Fantasy The Case of Lockheed Orphanage for the Supernaturally Gifted

Coyote · Dec 27, 2022

Feral

Upon turning over the painting, the first thing that could be noticed was the dripping paint. In fact, all over the floor, there appeared to be a splatter of black. One thing was glaringly wrong: a cavity now existed in the Owner's eye socket, as if someone had dug their fingers into her skull and ripped that dark, midnight organ from her face. The other, remained unblinking, a piercing stare digging into Colette. When she blinked, the painting had returned to normal. No. The portrait of an elderly man of stately import. A man not seen around the orphanage, yet his image remained on its walls. Thin hair swept over a balding head and sagging wrinkles over his dour visage. Only he did not return entirely as himself. Red paint lay dripping down his face, splattered like blood. Like the Owner, his eye too was ripped from its neural cords and what remained was a grisly portrait of this unnamed gentleman. What could be considered more eerie was the sudden feeling of three dimensionality. Could it be that the now empty socket... something glistened within. Something metallic beneath the dripping, drooping oil of the marred eyelids of the gentleman.

SavannahSmiles · Dec 27, 2022

location

Dining Room

mentions

Frida & Doris

Tags

Ghostiiys

Jasper Cummings

Bile rose in the back of Jasper’s throat as he felt Frida go slack in his hold. If anything, the lack of a struggle should have been easier for him to manage. It was a much-needed gift in return for the mess he was now facing, but her doused spirit dug him deeper in his guilt. Her struggling laugh did little to ease him.

“I’m sorry...” Jasper murmured the quiet confession, one that wasn’t meant to be overheard by the girl.

He wondered briefly if he should shift her into a more comfortable position, but the solace would be unjustifiable. The comfort Jasper could give was not for him to decide.

He dragged her limp body through the hall. His shoulder slowly became sore from the exertion of his waning strength, but he refused to stop. When he made it to the doorway of his room, he leaned Frida against the wall and finally let go of the girl. He quickly opened his door with his left hand and grabbed Frida’s arm to pull her inside.

Once Jasper was in his room, he released Frida and shut the door behind him. He quickly looked her over and went to his dresser, pulling off his satchel to find a pair of tweezers. He moved the wooden chair that was still sitting beside the furniture and turned the seat to where it now faced the girl and pulled the chair rearwards so his back could conveniently block the door as well.

He moved to sit cross-legged on the plush seat and propped his injured arm against his leg. The cuts had already stopped bleeding and he executed precision in getting the bits of ceramic out of his forearm, wincing as each piece of plate was dragged out of his skin.

He thought for a moment of ignoring Frida, to brush her actions on her character. He thought about shouting profanities, or to perhaps strike her, but even the callous notions wrenched his gut. This was so clearly something more than the actions of a reckless and insensitive girl.

“What’s wrong?” He finally asked Frida softly.

coded by natasha.

Coyote · Jan 10, 2023

Chapter Two: Cain and Abel

Monday, December 6th, 1926

"It is thought by many that when God marked Cain and sent him out into the world, he was killed in the Flood in which Noah built his Arc. But nothing ever dies quite so easily, never mind the first murderer. He would know that most intimately of any man that ever existed. And just like the devil lives on his Hell, Cain lives on... elsewhere. It is my belief that all things that walked between Heaven and Hell continued on elsewhere. The angels who sided with neither God nor the Devil still live among us, but religion has erased their existence from history. Was it because the Lord saw fit to teach us His Word in a simplified manner? Or is something far more sinister at play? Where do things go if they do not live in Heaven, on Earth, or in Hell? Where else could they go? In my thesis, I shall-" the Professor awoke.

How many times had that dream played in his head? Those weren't his words but he knew them by heart. It was spoken by the man that inspired his study into Oddities and the Other. These orphans... there was more to them than he could see but life's greatest discoveries always remained veiled by its most puzzling challenges. It seemed he was asleep in his desk once more. The morning was bright and the dust floated visibly in the rays of light that spilled in from the windows. The Professor sat up and placed a hand over the documents he was perusing. He still hadn't found the book he'd lent Abigail prior to her disappearance. His hope was that someone like her could learn and join him in his studies, not charge headlong into the unknown without a second thought. Did she discover something he had missed?

Something else also bothered him about yesterday's events. As eventful as it was, the Owner had instructed him not to act. In fact, she had instructed Edgar and Uriel not to act either. The Professor scoffed. Instructed... what a generous word to give the Owner. Something about her felt rotted to him. No matter how hard he searched for the source of that feeling, he could not remember. His name, nor his beginnings at the orphanage, nor his childhood, nor his own mother and father were known to him. He passed a finger across the sharp scar that ran across the back of his head. He could not even recall how he had come to forget all of those things.

"Uriel!" he called out. There was a stirring outside his office. It seemed Uriel had fallen asleep in one of the library chairs again. Foolish girl. If less of her energy was spent on that dullard of a boy, she wouldn't be so tired. Perhaps it was time to commit her to her studies more.

"Uriel!"

"Yes, Professor," a groggy voice called back.

"Fetch me my cup of coffee and some breakfast, will you?" the Professor barked.

Uriel mumbled her reply and stumbled out of the library.

"Five minutes! Neither me nor my stomach have time for your and your pet soldier!" he called after her.

Uriel, for her part, didn't have time either. What her body wanted most in the mornings was sleep, but it never came. More than anything, she wanted to prove herself to the Professor. To prove he made the right choice in adopting her, but the fact was, for every expectation she met, another higher one stood in its place. She stopped for a moment in front of a mirror situated in the northeastern corner of the Foyer and brushed her hair aside. It seemed every day, she grew paler, her hair thinner, her body more frail. It was practically begging for her to be treated with more care but Uriel could never indulge herself in the matter. What mattered was the Orphanage, the orphans, the Owner, and the Professor.

"Morning to you, Uriel!" Edgar called to her with a smile.

"Morning..." she said.

"No break last night either then?" he asked.

Uriel shook her head and kept walking. No time for Edgar, he said. The Professor's words were all she could process this early in her day. So, she walked on with a passive wave to Edgar.

The kitchen was bustling once more with the hum of the morning light in the orphanage. The previous day's events were fresh on the mind's of everyone and for the part of most, it was all they could think about. If nothing else, the smell of eggs, bacon, and sausage drifted pleasantly through the halls like a siren song for the stomach of the young orphans. Perhaps today could be better. Perhaps today could be called normal again. No. It couldn't. There was one among them still missing. Abigail was nowhere to be found and her absence made itself known in the empty seat at the table - begging... pleading not to be forgotten.

Suddenly, a knock rings out from the foyer and, true to his duties, Makoto makes his way to the door to receive the new Caretaker, Annabelle Lee Taylor. The extra hand would prove to be some much needed help given the disastrous dinner of the previous night. New blood could prove well enough that some sense could indeed return to the odd orphanage. But, when Makoto opened the door, it was not Annabelle Lee. In fact, it was no Caretaker at all.

For a moment, nothing but silence passed between them. An older, disheveled man with rowdy hair and a face freckled with dirt stood before Makoto. His eyes darted about nervously and he clutched his coat tightly. He was unshaven, smelled of rubbish, and if it weren't for his rather odd location at the threshold of the Orphanage, he could be mistaken for a beggar. As far as anyone was concerned, no person unauthorized by the British Crown was permitted to enter the Orphanage grounds. As if reading the questions forming in the mind of a skeptical Makoto, he spoke.

"H-Hello..." he muttered, "My name is Robert Cummings. I'm looking for Jasper. I'm his brother."

tityanya · Jan 10, 2023

𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝐽𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠

I am here: Breakfast Hall
With: Orphans and Caretakers, presumably

The currents have their say...The time is drawing near

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That night, Charlotte had a dream about her brother. In the dream, she had woken up early, long before any of the other unfortunate children she was interred with. She had plans. She quickly rushed to get dressed, tying her hair up and freshening herself up with rosewater before scurrying down to the main hall. She watched out the windows with eager anticipation, and after a few minutes her prize had come: an open-topped car, driven by none other than her brother Abraham. Charlotte wrenched on her coat, and rushed outside and to the car's side before her brother even had a proper chance to park. A beautiful blue Rolls-Royce that Abraham had bought specifically for her and her...aversion to cars. "Char!" the man said, a giant grin on his face as he put the car in park and jumped out, embracing Charlotte in a hug.

The siblings took off, Charlotte excited for the day trip ahead of them. In her dream, there was no government chaperones. Only her and Abraham, the wind rustling through her hair as they sped down the road towards town. First was getting breakfast, a much more warm and loving experience than anything she had experienced recently in her waking life. After that they saw a movie, and a stroll through the park...Charlotte had made a huge itinerary of all the things she wanted to do with Abraham while he was here. She only had one day before he had to go back home, visiting her a mere stop on his way back home from his fancy London college. While they were together, he told her about what was happening with the family: Nan had been sick, but was currently on the mend. Charlotte worried endlessly for her. Ever since Granddad had died, Nan had been a mere shadow of herself. Frail and bedridden, Charlotte was afraid that she would never see the old woman again.

Aunt Dottie was doing well, and was bringing her children with her from Liberia for Christmas. Charlotte was surprised at this news: Dottie had moved to Liberia with her husband and had sworn she would never set foot in England again. Something had clearly changed her mind. Was any other family coming for Christmas? No, of course not, seeing Abraham's face would remind them of how they abandoned poor orphaned children. They often even refused to refer to the home she and Abraham had lived in together as an orphanage--instead referring to it as a "boarding school." Yeah, a boarding school where one of the entry requirements was dead parents. Charlotte was fine with them not gracing the halls of the family manor. They didn't deserve to be there.

