Futuristic ✧⋄ Project Lilith ⋄✧ | ellarose & starboob

[starboob]

At some point during the dawdling exchange of pleasantries, Ursula loses herself to the luster of the bedroom chambers. Admittedly, it had taken her a moment and three to identify the space as a living quarters, but the bed tucked away in the corner of the room, hidden behind a mountain range of keepsakes, gave it away. And these chambers could belong to no other than her Clarke. The S-like runes that dot the surfaces are evidence on their own, as are the collection of the figurines not too dissimilar from Destiny, but still lacking a certain je ne sais quoi that would make them Lilith's creation.

She marvels over the impressive collection of ducks of rubber, stacked in a mountain pile and arranged, as far as Ursula can tell, by temperament and mood. Then she goes on to look over a collection of stuffed rodents. (Or are they rabbits? Owls? They are most haunting. She likes them.) She pokes one experimentally and elicits a low rumble of thunder from it. "DoOOooo *krrzzt* daaAAaahh."

"A pleasure to meet you as well." The object is not living in the technical sense, but Ursula supposes that she isn't either and decides the haunted creature is worthy of respect. She floats along to another corner, eyeing some loose wiring that begs for her touch until she is caught by the faintest change in light. She peers up just as the tail end of a clouds unveils the crescent shape of the moon. The stars all may have been stolen from the skies, yet the moon remains. Untouched, and going through her phases. With an ounce of concentration, she can hear the babbling brook, the symphony of crickets, and Lilith's last whisper, a warning of what was to come.

The god hadn't listened. She hadn't understood. Under those stars, she felt as infinite as the sky and full of just as much possibility. She had wanted to savor that moment and she had been right to; it was their last.

She marvels under the sky, under this clear glass ceiling (or not quite glass, but something more odious). She doesn't hear the question that has been asked. Of course it is Mischief who reminds her that she is in front of company (or rather that she is the company). He nips at her fingers and, all at once, the conversation she missed drops over her like a sudden downpour.

"Clarke and I have known each other for approximately three hours and thirty-seven minutes. …Thirty-eight minutes, now." Ursula reluctantly pulls her attention away from the moon and floats away from the ceiling, turning to face Tristian. The reflection off her spectacles completely obfuscate her eyes, making her already unreadable expression impossible to glean from. Her clothing offers some hints of her character, for even at this late hour she is fully dressed and buttoned up to her throat. Her hair is neat and pulled back into meticulous braids much like the warriors of old. Her posture is not perfect, though it is straightened out now. She is a contrast to the loud one from before, the one with big painted arms. Yet it was this scrawny one who commanded some authority over the room. Over her minions. Hmm. "We became acquainted on the infernal grounds of the Turbo Tit. Destiny brought us together."

With a sage nod and an open palm, she summons her axe from wherever she last left it (the playground) and lowers the butt so that Destiny is eye-level with Tristian. "I would rend worlds if anything happened to my Destiny."

When she is certain that Tristian understands the gravity of Destiny, she continues on, lying through her sharp teeth. "The lands from which I hail are at the precipice of creation, where thunder dances with lightning. Where the butterfly's wing births hurricanes a globe away." She watches Tristian's reaction as scrupulously as Tristian watches her. "I return to Ephemera now on a quest for vengeance and I have enlisted Clarke and the tin cat as my minions." It is but a half truth and it is the only truth that she will part with. It is not malintent, but a measure of boredom that inspires her fantastical stories. It is harmless. Though something tells her that simple lies will do nothing to win over Tristian, to convince this nerd — a word she heard during their flight — to join her army. This inkling does nothing to stop her. She cannot stop herself. Her stories are all she has. The truth was never hers and for that, she must carve her own truths.

