word."

And she meant it. She knew what she must do, then. Her Boudica was coming home. Certain things needed to be finished.

She sighed.

“Okay, Mother. Whatever you think best.”

And oh, the layers of meaning in that simple statement. Boudica had given in, even if she hadn’t entirely realized that yet. She was putting herself in her mother’s hands, and in her mother’s care.

“Margaret,” she spoke gently now, turning her attention to the human. “How would you like to go home? Where I grew up. Mother is going to take us home, and take care of us. You… You can trust Mother. Listen to her.”

She reached for the clothes and redressed with the same mechanical obedience as she’d undressed with. And when everything was back on, she moved to the front of the van, took her seat, buckled her seat belt, and put the van in gear. She made a u-turn right there, and then started to drive back the way they’d come. Despite the glazed distance in her eyes, she had no trouble guiding the van.

When she was back on the highway and headed in the right direction to go back to the house, she blinked a few times, that vacancy in her eyes fading. She became more animated then, more aware of her surroundings. But nothing in her manner indicated she was aware anything was amiss. And she never glanced at the bracelet on her wrist that hadn’t been there before.

There was nothing to worry about.

"Home. I want to go home."

The woman -- Boudica's mother -- got up. She looked at them. "I'll give you time to get ready, and send a car for you. I have to go prepare things at the estate. I'll see you later on, once you've had a chance to settle in."

And the woman left, and now Margaret was left to look at Boudica.

"We'll... be okay, there?"

She sat down at the side of her Lord's bed. He looked so unwell, like this. It almost made her feel sorry for him, but then he looked at her with hateful eyes, eyes that told her he knew why he was sick, and that all vanished. She had made her choice long ago.

"Cordoba expands. It edges closer to this estate, which you thought was well outside of the reach of... what did you call her... 'that bitch who thinks she can run a court.' Well, now her court is at our doorstep, and you did nothing. So I had to do something. I sided with the fey of Cordoba, and they would never let a Lord like you into the court. And I was content to let you die, slowly, of this poison. But Boudica... Boudica is coming home today. And she has a caitiff now. And she doesn't want you doing anything to that caitiff. Anything at all. And I gave her my word. And I keep my promises. You know that."

She clasped her hand over his mouth, and he was so frail that his struggles did nothing.

"So you die a bit earlier than planned, Lord Husband. You won't be missed."

When it was done, she went to get ready. Her daughter was coming home.

When they got home, Charlotte departed the car.

"I'm going to put my stuff in my room and study for a bit. See you at dinner, Kathleen."

And she got the bag with the clothes and such she had bought before lunch, and her bag of much more prized things, and went to her room.

She ignored her mother’s leaving, though she heard what was said. But her attention was for Margaret now. Margaret needed her to keep it together. At least for a little while longer. And she would. For Margaret. She could sort out the rest of it – somehow – later.

“We’ll be okay there.”

And she could only hope it was the truth. She had given in. But she wasn’t sure it had been the right thing to do. It was just the only thing she could think to do in the moment.

“But I think I should gather a few things from here, even if Mother is sending caitiff to collect it all for me. There are some clothes here that would fit you well with only minor alterations. And you’ll need things to wear. We can get more later. Or I can make more. But you need things for now.”

She got up and started browsing racks and displays, considering what she had and what would be suited to Margaret at the estate. And she took a dress here, a dress there as she looked. She wasn’t worried about herself. Likely much of what she’d had was still there. And she wouldn’t be surprised if part of Mother ‘preparing things’ meant making sure she had everything she could need – and possibly want – at home by the time they got there.

When she was done, she packaged it all up neatly. After that it was a quick trip into the back for her most commonly used tools and notions. All the special ones, which she didn’t trust to her mother’s caitiff. Those went into a box. And then she brought it back out and sat it with what she’d picked out for Margaret.

“Okay then. I...suppose I should see if the car’s here yet.”

The weariness had crept back into her voice without her noticing. In truth, it had all worn her out. Even thinking of Margaret’s needs was getting to be too much. She wanted to rest so badly it seemed like a real, physical ache.

"Okay."