As their day trip wound to a close, Charlotte's anxiety began to increase. The dream became more distorted, black shadows pulling at the trees that had previously shone with glittering light. She didn't want to be left behind. One of the worst days of her life is when he had told her he was leaving her behind as he aged out of their old orphanage. She had begged him to take her away from the orphanage, to sign as her guardian as now-head of the Jones house. And he told her that he couldn't, that she was better off where she had kids her age to be friends with and people to take care of her. If he took her home, she would be locked inside all day with Nan while he was away at college. Charlotte personally didn't see a problem with that, but there had been no convincing Abraham otherwise. He was set and determined that Charlotte was better off where she was.

As they pulled back up to the manor, Charlotte stared at him with sad eyes. "Come on now, Char. We had a good day, no? Don't ruin it with the tears, he said, giving her a brotherly pinch of the cheek. "You'll come get me as soon as I turn eighteen, right? You promise?" she asked, looking towards the orphanage. "Of course, Char. You'll be the lady of the house from that day forward. I can introduce you to some of my college friends, and we can put al this business behind us," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the building. "You just have to hold out until then, Queenie. I've even got a friend that is willing to take you out for a ride. I know how you love motorcycles. Now go on, back inside."

Charlotte followed her brother's request, her head dizzy as the dream disintegrated around her. She woke up then, feeling morose. Yesterday had been...ugh. She didn't even want to think about it. She had dragged herself out of bed, only to nearly make it to the dining hall for breakfast when a wave of...negativity was the easiest way to say it. It had sent her reeling, straight back into bed for the whole day. She had heard snippets of things going on--Abigail had gone missing, much to everyone's surprise. Frida had screamed, and Charlotte had nearly managed to pull herself out of bed to go check on her before the exhaustion took over. Now that Charlotte had a mind to process it, she was surprised. Bookish Abigail, who Charlotte often shared quiet moments with in the library? Missing? That didn't sound right to her. And now today, there was the already fading memory of her day with Abraham. She hadn't seen him since that day. Since she had blown up a wall because she was so upset. He hadn't written, even though in the beginning Charlotte had written him a letter a day, begging forgiveness, that she hadn't meant to cause a scene, she was just upset. But there wasn't a response. The Abraham in her dream wasn't the Abraham in real life. He had abandoned her to this place, joining the rest of the family in leaving her behind because she was the one who had the audacity to survive.

Charlotte pushed the thoughts away and crawled out of bed, literally. Arms hitting the floor, Charlotte rolled over and stared at the ceiling. She felt disgusting. The only time she had gotten out of bed the previous day was when Oliver and Olivia had come in, covered in injuries. Frida caused them, Oliver ranted. Charlotte had worked on braiding Olivia's hair as Oliver explained the horrific events of dinner. Frida had apparently caused Olivia an injury, and when Oliver had asked about it, she blew up. A chair, a vase, all kinds of items around the room hurled at them. Charlotte listened with a careful ear and a frown on her face. Frida was known to blow up, sure, but this was extreme. She was going to have to ask the girl later, when she was in a better state of mind, what had happened. She didn't doubt Oliver's telling--she just wanted to ask Frida why she had done it. She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in her friend.

Olivia had spent the night, of course, something that Charlotte hadn't objected to. The girl needed to stay away from Frida for the moment. Charlotte glanced over at their slumbering forms, Oliver wrapped protectively around Olivia. She felt a pang in her heart. She and Abraham had laid like that often, in the early days of being orphans. Charlotte hoped that the two of them would remain so close forever. She knew just how much of a ragged hole it left when someone you loved and trusted was no longer there for you to rely on.

Charlotte pushed herself off the floor, throwing her blanket back onto the bed. The caretakers could yell at her later about tidyness and made beds. She looked up at the upper bunk, and was surprised to see that Annai was missing. Well, she had been sleeping rather deep. Maybe Annai had already gotten ready for the day? Charlotte wasn't exactly sure what time it was. The rumbling in her stomach was the main motivator for her waking. A whole day without food...well, the consequences of laying in bed was starting to catch up to her. Her head felt slightly dizzy, and stars threatened in her vision. But she tried her best to blink them away as she grabbed fresh clothes from the dresser. She tip-toed out of the room, trying to be careful not to wake the twins and Hank.

She head towards the women's facilities. She had made a mistake not wearing a cap before bed, and she could feel the heavy tangles in her hair after a day of laying in bed. She shuddered to think of how unkempt she might look to any passers-by as she rushed to the shower. She turned the knob, and closed her eyes, focusing on the pipes in the walls. One of the first things she had done after arriving at the orphanage was memorize where all the pipes were--and most importantly, which one carried the hot water. She focused on that one now, drawing the hot water forth faster than it ever would come on its own. After a moment, the bathroom was covered in steam from the scalding shower. She opened her eyes, releasing her power, and stepped into the shower. Most of the time was spent detangling her long, curly hair. She had thought many times about cutting it in the modern fashion, a short little bob that would no doubt be a million times easier to manage. But her mom's voice would always come to her, singing as she put Charlotte's hair into braids: Your hair is the prettiest hair I have ever seen in my life, little miss Charlotte. In the end, her mother's voice always won, and Charlotte kept her hair long.

Charlotte finished her shower and toweled off, donning a pretty green day dress. She needed to feel pretty today. She wasn't sure she would be able to get through it otherwise. She dropped her nightclothes into the hamper, and took to the mirror. A matching green eyeshadow for her lids, a bit of rouge on the cheeks, and a dark lipstick. There we go! She was looking wonderfully presentable now. No one would be able to guess that she had spent the entire previous day laying in bed in a pit of despair. Well, except maybe her roommates. She briefly lamented the lack of privacy, before heading towards the dining hall. The scent of eggs, bacon, and sausage in the air caused her mouth to salivate uncontrollably. She needed some food, desperately. If anyone tried to pull any shenanigans like what had happened the previous night at dinner, Charlotte was certain that the breakfast would end with one orphan dead. Because she had killed the perpetrator.

Charlotte entered the breakfast room from the left-hand door, choosing the third chair closest to the door. She sat with her shoulders back and her hands pretty on her lap, her face not betraying the growing pain from the hunger she was facing.

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((ooc: I imagine Charlotte got there after people already started gathering, because she took a long time getting ready!))
((All Night))
((Outfit: dress))

Sunsmiter · Jan 11, 2023

Ozymandias
Location: Dining Hall
Interactions: Open
Mood: Sleepy and exhausted
Mentions: Orphans and Caretakers, Frida

The golden eyed orphan was poking at his breakfast, looking surprisingly sleepy for his usually cheerful self. The entire Frida-incident had seemed to have left him shaken, and even though his oddity could have repaired the damages dealt, it was far from perfect and Ozy looked rather ragged as he stared at his plate.

Paintings that had moved. Statues that had wept. A tomb of sand and ashes, almost as if it had never existed in the first place. The orphan shook his head to dislodge the nightmares, it seems as if he wasn't the only one with bad dreams lately. He hadn't bothered to even make his bed, simply resetting it back to its original position out of sheer laziness and the fact he had been staying up later than he would have wanted in an attempt to repair the Frida-situation's damages.

Ozymandias had arrived at breakfast surprisingly early and looked surprisingly unkempt from his usual carefree and sunny self. In truth, he was far too sleepy to actually give a damn, be it putting on his signature eyeliner or causing more mayhem. Even though he hadn't personally seen one of these...incidents, he wasn't joking about them anymore either.

Feral · Jan 13, 2023

Colette.

filler

home (filler tab)
mood

Sooooo tired.

filler
outfit
click

filler
location

Bedroom > Washroom > Breakfast

filler
interactions

Charlotte!

filler
Tags

tityanya

filler
home (filler tab)

Backroom Labyrinth

Cole skittered off to her room after dinner when everyone else had. Her eyes still lingered on the portrait of the man as she was shepherded into the hall by Doris. Discomfort shrouded her, both from the key and her own body. It had been over twenty-four hours since she had gotten a single scrap of food, and she was tired to boot.

Her body ached. It wasn't a concern for Cole at that moment. The nagging, tugging, aching discomfort that came along with the key she had stolen was at the forefront of her psyche. Well, it was worse than any of her hallucinations, more real.

More terrifying. Like a thousand wasps crawling all over, stinging again and again. Cole had done something wrong, had made a grave mistake taking that key. She had angered someone. Not knowing who or what, but paying for it now. She had brought this onto herself.

None of that stopped her eyes from fluttering. She was exhausted. Even if she could stand that damned iron key, attached to her skin like glue, seeing she had to keep it close. Her body had been through too much not to be tired.

She slipped a chain through one of the key's holes while standing at the dresser. Now it was safely laid bare against the skin of her neck, away from sight. She then changed into a more comfortable nightgown, light blue.

Slipping into her bed Cole pulled the blankets over her shoulders and up to her nose, wrapping herself up tight, an attempt for an idea of safety. Cole looked at the bunk above her, eyes glassy. Her toes almost touched the ends of the bed, too tall for what bed manufacturers considered the average size of a child who used a bunk bed.

The moments of quiet that the late night brought to her as the light left the sky. It gave her the time to possess all that happened during the day, all the things she had experienced. It wasn't fair. Never had been. She didn't want any of this to happen, no. All she wanted was breakfast. To eat and everything to go well, to sketch and bake and smile.