"An attack has already befallen the House of Vengeance, as you see our dear Clarke has suffered wounds of the flesh." Ursula's lip curls. The teeth along her ribcage growl, echoing her disdain and matching the darkness of her tone. She crouches down to meet Clarke on the floor, smoothing her hand between her shoulder blades, albeit awkwardly. (It is her first time providing such comforts so it is to be expected.) "My only regret is I had not the strength to tear those enemies asunder before they concussed my minion."

She clenches her fist, her hair fanning out briefly at the same moment the lights in the room strobe rapidly. But feeling her mouth start to slip, again, she wills calm to wash over her. It is fine, now. Clarke is fine. The dead men are deader. Her mouth is only partially askew now.

"Should you wish it, I might have room for you in my army, Sir Tristian. The angry one may join as well." Ursula rather likes her temperament. She pushes and presses her mouth back into place. "If you wish to be an enemy of the state, I can think of no better an opportunity."

 

[ellarose]

"Clarke..." Tristian removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. The precipice of creation? What the hell is she on about? It's too late for this. "Can you translate?"

"I dunno... I think her explanation was perfect."

"I see." Tristian sighs, resigned. Sense may be made of all of this eventually, but not now. 'Patience.' She finds a temporary distraction in the first aid kit that Kitty had slipped in at some point during Ursula's explanation and begins to treat Clarke's scrapes, her movements careful and methodical. Eventually she peels the makeshift bandage from Clarke's head and isn't shy about going in with the antiseptic, which makes her squirm around in protest. "Stay still. It'll only hurt for a second."

There's a moment where the only sound is the wretched, static screeching of the purple Furby. The microwave hums downstairs. They can faintly hear a pair of drunkards arguing on the street outside. Must've got themselves kicked out of Daisy's bar.

Kitty climbs atop the shelves, finds her favorite nightlight, and cranks it on. There's a flicker before artificial ocean waves are projected all over the walls, changing colors in increments of thirty seconds. When she deems the mood lighting satisfactory, the cat-bot scurries over to her bed. Judging by the size of it, it most certainly belonged to a doll in a past life... but the details don't matter. It's a freakin' princess bed. It's got all the works! Pink bows, lace, satin and a canopy. Clarke found it in the garbage. They fixed it up together. Or, okay. Clarke fixed it while Kitty offered her helpful tips and moral support. Any tabloids or witness accounts that claim she was being bossy about it are all lies! Lies!

Anyway, this bed is hers, it sits high up on the shelf, and it's perfect. Her box of shelf space resembles a miniature bedroom, with the tiny drawings, posters and polaroid photos she taped to the walls there. There are curtains, which she can open and close for privacy. In the corner she has a collection of doll-sized instruments of varying shape and quality. These are just for show, considering she hasn't been able to play a single note since she lost her body. It's a downright tragedy. For now she bides her time by writing songs for the day when she finally gets her body back. Because she will get her body back.

Somehow, someway, Clarke's going to help her do it. That's why Kitty can't let her be distracted by Ursula and her silly mutt! There are far more pressing matters to attend to! She's not sure how much longer she can go on like this... not that anyone asked, but her date tonight went terribly. No one ever believes her when she tells them she'll be human and ascend to stardom again eventually. But one day they'll see. They'll all see.

Kitty luxuriates on her bed, her face pixels doing their best impression of a face-mask and cucumbers over the eyes. Ever the schemer, she grins smugly to herself as she remembers the piping hot tea she spilled on Ursula in the kitchen. Hehe. The look on Ryker's face!

From Clarke's perspective, everything is background noise compared to the overpowering scent of the antiseptic. Her nose wrinkles, her eyes squeeze shut, and she picks frantically at her nails as she tries to think of anything else. The sting doesn't bother her so much. 'Hamsters dancing down the stairs.' It's the smell that gets everywhere, it's all over her, and she'll find no peace until it goes away. 'Ham hams. Funny, silly little guys.'

Tristian takes Clarke's hand to wrap it up next and suddenly she can't pick at her skin anymore. This stillness is excruciating, it lasts way longer than a second. It takes forever.