She followed obediently enough, and there was a car there. She got in. Boudica was being nicer than before, it would seem. And she was enjoying that. When the car started to move, she curled up with Boudica.

Despite that pervasive weariness, carrying the things out to the car that was, indeed, waiting for them, wasn’t all that hard for her. And the driver was standing outside the car waiting for her. He took her packages and put them in the trunk for her, leaving them to climb into the car. Boudica was well used to the routine of the driver and the car, and was glad she wouldn’t have to worry about what she’d brought. It would be taken to...wherever it was Mother was tucking her away at.

She could give herself over to the simple pleasure of Margaret being nestled up to her. And arm went around the human, and the other hand went back to petting Margaret’s hair. It was such a soothing thing to do. But before long, her hand slowed, and then came to a stop as she drifted off to sleep to the warmth of Margaret next to her and the gentle motion of the car.

When they arrived at the estate, there was quite the hustle and bustle, nothing that seemed relevant to Boudica's arrival. And in fact she was mostly ignored by the caitiff. But Eireen came immediately to greet them.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry about the state of things right now. But... your Lord Father. He succumbed to his illness while I was away from the estate. I just found him dead a little while ago. You can imagine the state everyone is in. But I think we still have found somewhere for you and your caitiff to stay. Follow me."

She led onward.

She's awful.

juuuuuust a bit

The rest of the trip was quiet. Charlotte was thinking...whatever thoughts were in her head, Kathleen supposed. She was thinking mainly about the new roses she’d have in the spring. And about the soup and sandwiches she planned to make for dinner.

When she pulled up in front of the house in the wide circular drive, Charlotte practically jumped out of the van the moment it was stopped. That bothered Kathleen a little, though she didn’t let it show. She told herself the girl was just done with playing nice with her stepmother for the day. She wanted to go do her own thing. And, well, Kathleen had a dinner to get started anyway, so that was alright.

She got her bags out of the back, the clothes and the groceries. Then she went into the house. She dared to leave the clothes near the stairs (which she would never have done with Brandon there, but then she wouldn’t have had dinner to get started if he was there either) and took the groceries to the kitchen.

Once she got a start on what would eventually be the tomato soup, she took the time to take the new clothes upstairs and put them away. She considered changing, but...she liked the clothes Charlotte had picked out for her. She stopped to look at herself in the mirror in the bedroom. And that led, somehow, to thoughts of Charlotte in her own tight jeans and…

Before Kathleen was quite aware of it, she found herself on the bed, jeans yanked down to her ankles somewhere along the way, with her hand down her panties furiously pleasuring herself. She felt a moment of pure, intense shame. But that wasn’t enough to stop her. She bit her lip to try to keep quiet, and she brought herself to completion quickly and roughly.

And then, appalled at what she’d done, she practically ripped herself out of her clothes and took a brief shower. She put on what was probably the most modest dress she owned, put her hair back in a severe bun, and went back down to finish dinner.

She roused herself when the car came to a stop and the sound of the driver’s door opening and closing. She was ready to get out by the time he’d opened the door for them, and she drew Margaret along with her, holding her hand as the went into the house. The scene that met them stunned her. She knew all this couldn’t be because of her. The Lord would never countenance such a disturbance to his home just for her.

She got the explanation when her mother came to greet them. But it was wrong. It had to be wrong. She hadn’t really caught it back at the shop. But she did now. Illness. Fey didn’t get ill. Or, almost never. And dying from illness was, so far as she knew, virtually unheard of. It left her confused. Even a little afraid. If some illness had made him sick, enough to kill him, enough that Healers couldn’t save him, then… What might it do to her? To Margaret?

She kept her silence, however, and followed after her mother when she moved off toward wherever it was they were going to be staying. And she worked at trying to keep her troubled thoughts to herself. She didn’t want to distress Margaret. And she didn’t want her mother to know she was distressed herself. At least more than she’d already been.

She watched Kathleen through a little seeing spell, and she sat rapt in attention as Kathleen pleasured herself. She never imagined it would happen so soon. It was thrilling. And it left her with the question of what to do next.