All she wanted was for Frida to be quiet for once. She'd tried so hard. Maybe she should have calmed everyone down with the nice part of her curse? Maybe Cole wouldn't have messed up so badly as to be scolded if that had been done instead. She wouldn't have cried. She never would have gone to the bathroom or met the bird then. Oh, la bête. Cole bit her lip.

She hated that damned thing. An atrocity that no god would have made. It may have led her out of the wretched place called The Other, but it still made her sore. Why was she sore? She shouldn't be this way at all. It may have been the first time she had admitted to that particular event in her life but—

Mon Dieu, she should have been over her past already. It had happened more than ten years ago, and she wasn't— She wasn't a victim. No. She may be broken, battered, and messed up in the head, but she wasn't a victim. She never would be. She was Colette, not some sob story. She was a person. She had feelings and thoughts. She wasn't a victim.

Sucking in a breath Cole blocked her trailing thoughts. This wasn't productive at all. It wasn't helping her sleep. She— Cole's mind wandered again, this time to her friends. Frida... She felt sorry, so sorry.

Cole could only imagine what the day had been like for her poor friend. She could only sympathize with how stressful the day must have been, two whole fights. Getting blamed for things, all not her fault? God— It was so similar to the theater. So many sour memories felt the same as what Frida had felt.

Cole would surely give her hugs and maybe bake her a sweet later as an apology for worrying her. Quinn would have also been worried— She had a lot of apologies to make then. Everyone at breakfast, all her friends, and all the caretakers.

Yes, she would have to do something grand. To make up for her mistakes. She— Well, there wasn't much she could do. She didn't much need a birthday this year which would lessen her burden on the Caretakers, but she had to think of the other children too. They all thought birthdays were so fun...

Cole sucked in a breath, her thoughts again taking a sharp shift in gear. Anything to keep her mind off the key. She couldn't even start on Gwyn. Merely the idea of her companion made Cole bury her face into the sheet covering her pillow.

Cole... She, well... Urgh. Even her thoughts weren't acting right. It was odd. So she would avoid thinking about her then. Yes, that was the best course of action. For now, at least. She had too much on her plate to deal with these... Feelings.

A yawn slipped out, eyes flickering as she lightly fought off the sleep invading her mind. She may be nervous, achingly hungry, and that guilt may be hitting her like a horse's kick— She was exhausted, and... Soon darkness filled her vision.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wood grain dug into Cole's legs, warn and old but used, something apparent by the bumps and ridges etched into each inch. Her other feet were straight in front of her, tied up in the stiff pointe shoes she was accustomed to.

The pinch and ache of heavy, braided, and tied-up hair weighed on her, feeling lopsided, but she had started to get used to it. It was almost comforting now. Even the stiff tunics and fanciful dresses used in performances began to become second nature to Cole as all things in the rigorous sport did.

Cole always accepted that this would be her path in life. She was a rising star. A young ballerina rising rapidly in skill, a gem in the rough, as Teacher had always called her. Not that she enjoyed the praise, she'd much rather work on her form than be fawned over.

Her head held tall and proud all the same. She was statuesque as if she was a greek goddess carved out of marble— another observation made by her Teacher.

Cole stood, doing some precursory spins and twirls on her shoes. With a grin on her face and a soft snicker, a voice called out to her. One familiar, someone who practiced with her, who grew up in the same class as her. There were many like her, so many put into the program.

All the girls at the school only held one similarity, their parent's wish for fame. Save for Cole and a smattering of others. Most had left before they could even be called Ballerinas, the sport too demanding for them to crack. The few who wanted to be there usually never stayed.

It was a biting remark as always, spit out in the harsh french she was so used to, "Little Lottie," A nickname from her youth that had gained a bitter sting, "You're already taller than me! Soon you'll be as big as the theater... horizontally too." The chittering of young teenage giggling meanly reached her ears, and Cole reddened slightly.

As childish as the insult was, that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

"Shut up, Marcelle." Cole sniffed and looked down at the girl, who was quite a few inches shorter despite being older by a year or so. Marcelle gaped at Cole, who was the perfect representation of 'womanhood' and 'poise' or some other value their Teacher had prattled off that day. Cole was the favorite, no doubt in anyone's mind.

The girl turned red as she opened her mouth before being cut off. Teacher was here. "Colette Blanche Lebelle." Cole stiffed, "I had thought you better than this!" Cole flinched as the man shouted, her peers giggling again, "Sorry sir..."

The man was seething. His feet echoed as he stepped closer, hand raised to give her one of the few rare smacks he gave to misbehaving students. No matter how minor Cole's offense, being the favorite meant being the most harshly punished, she bitterly noticed. He was unfair in many ways, "Now Colette—"

Her face stung, her eyes blurry. The first thing she noticed was the walls. They had changed. Now black, dripping. Ink, just like the painting— She jerked away from another smack across her face. No. No, no, noooooo—

Blue eyes, skin unblemished, and so similar to hers it became uncanny. Someone. If they only had a bit of color would've been Cole's twin. A twisted mirror. God— He was just like she remembered, "Oh, Lottie...." Cole almost gagged at the tone of voice, sickly sweet. Father was here.

Rolling away, Cole lept past him, his cold snarl close behind her, "Come here Lottie, nothing to be afraid of... Its just papa." The man turned, the sharp tap of his shoes hitting the floor sounding behind her, "I just want to play a game with my little girl—"

Her feet hit the goop, and she waded through it. Looking behind herself quickly, eyes sliding to the man walking atop the now calf-deep sludge like it was solid ground. A string of curses left Cole's mouth as she got to the door, quickly going through it as she slammed it behind herself. Not even daring to look at what was in front of her,

That was before the heat hit her face, the sudden increase of light blinding her for a moment as her pulse increased. Fire. No. God no. She— Cole couldn't do this, please not now. Not— She was dizzy. Smog filled her lungs as she fell to her knees.

The burning feeling of metal touched her skin, and Cole clawed at her shirt. The key— Cole panted and tried to get the burning metal of the key out of the intricate ballet dress, a fruitless endeavor. Make it stop, make it stop— Her head screamed as she fell to the floor.

Coughing heavily, Cole laid on the once comforting wood floor, a scream from inside the fire reaching her ears, eyes bleary from the sobs that wracked her frame—

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Cole was awake. A tear or two had escaped, and she felt... Damp. Some clock was ticking in the bedroom, and the darkness told her one thing. It was too early to be up. Cole, for the life of her. Well. She knew it would be sunrise before she could get a wink of sleep. She didn't even think of trying. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks.

Her eyes flickered over the walls as one hand entangled with the key, a very softly whispered apology once again directed to the key. Now all she could do was wait till morning.

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Cole blinked. Slowly once and then twice as light filtered in. Ah, it was morning, and now she was free to get up. The sun was up, brightly stinging her eyes. She'd have to be up for breakfast then. What a pain. If she had eaten yesterday, Cole would have avoided the whole affair. Cole rolled out of bed and straight onto the floor with a thump. She was tired enough that she could barely think.

"Eugh!—" She let out a noise of pain before propping herself up, using the bed as support. Wobbling over to the dresser and pulling out a dress before going straight to the bathroom, early in the morning as it was, she had been the first there, it seemed.

Cole hated cold showers. It made her skin crawl and her head buzz. It was just so... Uncomfortable to be in. So she took her sweet time letting the water heat up. Letting the heat seep into her sore muscles during the short period she enjoyed the water.

Hopping out, she slipped on the dress she had brought. It was the same as the day before, shameful as that was. Cole didn't have the energy for anything else. While she might be wearing dirty clothes, she wasn't nodding off!

Cole took a brush from the bathroom and sat in the hall. She didn't want to clog the washroom up while she detangled her messy mop of hair. In the mornings, it was almost untamable. She vaguely recalled her mother's hair being the same way.

Her aunt had told her many stories anyways. Cole blushed and brushed her hair until the wavy, slight curliness that would dry into frizz was gone. Cole envied those who had an easy time with naturally straight or curly hair, not some weird combination like hers. She could save so much time.

Once it was all flat and smooth, albeit slightly wet, Cole made her way to breakfast. It wouldn't be served yet, but she liked to reserve a seat anyways. It was always her least favorite thing to be late, and no good spots left to sit in. She usually avoided this by someone saving a place for her, thankfully.

She was grateful for her peers and the people that cared for her, that was sure. They were the only thing that kept her going seeing as her mind was a hell hole. Cole stretched, stepping into the deserted mess hall.

Taking a random seat, she laid her head onto the cloth covering the table, "Hahhhhn—" Letting out a deep sigh, Cole felt as if her body was melting, blinking slowly. Her eyes fluttered shut, and— Cole jerked back awake.

It was a vicious cycle. Cole would fall asleep for one, maybe two minutes, then bam! She was awake again. Cole was so tired. She just wanted to die and be done with it. That wasn't the worst of it. No— The worst thing was that the feeling she had been ignoring was worse. So much worse.

The guilt, the fear. It dug into the bones under Cole's skin, scratching. The feeling of wanting something. She could only start to wonder what she could give up to satiate the key's clear desire. Maybe it was her desire, the Mistress, that lady in the painting.

Cole let out a shaky breath. She was trying her best to ignore that feeling. Instead, she concentrated on the chair beneath her and how the wood felt against her skin. Slightly cold and digging into her palms. How the sun filtered into the room.

It was in moments like this that Cole couldn't deny she was alive. Breath filled her chest. She could feel the dull hum of her pulse, beating away a slight bit erratically. She yawned. The feeling of exhaustion hit her once more. No, she couldn't sleep. She just had to push through this, eat breakfast, and then she would be awake enough. She just had to wait a little more.