Clarke rocks from side to side. Her mind supplies unhelpful imagery of funny, silly little guys on operating tables with their guts spilling out. 'No, not the little guys!'

"There. All done." With a gracious click, the antiseptic is sealed away and Clarke can breathe again. Whew. The imaginary guys in her head are dancing again. They're going to live after all! And speaking of little guys! Drum roll, please—

"Hamster Apocalypse time!" Clarke sings, hopping to her feet and lunging for her precious CRT TV. It plunks and hisses in the way old-timey tech does when she punches the power button. That's exactly what she likes about it, the sensory experience of it all. All the cutting edge stuff is sleek and flat and quiet— completely devoid of character. Exactly the way the Trifecta wants all the people to be. In other words, boring! "He ran out of chips and he ran out of dips. Damn, I think we missed the theme song." She frowns. "That's the best part, too."

"...It's kind of you to offer, but I really must consult the angry one before I join any armies." Tristian answers Ursula's question after this lengthy pause. In the time she tended Clarke's wounds, she came to the conclusion that this Ursula must be a talented sorceress and illusionist with a fervent desire to LARP. In other words, a nerd. As a fellow nerd and magic user, it's not her inclination to cast this woman out. Their numbers are scarce, their art a dying one, and they need to take care of each other in times like these. "Nonetheless, you can consider our abode a safe haven for the duration of your stay."

"Our abode?" Kitty asks, judgement dripping from every word.

Tristian blushes faintly, feeling rather silly now for playing along. Does the role of the innkeerper suit her? She's never really tried LARPing herself, but she's always been the slightest bit curious. Perhaps she'll work up the nerve to ask about it in the morning.

"Anyway, goodnight." Tristian shuffles backward, more than ready to escape this interaction altogether. That was dumb, that was so dumb. She turns and waves over her shoulder. "Keep the noise to a minimum up here, okay?"

"'Kay!" Clarke promises, even though she has no clue what Tristian said or what she's promising with her eyes glued to the screen. An animated hamster is shuffling around town in sunglasses and a leather jacket, turning a corner to spy on some ne'er-do-wells. The characters whisper in a squeaky, gibberish language. They have no idea he's onto them! "Ursula, check this out! Isn't he cool?" She flops onto her bed and pats the open spot next to her, inviting Ursula to join her. "Damn. He's a hellova lot better at sneaking than I am. Wonder if I could learn his techniques?"

Kitty snorts and Clarke ignores her. She squints, studying the hamster's movements closely. Um... he's leaning against the wall. And that's all he's doing. In his case, she guesses it's more about his presence than his skill. He's such a badass that he doesn't have to lift a paw to outsmart and intimidate his enemies! Is that a viable technique? Fashion?

"Maybe I need a leather jacket... Ryker might be able to hook me up with one. What do you think? Do your other minions wear some kinda uniform?" Clarke tilts her head to the side. "'Course, I like the clothes I have already. They're baggy and comfy... and leather hugs me too tight." She frowns. If she's uncomfortable it might have an impact on her sneaking skills. And not the favorable kind. This fashion strat may be tougher than she thinks. "What kinda clothes do you like, Ursula?"

 

[starboob]

"Clothing…" Ursula muses, settling into a crouched position beside Clarke. The bed creaks and sags under her weight — crumbs, bolts, and trinkets roll into the dip. She hugs her knees to her chest, rests her chin atop them, and watches the light box, fascinated and unimpressed.

This anthropomorphic hamster is not anywhere close to the high brow art of old — the kind the nobility used to hoard for private collections; the kind that covered the old temples and paid homage to the gods and the greats; the kind obsessed with proportions, perspective, and symmetry — and perhaps that is the charm. She is not so close minded that she believes the old tradition should be the only tradition. The core of her godhood is antithetical to such a notion.