Finally, she decided against changing, as much as she desperately wanted to wear something to attract more attention. She would get there soon, but not yet. She managed to get to the kitchen before dinner was done.

"Um, Kathleen." She wanted to seem nervous, like she was asking a lot, and like she was worried about being shot down. "I was wondering... if you'd want to eat dinner in the living room tonight? Have a girls' night, wear PJs, eat dinner, watch a movie together. What do you say?"

Oh, poor, naïve Boudica.

Well. She's well aware fey kill each other. I think she just couldn't imagine her mother would kill the Lord. Especially that how she feels for her daughter would have anything to do with it.

*kicks the font and mutters*

She led them to a small (by fey standards) house on the grounds. Totally private, with tall hedges around it.

"Here you go, Boudica. I think this will suffice. You can call caitiff from the main house, or have Margaret go to the main house and have caitiff there help her get what she needs for you. There will be more attention to getting things fixed up out here soon, I promise." She eyed Margaret. "Ah... are you alright, Boudica? I know you never cared for him, but this still seems to trouble you."

She was surprised when they passed through the house and back out onto the grounds. And then...to a little house. Something like a guest house, though fey rarely had such things. And she hadn’t known it even existed. But it matched the house, for all that it was hidden away. So it seemed as old as the house, and had probably been there all along.

(Oh, how that might have changed things, if she’d know it existed when she was younger.)

That question, though. She wished it hadn’t been asked. She’d tried to hide her worry. And she was determined to hide it from Margaret still.

“Margaret, why don’t you go on in? Explore it. This will be home now. Find the bedroom. I’ll want to sleep as soon as I can. But I need to talk to Mother for a moment.”

She waited until Margaret had gone inside before she said anything else.

“Mother. Fey don’t get sick. What happened? Is it… Is it something I should be worried about? I don’t want Margaret exposed to anything.”

She was just finishing up the sandwiches – roasted garlic and ricotta on sourdough bread toasted a rich, buttery golden brown – when Charlotte came in. She turned her attention to Charlotte, wondering what had her so nervous. Even after she asked, Kathleen had a hard time understanding what about it made her nervous. But Kathleen… Well, it made her nervous in turn. After what had happened, she wasn’t sure being anywhere around the girl was a good idea.

“I… It’s soup. Brandon would never forgive me if he found a stain because we ate anywhere aside from in here or in the dining room.”

"There's hardwood floor in the living room and a maid. It'll be fine."

And now she broke out the big guns. She looked at Kathleen, and worked so very hard to bring all of her allure out.

"Please? I... got bad news from a friend, about someone we know at school. And I could really use the company."

It was a lie, but with a germ of truth to it. Because she really could use the company, to stop from thinking about what trouble dad was in now.

She knew that. But, still. And yet, it was hard to resist Charlotte’s plea. Her resolve softened, and after a moment, she turned away to take the sandwiches from the pan. And then she sighed and gave her answer as she was moving around the kitchen to serve up the soup and sandwiches, getting out two trays to use in the living room.

“Okay. I’ll take these in. You...go pick out a movie, I guess.”

But she didn’t look at Charlotte at all. Not even a glance.

"Okay, thank you!"

And she ran upstairs. She wanted to change into something really sexy, but that would overdo it for now. She changed into a black silk nightgown that just barely went down to her knees, and it clung to her from time to time. It would do. And she grabbed a big stack of blankets and went down to the couch, where she sat down and started looking for a movie to watch.

There was a little cart tucked away in a pantry off the kitchen. She collected it and put the trays on it, along with a glass of wine and one of water. And she wheeled it into the living room. But she had no intention of changing into pajamas. Just as she had no intention of having any of the wine tonight. She would watch a movie with Charlotte. Keep her company out of kindness. And then she would escape to her room as soon as she politely could.

So she set the trays out. One on the end table beside a chair. And one on the coffee table in front of the couch. The wine went with the tray by the couch, which was where she would let Charlotte sit. And she settled into the chair. Her only concession to comfort was to take her shoes off, setting them neatly beside the chair before pulling the tray into her lap to start eating.