It had been quite a bit since she had sat down then, and now it was late enough for the first of her peers to trickle into the hall. Cole was still lying on the table. She was not in the right mind to care about the others around her. Well, until the telltale sound of someone sitting next to her caught her ears.

Charlotte. A dear friend, one she didn't mind sitting next to her at all. She was rather quite pleased. Cole propped herself up from the table, looking at her companion, her blinking slow and a small, slightly confused smile on her face.

As usual, Charlotte was pretty, always so well put together. Always so nice. Cole let another yawn seep out of her mouth. Colette usually never slumped, but she was scrunched up and leaning on her friend's shoulder, "Salut." The single word was the only signifier that she was awake at that moment. Though the girl was shorter than Cole, that didn't stop her from looking up at Charlotte.

It was well known by then that Cole could muster up some of the most vivid puppy eyes. It had gotten her out of trouble a fair few times. That never held up to the sort of puppy dog eyes she gave when she was too tired to try and make them, like now. The scratches on her cheeks and the bags under her eyes weakened her puppy dog eyes significantly, though.

This would do to distract her from that nagging, aching feeling, right? Someone as sweet and pleasant as Charlotte would help, wouldn't she?

♡coded by uxie♡

AmberV · Jan 15, 2023

Mateo Solinas

Mateo stood at the doorway of the room he'd left Georgie in and stared. He'd come to ask what he wanted for breakfast, but suddenly food was the last thing on his mind. The bed was made, as if it had never been disturbed, there was nothing out of place, nothing moved, nothing broken. There was nothing strange about the room except the fact that Georgie wasn't in it.

Mateo was screwed.

There was no two ways around it. Last night had been a comedy of errors and it seemed his luck would only continue onward. He'd told the other caretakers briefly that he'd found the boy and brought him home and they were to discuss the development more today, but now he found himself standing at a strange crossroads, frantically searching for the safest path and finding none safe at all.

He knew he had locked the door properly, Mateo had been so careful to lock it to prevent the other children from stumbling across him before the adults could come up with an explanation. The boy hadn't escaped by conventional means, he was sure of that. Unconventional means were far more likely. If he had existed at all.

There was a thought. No one else had been around to see them leave the church, no one to see them arrive, and no one to come visit the boy in the night beside himself. Perhaps he hadn't been real at all. A deep, cold twisting sensation sat deep in his gut and he swallowed, trying to alleviate the sudden dryness of his mouth. None of it had been real, perhaps. Perhaps he'd hit his head, injured himself. Perhaps he'd gone addled from so many years without sleep.

Perhaps I'm going to be like my brother-

He slammed the door shut and stepped backwards into the hallway, locking the room and the thought away.

There was nothing to do about it. He'd need to go see the Professor and admit everything. The man was far cleverer than he, perhaps he'd know what to do. He passed Uriel in the hall, Edgar by the stair, before making his way into the library. He allowed himself only a moment of hesitation before letting out a long sigh and rapping his knuckles against the door.

Location: Library
Tags:

Coyote
Mention: Professor, Georgie

housegoat13 · Jan 15, 2023

CARETAKER

Character Sheet

Oddity

Injury Transfer

Location

Jasper's Bedroom ---> Dining Hall

Interactions

N/A

Tags

N/A

Jasper Cummings

Jasper was drowning.

Animalistic terror clawed its way through his chest as he began scraping against the top of the frozen lake, bitter cold squeezing his sides. His hands echoed numbingly as blood ebbed from each finger at every grating grab, staining the water around him crimson.

Dull light shone through the rigid surface and above the suffocating man, a panicked silhouette stood, faintly shouting his name.

Help-

Chips of ice leisurely cracked off where Jasper grappled with the solid, taunting him. He hopelessly wanted to cry out, to make his last fits against death be known, but every breath he tried to take only drove him deeper into anguish.

He despairingly pounded against the wall. Finally, the force was enough to break the surface, and Jasper desperately dragged himself up. A wretched cough rose in his chest as he gasped for air.

The silhouette above gave an inaudible sigh of relief and reached down to the struggling man, and he frantically gripped the gloved palm in return.

Jasper was forced back under again choking.

Jasper awoke with a start, sweat drenching his back as he quickly grabbed his chest, feeling his heart thrum rapidly throughout his body. He swallowed, relaxing his grip as he wiped the last remnants of sleep from his tired eyes and stared at the ceiling until his earlier panic had noticeably calmed. Jasper was unsure of how long he would remain in that position before he finally found the motivation within himself to even think about getting up.

The caretaker did not want to do this today.

The thought was childish he knew, but yesterday was not enjoyable. He felt it was only fair that he be granted small comforts of immature notions if the orphans continued their frivolous actions that only posed to make his work more difficult. He knew he was being spiteful, however, as he crept from the comfort of warm covers, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He stared at the brass wristwatch that stood mockingly on his nightstand. He barely got the thing undone with his teeth last night, and he grimaced at the self-depreciating memory. He opted instead to ignore the habit of always wearing the clock and to start shedding his sleepwear in preparation for today’s events.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stared at himself in the mirror and brushed gingerly against the skin underneath his eye. The dark circles were a stark contrast to the dim lighting, and he shifted to get a better view of his bare chest where dramatic bruises battered his skin from Frida’s earlier fit.

An inconvenience, he reiterated, moving his attention away from his reflection and back to pulling on a white dress shirt.

Earlier that night he had asked Frida to sleep in one the guest rooms that the orphanage housed, he only hoped she hadn’t decided to do anything reckless during her stay. Once he had finished with the girl, he had tried his best to attend to everyone he could. He provided bandages and cleaned cuts when his services were needed. Although, curfew was quickly befalling them all. He was soon left with no choice but to leave the children to sleep, and while Jasper was wandering down one of the many halls that resided within the building, he had caught wind of a peculiar rumor.

Georgie, it seemed, was alive.

He was undecided on how he felt about that. A boy whom no one has seen in over five years since his disappearance, presumed dead, only to be found by Mateo? The situation seemed odd to say the least, and not one Jasper could say he trusted.

Without giving the problem anymore thought than that, he was now fully dressed, and what he deemed was decent enough. Soon after, he exited the solace of his room and headed into another unyielding day.

coded by natasha.

Ashy_OCdesigns · Jan 16, 2023

"Hello, what's for breakfast?" Ethel spoke softer than usual, having noted the tension yesterday. She was wordless, her mouth moving. Not everyone was here, she noted. She was sideying everyone to see who was and wasn't at the table. Annai was one of them.

Ethel was especially looking at those who weren't acting like themselves. One of those people was Ozy, and she suspected she was one of those people.

"Any more incidents from yesterday?" She asked, not eating at all. And she wasn't referring to Frida. She did bring her notebook, though. More notes.

pings: the orphans/everybody who's at the table.

Sunsmiter · Jan 17, 2023

Ozymandias
Location: Table
Interactions: Ethel
Mentions: Annai

"Morning." Ozy yawns, his golden eyes blinking blearily. "Don't know where Annai is. But the property damage should be fixed. Mostly." The entire scene had been more or less reset to a respectable time sans telekinetic damages, and Ozy looked a little more than just sleepy on his end for completely rehauling an entire room. "I don't really know the full details of why this happened though. Something about Frida...?" Ozymandias hadn't been there during the actual incident, only there to repair the havoc caused afterwards.

tityanya · Jan 17, 2023

Feral said:
.

𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝐽𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠

I am here: The breakfast hall
With: Colette, other orphans

The currents have their say...The time is drawing near

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

When Charlotte arrived at the breakfast hall, a few others had already taken their seats. Colette near the door, Jasper close by. Ozy was at one head of the table for some reason, shouting his response towards Ethel, who was sitting across from Charlotte. Something about...Annai not being there? Charlotte frowned as she took her seat. Annai hadn't been in the room, either. And she hadn't noticed her in the bathroom, although she wasn't particularly looking for her, either. The rational part of her brain told her that Annai must be somewhere else, perhaps the library, waiting for breakfast to properly be served. But that paranoid part in the back was whispering Abbigail went missing yesterday, and now Annai is missing today. She tried her best to shake the thoughts away. Annai was fine. She shouldn't worry. But worry gnawed at her as she bit at her lip. Yesterday had been a complete show, according to what she'd heard from Oliver.

Charlotte jumped a little as she felt someone lean on her shoulder. Colette. A sleepy Salut was uttered from her friend's mouth. Charlotte looked down at the top her of head, Colette's usually impeccably straight posture slouched and crunched in. It seemed that while Charlotte had had too much sleep, Colette had had not enough. Charlotte tried to compose an air of indifference. She was quite upset with how her previous day had been completely ruined by Colette's wave of negativity. But as Colette looked up at Charlotte, all of that anger faded away. And not because of the adorable little puppy dog eyes Colette was giving her. No, it was the horrible, red scratches that surrounded her eyes. "Colette! Mon cherie, what happened to your face?!" Charlotte asked, grabbing Colette's face in her hands and twisting her face back and forth, examining the damage.

Frida hadn't done that to her. Charlotte had seen Oliver and Olivia's wounds. Bruises and cuts from plates and knives and forks and chairs. Caught in a whirlwind, with no particular pattern to the damage. But this, on Colette's face--it looked deliberate. Like some animal had tried to claw her eyes out. Charlotte's face got close to Colette's, peering at the damage. The girl would probably be able to feel Charlotte's breath on her face. After she was done peering, Charlotte pulled Colette close, wrapping her arms around her friend's back and resting her cheek on top of Colette's head.