Even so, this small hamster will have to do more than merely look "cool" to win her hearts over. The hamster swivels around the corner, revealing himself to the rapscallion mice. A combination of nervous and measured squeaks ensues. Ursula tilts her head. "This is utter gibberish." She doubts any rodents were involved with this production to translate. But if what she has seen of Ephemera — Infinity City — is any indicator, it is quite possible that non-human wisdom and thought is no longer sought out. A shame.

"My word. This is permissible entertainment?" She would not consider herself puritanical, and even she finds herself surprised by this hamster's choice words. Alas, she is losing the plot. She pries her attention away from the impressive light box (she decides she likes it) and turns to Clarke, recalling the earlier question. "Oh, pah. No, my minions are not required any uniform. I find those too… uniform." It is already difficult enough to tell the difference between people. They are all so… samey. (Except for her Clarke. She could find Clarke in a crowd with her eyes closed.) She does not need uniforms to make it worse.

"You mentioned a… what was it? A leather jacket!" Never in her aeons would she have guessed that leather would be used for fashion, but the hamster and the angry one, apparently, are both exemplars of this shift. "The modern configuration of garments is fascinating."

Kitty snorts from her peanut gallery above. One digital cucumber, however, slides down her screen to give the effect she is peaking. If these two nerds are going to talk fashion, she'll need to listen in. As the expert on the subject, of course!

Ursula does not acknowledge the tin cat. She instead looks down at her robes, smoothing her palms over the fabric — plain and black, there is not much to them. Even the intricate floral embroidery is done in black, masking the subtle elegance of the garment. She liked it once, but memory now sours it. 'Was I just a doll? Or a weapon dressed in elegant sheathes?' Her nose crinkles. She strangles the fabric until her knuckles are white.

"I rather fear I know not my taste for fashion," she admits, keeping her voice low. She had been naïve, so easy to impress back then that to recognize the Exalted had been doting on her — dressing her up in gifts — as a means of control would have been impossible to fathom. Her trust… "But I shall stretch my imagination for your sake, minion."

Never mind her past. It is surely a thing she can run from.

She taps her bottom lip, surveying Clarke's room. She eyes the numerous portraits plastered over the walls — those of betitted women bludgeoning fiends with their fists and other angry women with make-up that swallows their eyes — finding inspiration in what aesthetic she would want for herself. The women also remind her of their jaunt through the city and the moving portraits that had canvased entire buildings, sometimes even taking over swaths of the skies. Those subjects had all shown off a rather peculiar, if not eccentric, state of dress.

Calling forth her third eye, the burning yellow orb appears between her horns. Its cat-like pupil opens, projecting a beam of light that takes shape to mirror her memories. Folding her legs like a pretzel, she leans forward. Soon the city is built up and constructed right on Clarke's bedroom floor. She hovers her hand over the projection and curls her finger to bring up the portraits. The first are some of people with animal features such as cat tails and ears — a few even have fur! "Cute, I suppose." But ultimately not her style. She flicks her wrist, banishing the portraits.

She sifts through a good number of ones that show off styles similar to Clarke's, with opalescent fabrics and shaded eye glasses with fun shapes. While the colors give Clarke the effect that she is the reflection of a rainbow in a spray of water, Ursula is not convinced this is the statement she would like to make for herself. As the head of the House of Vengeance and the primordial general of the army of vengeance, her foremost wish is to strike fear in the heart's of her enemies. Intimidation must be her first weapon and what better tool for intimidation than fashion. The fairies knew this well. Taking their wisdom into account, she passes on these looks.

Next is general eleganza — clothes that served as pieces of art themselves. Exaggerated shoulders, loud patterns, bright colors, absurd textures and textiles — these are all an immediate 'no' if only for how impractical they seem. "Bleugh."