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

((ooc: ))
((All Night))
((Outfit: dress))

Kovacs · Jan 19, 2023

MAKOTO

return of the scarf

As Charlotte stirred and got up to get ready for the day, Oliver's eyes fluttered opened, his sleepy gaze catching the sight of his sister slumbering next to him. The sight was so reminiscent of their time before the orphanage that for a second he feared they were back with their parents. However, as the haze of sleep cleared from his brain, he recalled the events last night that had lead to Olivia sleeping in his room. Right, the whole disaster that was dinner. A small sigh escaped into the chilly air as he slowly propped himself upright.
"Come on Liv, it's time to wake up, we need to go eat breakfast." He whispered to her as he gently tapped on her left shoulder. Since dinner had all been cancelled, the twins didn't have a chance to eat with their wounds being bandaged and then being sent to bed so Oliver wanted to make sure they ate breakfast.

Thick eyelashes fluttered open to reveal sleepy cherry orbs, Olivia's lips parting in a small yawn as she rubbed at her eyes tiredly. Blinking up at Oliver, she seemed confused for a second about why she was in his bed before the events of the night prior came flooding back to her. Her gaze saddened as she reached up to gently touch the bandage covering his left cheek; now that the shock had worn off after a nights sleep, she realized how close the wound was to her brothers left eye, how close it came to injuring said left eye. "I'll be fine, it's just a scratch." Oliver whispered dismissively as he patted her hand.

Gently sliding his arm underneath her back, he helped her sit up in the bed. A wince crossed her features as the aches and pains quickly made themselves known; she was bruised from where the chair had hit her and her bound arm throbbed if she moved it accidentally. Oliver helped her to her feet and the two collected their clothing quietly to avoid rousing the still-slumbering Hank; Annai and Charlotte seemed to have left already. Last night while everyone else had been getting treatments for their injuries, Oliver had snuck into Olivia's room to grab her a change of clothes seeing as the ones she had been wearing had been covered in food.

He followed Olivia to the woman's restroom and waited in the hallway while she got changed. When she emerged, he helped her re-tie the sling around her arm like he had observed the adults doing last night before he went off to get dressed himself in the men's restroom. When he returned to his room he found Olivia standing in the hallway with a scarf clutched to her chest, staring down at the fabric with an almost fearful expression.

"He's not going to be as mad as you think he is.” Oliver commented as he joined her after depositing his clothes in the hamper. "In fact out of everyone here, you have the least to fear from him." She frowned as she hugged the scarf closer. "But I promised him I would take care of it and now it's covered in food." She whispered mournfully, her head tilting down in shame. "Yes it's covered in food but that's hardly your fault. You didn't ask Frida to cover us in dinner and besides that, Mac would have preferred you not risk even more injury to yourself just to protect his scarf. It can be cleaned; it's not like you set it on fire or something."

During his speech Oliver wrapped his arm around his twin and directed her towards where the caretakers slept. "Just give it back to him, I promise it's going to be alright. And besides, if he's mean about it I'll just freeze his morning cup of coffee." Oliver said with a rare grin though it had the desired effect as Olivia giggled softly.

Eventually they reached Mac's door and Oliver gave Olivia an encouraging nudge and a comforting squeeze to her hand. As Olivia raised a tentative hand and knocked on the wooden door, Oliver tucked his hands into his pockets and stood a distance away; he would leave when Mac answered the door and Olivia could be left safely in his hands.

Like the swipe of a cat's claw, the match was lit. Leaping to life, the flame found its resting place within the confines of a pocket-sized brass kiln, setting alight the last spoonfuls of incense he had left for the year. Within moments, the familiar, earthy notes of sage swirled delicately in the air, dancing with the last wisps of match smoke. Tickled by memory, Makoto took a deep breath in. Despite its rarity back home, his mother had always loved to use sage for her meditations. With traditional makko powder as the base, her homemade incense was a popular staple and simply without equal. So too was her devotion; as a boy, he was often told he was named for the tabunoki tree, whose bark made the makko powder that had helped soothe his mother's nerves countless times in the days of war against tsarist Russia.

Makoto leaned back, watching the mist intermingle with the wood of his omiya. Barely a foot tall, he had carved the little Shinto shrine replica out of spare wood with Mateo's help nearly three years ago. Nestled in its squared center was a thinner strip of wood, acting as a talisman. Japanese characters engraved the face, chipped and hastily carved in as if the knife could not spare a second longer without the protection they embodied. YACHIMATAHIKO it spelt, one of many names for the kami-god of keeping out evil spirits. Side by side together with his little kiln, two little wood statues stood in the unfinished likeness of foxes, the well-known messengers of the gods. Seeming to possess only a fraction of the grandeur of his childhood home's kamidana, it all in all made for a rather plain but serviceable household altar.

Long legs folded underneath his body. Spine straightened, Makoto settled into the best seiza position he could muster. Beyond the windowsill upon which sat his kamidana was the church, skimming the treetops like the tip of the iceberg that had sunk that great wonder of a ship years ago. Bowing low, his eyes closed with some difficulty, fluttering to and fro like a butterfly trying to chase away troublesome recollections of the night before. Then, still somewhat touched by the burrs of sleep, the Japanese prayer that had found itself on his lips the most these past few years began to lumber out from under his breath like the distant roll of thunder.

"I humbly speak your names; Yachimatahiko, Yachimatahime, Kunato, and fulfill your praises...
With this prayer that you will not be bewitched and will not speak consent to unfriendly and unruly spirits..."

Frida.

"Who come from the land of the dead, the underworld..."

Georgie.

"If they go below, you will guard below; if they go above, you will guard above...
You will bless and guard in the guarding by night and the guarding by day...

Thus I humbly speak, on the fifth of the twelfth month of thi—"

A knock. Makoto's eyes opened slowly, suppressing the prick of annoyance at being interrupted. It sounded too soft and self-effacing for the likes of Adelaide, or any of his male counterparts. That left only one option.

Standing back up, his renewed attention split threeways between smoothing back wayward hair, buttoning up the rest of his morning shirt and opening the door to none other than the Hawthorne girl.

"Olivia...?" Makoto trailed off, drawn instantly to the young girl's sling and the fabric she held in her grasp. Some mix between concern and ire flashed across his face. He looked both ways into the hallway, settling into a scowl that was reminiscent of when matters exclusively involved that bloody she-wolf. On last night's dinner disaster, he had only to look into the dining hall to get a taste of how terrible and out of control things got, and who exactly paid the price for it.

Makoto crouched. He quickly brought his hand up to her forehead, throwing a sharp glance down at her sling. "What are you doing here? Are you with fever? Is it your ar—"
Makoto blinked. Now in the position for a better look, he realized what that bedraggled, dirtied fabric was.

His scarf.

As Mac swung the door open, Oliver gave Olivia one last encouraging nod before he pushed away from the wall and headed towards the Breakfast Hall; Olivia should be safe in Makoto's hands and well, if she wasn't then Makoto would never know peace again, Oliver would make sure of that.

In the space between her knock and Mac opening the door, Olivia shuffled in place, her brothers presence the only thing not sending her scurrying away. While Oliver had gotten dressed she had contemplated asking her brother to return the scarf for her but that wouldn't be fair to him. The scarf had been her responsibility, she had promised Mac she would take care of it and she had failed that task; if he was going to be angry then it should be at her, not her brother.

As the door swung open it took Olivia several seconds to gather the courage to look upwards to meet Mac's gaze. Her cherry eyes settled on his face just in time to see it settle into a scowl, the sight nearly causing her to scurry away and try again later. She inhaled a fortifying breath, startling slightly at the feeling of a warm hand brushing across her forehead. Even through the pounding in her ears, she could hear Mac asking her what was wrong, a small flinch running through her as he cut off abruptly, his gaze dropping to the fabric she held tightly in her grasp.

Her small shoulders curled upwards and she looked like she wanted to be anywhere but standing there at his door. Her hand reflexively hugged the fabric closer to her chest, nearly hiding it behind her back away from his gaze.

"Mr. Makoto," Her voice was a small, quiet thing, barely louder than a whisper, "I-I wanted to apologize.". She slowly extended her arm, trembling fingers holding the scarf out to him as her gaze lowered to stare at the floor in shame. "I know I promised you I would keep it safe b-but it got dirty at dinner, I'm sorry." A small sniffle was heard even though her eyes remained hidden from Mac's gaze.

If only he had been there. The thought was inescapable as Olivia profusely apologized. His oddity alone could have stopped that raging, unruly girl dead in her tracks. If not for the Okami-san and her devilry, if not for the tree, his buried promise and one boy's stupidity, this little one and the rest could have been spared such an ordeal so close to Christmas. If only they'd both been there, who knew how much damage could have been prevented?

The fuming train of thought slowed to a crawl. The sound of her sniffling dawned on him the realization that tears may not be far behind. From her forehead to the roots of his hair his hand ran, making an uneasy landfall against the back of his neck. It was not like he was facing the blonde kraut now; it made no sense to show such growing ill temper, even if it was justified. Why, the only recipient here was Olivia, practically a victim in her own right. Yet the longer his scowl stayed, the more the poor child seemed to mistake it as her own fault and shrink into herself.

Makoto's dagger of a glower slackened into something more considerate. "Wakatta, wakatta," he murmured, a stern, soldier-like finger guiding her despondent gaze back up to meet his. "Chin up, girl. You have nothing to apologize for."

His hand fell back, letting the scarf come up and take the full spotlight of his attention for a moment. Amidst a deep-soaked litany of sauces and bits of food, the smell of gravy was the strongest. What could not be denied however, was how warm the fabric felt against his fingers. The corner of his lip tugged, nearly coaxed into a small smile.

"Rest assured..." he said with a little toss and fold, "this scarf has seen and known and been washed out of worse things. What it remembers most in the end—" his hand found her shoulder and gave it a small squeeze, "—is who kept it warm."

Wakatta, wakatta // Alright, alright

Olivia blinked hard to keep the tears at bay; her parents had never liked it when she cried and she didn't want to make the situation worse than it already was. So she swallowed past the tightness in her throat, sniffling a few times as she felt the water-works recede for the moment. Her eyes remained down-cast, staring down at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

As Makoto tilted her chin upwards, her eyes slowly lifted up to meet his gaze. His scowl from moments prior was gone, replaced by a more mild expression. A small, barely there frown furrowed the space between her brows at Mac's words, her fingers tightening momentarily before relaxing and allowing Makoto to take his dirty scarf from her grasp.

"But..." She uttered softly, mind slowly mulling over the words he had spoken, "It was my responsibility to keep it safe and I failed to do that, so...why are you not angry?" Her arm fell back to her side now that the scarf had been returned to it's owner, her small fingers crinkling the fabric of her dress as she clutched the material comfortingly.

"Hmph," Makoto lifted his folded scarf, "Points can be taken off for the gravy stains, I suppose. But it is here, and for that Olivia—" he leaned forward in a small bow, "—arigato." The rest of his arm disappeared, setting aside the soiled fabric atop the mahogany chest of drawers feet away against the wall. Now widened, the scent of sage wafted out the door with ease.
"In any case," he went on, slipping his cap off its wall-mounted hanger and placing it on his head. "Anger is too strong an emotion for empty stomachs. Come," Makoto closed the door and beckoned her with a small nudge. "Let us go meet your brother at breakfast. He'll no doubt have a plate ready."

Tags: Charlotte Jones

tityanya

Annai Mestra

@aurivee_

Hank Mason

@dontPanic

Frida Wagner

Ghostiiys

Adelaide Furse

mizton

Doris Martin

Paperface

Quinn Richardson

CeaserXIX

Oliver Hawthorne

SavannahSmiles

Georgie (NPC)

Sunsmiter

& OLIVIA

code: @s e v e n

Paperface · Jan 19, 2023

Doris Martin

Late in the night, Doris made her last pass through the hallway behind the bedrooms. Dim starlight shining through the windows faintly illuminated patches of the floor along her route. The hours after curfew had passed slowly. Too slowly. The uneventfulness for once unwanted, giving her no distractions from the growing strain on her wounded back. Doris knew she needed rest, but the consequences of neglecting her nightly duties trumped the pain of enduring them. Passing by the windows, something about the dark world outside captured her attention on this pass. The shimmering stars invited her to share a moment with them, and before she proceeded into the connecting hallway across the windows, she accepted their offer.

Standing by the windowsill, her gaze fixated on the blackened sky beyond the glass while she calmly lit another cigarette. Adding to the growing number being smoked this night. “They appear so close together from here, do they not?” She mused quietly, the smoldering embers of her cigarette reflecting against the glass as she took a deep drag. “Only when you look closer can you see the distance between them...” What are you talking about, Dory? “Who, dad, not what.” She corrected the ghost, her pale gaze following the stars like points on a map. “Today felt so similar to being back at our home... with her.” She began connecting the points, drawing imaginary lines between the shimmering lights and binding them together in a mock constellation. Sadly, none fell down from being played with, but the wish on her mind would not require a falling star to fulfill.

Her wish was simple, only a longing for the day to finally end. Oh, how she wished to finally draw the curtains and let today's troubles quietly fade into forgotten memories. However, unlike many hurtful moments preceding today, she did not want to forget these entirely. “Dad... are you still proud of me?” Are you proud of yourself, Dory? She paused, and a slight smile curved her lips with pride. “Today I am, dad.” Amidst her conversation, her eyes finished connecting the points of her celestial art piece. Although the stars had proven difficult in their positioning, the shape of the hummingbird was there. It would always be there, whether in the sky among the heavens or in her head among her thoughts.

Are you still holding on to that dream? Doris' smile faded, and her lips tightened around her cigarette. “It was so vivid... I know what I saw was more than a dream. She gave me a vision.”

You are hopeless, Doris. Visions. Dreams. Tell me, child, how could you hope to pursue dreams when you yourself are still a nightmare? She bit down on the cigarette, the embers dancing to the rhythm of her shallow breathing. “I am not... I do not understand why you--”

You hurt us, Doris, and now you will hurt them. That man and the girl, both. In an instant, the world turned to silence. Pale, empty eyes stared at a reflection in the dark window. No longer hers. “Do not dare speak of them again!”

Or what, Doris? Will you hurt us again? She forced herself to break away from the reflection. Following her embers down the connecting hallway and leaving behind the monster in the window. “Or I will prove myself that nightmare you see... Mother.”

Leaving her frustrations at the door, Doris quietly stepped into her dimly lit bedroom. Separated from the world outside, it was the only room that knew her behavior when nobody was watching. The only wooden floor knowing the touch of her bare feet in the morning. The only earth-tone walls she trusted to keep her secrets in the evening. A large, carefully made bed sat in the middle of the space, separating the bedside tables carrying an unlit candle or two each. Curtains dressed the room, despite a lack of windows. A writing desk sat at one end of the bedroom, and a dresser with a mirror at the other. Everything followed an earthy theme that overlapped with the more lavish detailing of the orphanage. But, altogether, it was simply home to her. The only place that ever felt like home, anyway.

Before stepping further into her room, Doris turned to face the door. Her pale, tired eyes followed the grooves in the wood as her hand calmly grasped the handle. The door closed, and she imagined the world outside her sanctuary fading into nothingness. As long as that door remained closed, nobody, not even Evelyn, would see or judge her behavior. Here, she could enjoy her time of peace. After calming herself down from the interaction with Evelyn, Doris carefully put on her sleeping attire and brought herself before the dresser. “After today...” She murmured, gazing into the mirror on top of the dresser, and the proud smile she had lost returned upon seeing her reflection. “It is still me, dad, I promise.”

Reassured by seeing herself, Doris clasped her hands together and lowered her head. “Please go with each of us to rest,” she spoke softly, closing her eyes in reverence, “and, if any awaken, guide them through the dark hours.” The room grew colder with each word. Should she open her eyes, she would surely see her own breath. “When the day returns, return them to us, and call us up with bright faces and brighter hearts, eager to work, eager to be happy.” During the first months, she had foolishly tried to combat the cold of the Owner's presence, but she long since embraced it faithfully. “If the day is marked for sorrow, as it has today, please grant us strength to endure it, as you have today.”

In the early hours of the morning, Doris woke up to find herself surprisingly well-rested. Turning lightly, she groaned from the sting of the mattress pressing against her wounds. It had made it difficult to fall asleep last night. Even now, the droning pain remained while she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling above. Thoughts of yesterday slowly crept into her still-waking mind, fading in and out. She wished she could disregard them as the aftermath of a bad dream, but that nightmare had been the reality. Her wounds were all the proof she needed to confirm it. As she mulled over yesterday's events, her train of thought naturally arrived at Gwyn's station – where it promptly halted. Wandering the station, she found the motivation to start her day and sat upright in bed. Her gaze broke away from the ceiling and onto the neatly folded clothing resting atop her writing desk. The daily cycle had begun anew, and it was time for her to start her day.

“...then you can put them in their proper places after your witty remarks,” spoke the radio host from her mouth as she got out of bed. “It'll save me a lot of time and effort.” She knew him well, Jack, always presenting himself with that telltale radio speech for as long as she could remember.

“For heaven's sake, Jack, take that chip off your shoulder,” Doris replied with an playful smile, taking over the role belonging to one of the usual characters, Harry, to distract herself from the current discomfort she faced trying to get dressed without pressuring her back too much.

“Well, Doris, give us a nice lively number and see if we can... can keep it together today.” The third voice of the radio show addressed Doris. Then, without missing a beat, the usual chipper tune faded in over the talking, leaving her confused and wondering about the meaning of what had been said. You love this song, Dory. Her father's voice crossed her mind, erasing the doubt before she questioned it further. I know I do, dad. It is my favorite song. Reassured by his words and her own, she contentedly finished dressing herself to the tunes from her softly smiling mouth. Nothing more than listening to a radio show, nothing more. Nothing more.

Location: Hallways (Night) -> Bedroom (Night) -> Bedroom (Morning)
Interaction: N/A
Mentions: Gwyneira (

Sybela ), Makoto (

Kovacs )

CeaserXIX · Jan 20, 2023

Quinn

As the morning light crept it's way through the curtains to the room, the light glared dazzling on the slight tinge of what seemed like black glass within the boys bed, unusually close to his face. Yet Quinn knew well enough, as he had tried so verimately to hide the slowly caking ichor leaking from his sealed eye, that which seemed to begin to grow and metamorphosis overnight, leading the sunlight to simply bouncing off of the now crystalline growth over the young man's left eye, only a glimmer of it visible between the pillow upon which it rested, and the blanket that which so desperately hit it.

After a few more moments of his refusal to awake, Quinn opened his ever blackened eye, the years of sleep deprivation always present, yet ever more so tonight, yet an other hallmark to the insomniac the boy had grown to be in his late teens. The events of yesterday having left the boy momentarily shell shocked, though the full effect of it all hadn't yet finished boring into his mind. Glimpses and memories is all he can fully recall, but each one left him both stunned and confused, though in his sleep, darker thoughts tormented the boy as he dreamt, tossing within his beddings, not mentioning the events that awoke the boy within the middle of the night. It was clear, be was far from a good mood.