At last! The portrait series that had mystified and entranced her the most — the ten most wanted criminals in Infinity City. (Ursula hopes to meet such champions of discord and makes a private note to ask if any of them are Clarke's friends.) She can envision herself perfectly among these murderers, arsonists, terrorists, and thieves. They even have "cool" names such as Lazarus and Andromeda and Phyllis. Their features are roughed up, covered in scars, and tattoos — some of them have robotic jaws, diamond teeth, or cables instead of hair. At least one might be a full robot. Aside from their imposing, mean looks she particularly admires the number of spikes covering their leather jackets, piercings, and hair. All of it dares misinformed do-gooders to bite their thumbs at them and suffer the consequences of humiliation and failure. Perfection.

Her eyes twinkle with star bursts.

Meanwhile, Kitty discretely moves her extendable tail to the shelf containing her collection of rescued magazines. Winding her tail around them, she gently plucks them from the shelf and lowers them to the floor. When they're about a foot over the ground, she drops them and whisks her tail back before Clarke's weird new friend can see. It's nothing — seriously. She just would hate to be seen with a walking fashion faux pas. It would seriously crush her already abysmal dating life.

The stars in Ursula's eyes fizzle and die with the interrupting thud. She blinks, staring at the pile of soft books. One by one, they rise from the floor and hover closer to Ursula. Their yellowed pages start turning rapidly on their own accord. Ursula's eyes glow as she takes in the information on each page. Abruptly, the rifling stops. There. In one of these magazines is the most delectable leather jacket. "Yes. Yes — this will do just fine."

She drops the rest of the books ("Hey! Careful with those!") and holds up the beloved picture to some of Clarke's portraits of the angry women, then juxtaposes these materials with the wanted posters. A vision of the perfect outfit starts to materialize in the god's mind. "Watch this, minion, and take notes."

It should be noted that Ursula does not provide any insight on what she is doing or how it works. The beloved jacket glows on the page, then lifts up from it — lifts off of the model — and manifests in Clarke's bedroom. (Somewhere in a penthouse unit across the city, a valued Zuhal piece goes missing from a poor trillionaire's private fashion collection. He does not notice.) A similar glow swallows the spikes on the wanted posters and disappear, only to reappear on Ursula's newly acquired motorcycle jacket.

The second cucumber falls. Kitty leans over the ledge of her shelf, her face now mirroring the '(○ □ ○)' emote.

The fabric of her own robes then unravels into threads of light that crisscross over each other to form a new pattern. The dried splatters of blood peel from her skin and swirl around the newly constructed outfit, then meld with it. With the snap of her fingers, the clothes slam into (and onto) Ursula, conforming to her body perfectly. (By now the hamster has apprehended the mice after a fierce battle of wit. She finds it important to note this.) She tugs at the collar of her motorcycle jacket, now adorned with spikes around the shoulders, studs around the chest, and features red embroidery that mimics splatters of blood. She swivels her hips, swishing her new tulle maxi skirt to show off the red layer beneath the black. This also shows off her chunky heeled black leather boot with steel toes. And spikes, of course.

Kitty leans slowly back, cucumbers sliding back up her screen. No comment. Not yet. But she probably will tell Ryker about this development. She just needs to figure out how to twist this as evidence of Ursula's nefarious intentions with Clarke.

Ursula wipes her brow with the back of her hand, surprised to find that it's wet. 'What is this?' For one who has pushed mountains from her path and wrestled with the winds (and won, might she add) that should have been the effort of flicking a pebble. She attributes this to her long imprisonment, certain it will fade.

Unwilling to let this small exhaustion (whatever that is) stop her, she reaches for her axe and slams it down onto the floor. (Clarke is the only one who promised to keep the noise down. Ursula made no such deal with the nerd.) She tosses her head back with a hearty laugh. Lightning flashes outside in spite of the otherwise clear skies, overwhelming dozens of power grids across the city. The power flickers on and off throughout Clarke's neighborhood. "The House of Vengeance has returned!"

It had not existed until fifteen minutes ago when she mentioned it to Tristian.