Crawling his way out of bed, the boy looked over at the medicine resting by him, recalling Doris having rushed up to help Jasper with getting him patched up. Scoldings and worrisome words were what befell Quinn from the two of them for his "reckless" action. As if none of them were aware the child had a tendency to sneak off. A rather rabid tendency, having manifested at the early start of his 13th year of life, though it too him years to master this skill of stealth. But Quinn also could tell by everyone's demeanor, that day...was the worst day ever at the place they all referred to as "home".

Once he was able to fully move himself off if his side, the pain rocketing up his bandages ankle, having been confirmed broken by the medical expert, though the recent events left him unable to heal it, leaving Quinn to doing it the ol' fashioned way. "Bloody 'ell, it burns," the young man hissed as he reached for the wooden crutch, taking hold of it, using it to pull himself off his feet, lacking the motivation to put on his boots, though nothing stopped the boy from ensuring he had his coat, gathering his clothing, and sneaking off before anyone else present could awaken, creeping into the bathroom to get dressed, his hair no longer tied up, having decided to let it drape his shoulders, the long strands draping around his head, hiding all but his right eye from view, thanks to a refusal to cut his hair, or let anyone else do so. His hand, seeing the glimmer of the black crystal like growth under his bangs, pulling them up, only to see that the progression of this...thing, was far further along than he realized, having layered overnight, the blackened crystal taking in a jagged, almost scale like appearance, the edges jutting out in smooth edges, covering the entirety of his left eye, his eyebrow no longer present upon him, hidden away by whatever this was, hiding whatever light that would touch it away from his ever sensitive eye from the sunlight, though his right eye seared as it blinded him. "Damned light," he hissed, shutting the curtains a tad, allowing the bathroom to hide itself within it's cloak, leaving him to dress himself in peace, before slipping on the blackened leather military coat, a momento of his once loving father, only being unique in the sense of the hood sewn into the jacket, leading to him catching odd gazes once he did start wearing it, though it helped with the light.

Once Quinn had finished dressing himself, he quickly made his way out of the bathroom, still ignoring the habit of putting his hair up, his right foot the only foot with a sock present, taking the crutch tightly under his right arm and in his grip, using it to carefully move himself forwards, making his way to the dining hall to have breakfast. As he did, he softly passed by Makoto and Olivia, though refused any greeting to either of them, his face twisted into an anxious fear and seething annoyance, a sign of his night prior, and his mood now. Once he reached the dining hall, Quinn quickly went to take his seat, his hood pulled tightly by his left eye as he hobbled over to the dining table, taking his seat, avoiding as many as he could, making it clear his mood was ever foul, and more than back to normal, not seeking out anyone until he'd so desire, hoping Makoto wouldn't punish him from breakfast either, seeing as Mateo was back, as far as he knew.

Mentions:

Kovacs

SavannahSmiles
Location: Bedroom - Bathroom -Dininghall

mizton · Jan 20, 2023

1926

adelaide furse

locations

Hallway outside Bathroom > Inside bathroom

interactions

People in kitchen & people at breakfast

mentions

People in kitchen, Doris, Arthur, Mateo, Makoto

"I'll be just a second."

"Ad, stay. See me a moment, will you?"

"Sure," was her soft reply. So she did. Sat close on a stool, Adelaide's lap pressed firmly at her mother's bedside; her mother's head curled into that lap, straining her position to lay close.

Hushed, they sat there. For a moment, Adelaide herself felt rather old, like she was beyond herself & caressing a child of her own. Her fingers, deft even back then, weaved twirls & limp braids in her mother's dark hair, most unlike her own. In all the ways Adelaide now was cold, her mother then was warm, though she often scolded a foolish daughter. In a moment later that would feel too short, that heat dwindled.

And Ad, with the foresight of a second life lived, didn't weep. All she did was fold & duck her chin into herself, letting that then-thick mop fall over her & her mother's heads. For a moment, it was dark, but sunlight streamed in through a part in that curtain of hair, enough to warm her mother's chilling cheek. Adelaide cradled that cheek & crown, a weak twinge at her throat & mouth corners like it stung to stretch them to speak, but she had to. Yes, she needed to know. Of all words to ever pass her lips, these felt the most important, so she said—in a small, dusted though dusty bedroom that kept their two beds, Adelaide said something small to suit it.

She said in her mother's ear, "Thank you."

The way soft memories did, the corners of her vision filled with a vignette of dust, made golden by the sun. When her mother's temple felt cool did Adelaide rise; peacefully, she straightened her mother into the bed, no longer curled at its side, but nestled in the middle like a watch in its box. Adelaide straightened herself out too. As if she'd only been visiting, her eyes spun a ring about herself. There was nothing big about their bedroom; no walls, but a clear archway to the rest of the tenement & a straight view to the kitchen. On just about every lip & counter of their dwelling were countless trinkets of Adelaide's life. Booklets, pencils, stones, ashen flowers, forgotten chocolates, receipts doodled on. She'd placed them all, she remembered, & her mother kept them. To look at them now was to walk a museum of a child's growth; from stones to published prints of her art, the house kept it all.

The vignette consumed the scene with another once over of the eyes.

Here, after so many years since the incident, she'd begun to think the haunting of such a memory had passed. Her body stiffened with the waking cold of a winter morning. She—hold on.

No, that wasn't it. That thought just then brought her mind to a screeching halt like a train she'd once ridden out to a frontline. Memory, it was not. The afterimage of the word, written in a script not unlike her own burned into the red scape her closed eyes saw as she faced her window with a morning light that bled through. It flickered & bore into her until she understood it to mean 'delusion.'

Yes, that was it: a delusion. She was deluding herself. When she'd realized this, the true memory bitterly humbled her.

She'd returned from war to an empty tenement with a scribbled notice of where to visit her mother's remains. & flowers. The type lost to an aging mind. Surely nice, at least, though she'd learned later they came as the gift from their avaricious landlord. Their... No, that wasn't right. Her landlord. She was then that room's only tenant after her mother's passing, after all.

Idly, Adelaide began to wonder. Her mind often did in a lapse of duty. She wondered what became of her lease. Of the things she'd brought with her had gone over the years. It'd been so long, even her suitcase was so severely misplaced that she couldn't remember its detailing. Her temples pulsed in her attempt to recall just how suddenly she'd gotten her things in order to take up this offer.

Her mind stuttered. Offer? That's right: pay, though she never saw any cheque. With the chill, her frame jittered when a deranged chuckle bubbled quietly out from within her, rattling her frame on that tiny bed. It wasn't often that she questioned her circumstance. When she did, she found herself cursing her years. Her mind failed her the later in life she strained it; today being the oldest she's ever been, ordering it to answer such questions, it thumped dully.

What a rotten way to wake, she thought. What day was it, she asked herself. The 6th. How long had the last time been? In recalling the date, did the stretch of time between the last dream of this caliber reveal itself to her: 13 days & 7 months. So for the first time in over 7 months, Adelaide stayed in bed. Though her ingrained alarm had gone off within herself, she idled—she shivered. From the window to her left, Adelaide let the cold waft over her shivering frame, unbridled by uniform, frills, or bedsheet, but only a nightgown that stuck to her even on a cold morning from the suddenness of her wake. If she was going to dawdle, she'd be without comfort until she came to her senses. Yes, that felt fair.

So there she lay: knees pulled to her bosom, arms wrapped about herself as... as she wept. Yes, to overexert her mind so early took its toll on her. Ever of that old nurse's habit, she sobbed about as loudly as her form rustled. When a sound threatened to stutter out, she'd brought a hand over her mouth & the other at her throat, coaxing it into inaudible gasps for air. Though she cried, nothing would be heard. What with her disturbed mind from last night's events, she supposed that, were she of any rationed mind, she might've anticipated such a dream. All the same, what slave she was to her mind's torment; knowing would've done her no good. She would've woken the same.

That's enough, she thought. She'd get up now.

In her hurry, her heels clicked like that of a tap dancer's; with these new shoes, it felt like every step made was one made twice. One step, two clicks; the other soft, like she could've missed it had she not been so high-strung in her gait. She huffed in annoyance of the echoed pace; a truly annoying tune to rush to in the morning. A relief it was when she'd made her destination. As if she'd nearly missed a bus, she burst into the kitchen with a great huff. Towards either no one or whoever else had beat her to the kitchen, she groused in that hushed voice under her breath, "Goodness, that chill."

Paying little mind to who specifically accompanied her space in the kitchen—though the chatter of Uriel & Edgar she recognized—Adelaide made a beeline to the little station she'd long set aside for herself over the years. A little spot at the counter where she tended to situate & seclude herself whenever she found time to aid in cooking. Today, particularly, felt especially important to help as Doris would be out of commission until nursed to health. Idly, she added her as someone to check in with when she'd find time. Generally, the upkeep of clothing & linens tended to be her specialization. Especially today, seeing as it, being Monday, was her cleaning day. There was little convenience, she found, in dirtying herself before she served the children & ate, so here she was.

In her eagerness to amend that morning's tardiness, she found herself too careless with the knife only when it was too late. In the midst of slicing tomatoes for that morning's fry up, she'd slit into the pad of one of her fingers. Though she faltered & quickly brought the cut to her mouth, she made no noise—she tended not to in all other aspects outside of her nagging. Instead, she found herself musing. Admittedly, it was a nostalgic sensation; she couldn't quite place the last time she'd been so careless. The longer one tended to work with their hands, the more adept they become & she'd been no exception until just then; the years had grown cruel, she thought.

Like it were another day, Adelaide brought her knife over to the sink with little thought about it outside of trying to find a time in her mind's layout of the day ahead to patch her digit up. She'd get to it after breakfast; for now, she's keep that hand in her pocket. The last thing the children needed was some sort of infection. A mind wandering in the course of action she'd take in the day ahead stilled when she'd caught an unwitting reflection of herself, at which she halted at the sink. It stunned her; eyes with remnants of her earlier fussing to reduce their swelling & cheeks with a light dusting of a compensating rouge. Yes, she was already behind today. Two mistakes & she hadn't even had breakfast yet. A truly rotten omen for the day ahead; the thought made her sigh as she washed & dried the knife she'd dirtied.

If anything, what luck that she did cry today; if she hadn't, surely the events of the day prior might've bogged her memory enough to forget doing herself up that morning. After all, she had a rather important engagement in the day ahead: a spot of afternoon tea with Arthur. In the moment with him yesterday, she had the idea of preparing some sort of knit gift for him—something with the embroidery set he'd bought her, but... well, the day escaped her, to speak kindly of yesterday. Oh, no matter. It was still possible that, if she hurried, she'd be able to find an hour to herself to do just that. Yes, that idea pleased her enough to show on her face. She had much to do in the day ahead, but the thought of the afternoon idly fueled her. For a moment, her stony mien softened & it was with this airiness that she aided in the kitchen as best she could.

Towards the end of breakfast preparation, it'd seemed her deft fingers remembered themselves. One-handed, she set out a couple of the plates politely, leaving the rest for Mateo & Makoto who tended to set the table, before taking a moment to recline against the wall of the breakfast hall once everything was prepared. The seat she tended to gravitate towards was before her. As not everyone had seated, she felt rather impolite to sit herself. Still, there was a smile about her, though her lips wouldn't show it. The scent of the morning's breakfast particularly soothed her, though her finger stung in her apron's pocket. She'd tend to it after breakfast, she told herself again as she reached for an early piece of toast to steal bites at while watching the scene the way one would pigeons.

Where it another day, she might've fussed to busy herself with something, but today, she'd idle. At least until she'd manage to get a bandage.

code by @Nano

Sybela · Jan 21, 2023

.
.
.
.

how she's feeling...

Happy
what she's wearing...

Blouse, high-waisted skirt and old, black, gloves.
where she's at...

Bedroom
in the conversation...

Gwyneira

The Telepath

I think you're pretty too.

Five simple words. Sweet like candyfloss, a little bitter like black tea. The turmoil that curled and churned her stomach was enough to fester unreasonable feelings, and unfeasible opinions.

I think you're pretty too.

Jerking like one of her mother's scratched records, Gwyn was positively jumbled, scrambled even. Why did five words cause her so much conflict? Was this normal?

A similar experience happened with a boy, Dafydd. A compliment once was all it took, and Gwyn had been kicking her legs out, squealing over the encounter. Her brothers promptly stopped that; thus, her short love life wallowed.

I think you're pretty too.

But, this was no Dafydd.
A prepubescent boy didn't utter these five words.
Colette did.
Colette complimented her, not as an off-hand response but as something genuine, something real.

Gwyn's mother always told her she had a natural beauty that needed no makeup or tampering. She was 'blessed,', especially in a household of waddling cockerels that fought talon to beak.

Coming to the orphanage, Gwyn never needed to ask for cosmetics. Sure, she was surrounded by surreal, beautiful women— Colette being at the forefront of that title, but Gwyn never wanted to look pretty. She didn't want to stand out.

Until now.

Pretty too.

For Colette.

The night went by quick enough for Gwyn after she retreated back to bed. Despite being caught up in her head, the events that unfolded played rife with her; sleep did greet her quite easily, especially with the absence of people in her room.

A few times at night, she did awake, feet moving her to the door with the thought of checking on Colette to see if she was okay, but her mind kept troubling her with doubts and what ifs and, against her better judgement, Gwyn clambered back into bed and wrapped herself up in the thin cotton sheets.

Gwyn awoke at the crack of dawn, if not sooner. It was hard to tell how often she'd lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Gwyn could gauge the time quickly from the hustle and bustle that passed her door- the voices that filled her head in darting moments as their owners rushed past. Gwyn took it as an incentive to climb from her bedsheets, yet again, and get ready for the day.

I think you're pretty too.

Those words stuck with her throughout the night, feeding her brain with darling thoughts and her tummy, fluffy feelings.

Her most treasured thoughts plagued her with every sluggish movement— What to wear? How to do her hair? Should she use perfume?

This morning, Gwyn decided to make more of an effort. Colette called her pretty, seeped that compliment into her bones and, for the first time since being on her farm, with her mother, she had heard such a compliment.

Regardless, she got on with her newfound morning routine, starting with an outfit she hadn't touched.

Gwyn meticulously picked out her high-waisted blue skirt that reached her ankles, a white blouse that she paired with two old, black gloves. She wanted to be pretty, wanted to be complimented more by Colette.

Her hair, usually just brushed lethargically, had been obsessed over relentlessly. Typically just brushed to a side, today it spiralled past her shoulders in those loose curls that mirrored her mothers'. A simple headband kept her parting in place, effective for even the stingiest of flyaways.

Was it too much? Surely not. Sometimes it was nice to take care of appearance. This could be the boost she needed to start more conversations. Gone were the days of sulking and skulking in her room, feeling sorry for herself.

Gwyn wanted to come out of that shell; she wanted to be something other than some shabby thing that collected dust and webs due to lack of interest. Colette had helped her take that step, helped her in her first few steps towards normality.

A squeak of the floorboards penetrated her eardrums, the sound leaving an ache deep in her ears, and after a moment, her hearing settled into a buzz that dissipated and left her feeling somewhat whole again.

It was surprising how much one relied on their hearing. Gwyn was so used to speaking and being in people's minds that she never truly understood the absence of everyday sounds— Until she lost her hearing temporarily.

She smiles absently at the floor beneath her shoes as if she could sense someone arriving; she turns towards the door and begins her walk towards it.

Hopefully, Miss Doris was okay after last night; she'd gotten the brunt of the attack and was left resembling a voodoo doll after being pierced and sliced by all the cutlery and crookery. Truthfully, she wanted one meal where everything went to plan and not have something throw a spanner into the mix.

Lately, the farm seemed a lot better than the orphanage. Too many of her peers were acting out for reasons unknown other than to be belligerent. With everything she had, Gwyn hoped that today would be different.

♡coded by uxie♡

Ashy_OCdesigns · Jan 21, 2023

"Not Frida." Ethel said, but then wanted to explain the Olivia incident with what she originally thought was a spider. But she didn't know how Olivia would react. And besides, there may have been some sort of implication that there was no spider.
"Demon thingies," Ethel said, not knowing how else to explain anything. She glanced around at everyone, but she wanted to know what was taking some people so long. What if they were dead? Probably not, though.

Feral · Jan 21, 2023

Colette.

filler

home (filler tab)
mood

I. Um. I. UH.

filler
outfit
click

filler
location

Breakfast

filler
interactions

Charlotte!

filler
Tags!

tityanya

filler
home (filler tab)

Backroom Labyrinth

She blinked. Charlotte's words hit her ears and barely made sense to her awfully foggy brain. Squeezing her eyes shut, Cole willed her mind to work. It only helped a little, waking her up for a moment. She had to be aware of more than her exhaustion and the ache of the key on her skin, begging her to do something. If she couldn't be awake, something terrible would happen, wouldn't it? She knew it would.

The smattered scratches on Cole's face were something she had almost forgotten about. If she hadn't felt the stinging of the water in the shower and the tightness of her skin when she blinked, they would be out of her mind entirely. But, instead, they were minor in the events of her day— a spec of irrelevance.

Cole brought a hand to touch her face and frowned deeply, letting out a full-body shiver and a small sigh. The words only made her think of the bird. How it looked at her, eyes meeting hers, staring. It had made her admit what she had brought upon herself at such a young age. The moment that had broken her. It made her feel a thousand times worse about her predicament. About her shameful past.

She almost jerked away in surprise when Charlotte got right up in her face. Still, the look on her companion's face was enough for Cole to feel flattered that she would care so much about her after the day before. But, of course, Cole wouldn't have blamed her for not wanting to be her friend after that. Likewise, she wouldn't have blamed her for hating her entirely. Despising Cole with all her mind, it was reasonable after the mistake she had made.

Cole was also very flustered at that moment— Not for any reason other than embarrassment. The girl was just— She was so close and had used a nickname too. Who wouldn't get a little shy? Everyone would, especially with someone as gorgeous as Charlotte.

Cole just wasn't used to this sort of attention. Not in her life had she had this sort of focus on her before Gwyn and Charlotte, not unless you count the stage, but that didn't matter. She could reason it was only expected for her face to be pinker than her hair.

She was normal. This was fine. Not weird. Nope. Cole let out a small squeak when Charlotte brought her into her arms. She hadn't even gotten to respond! Not that Cole would have. Still, she could have let Cole think a bit— Or just stayed looking at her. Cole had even started to enjoy the feel of the girl's warm breath on her skin after a moment.

Not to mention how pretty Charlotte's eyes were. Cole blinked and was glad that Charlotte couldn't see her rapidly reddening face. But, again, this was totally not weird. She was not being abnormal. Not one bit.

Charlotte was so warm— Cole caught her eyes fluttering closed for a second, and she groaned lightly as she snuggled in closer. She was not in for a good day, was she? She really needed a nap and some breakfast.

♡coded by uxie♡

Kovacs · Jan 24, 2023

Makoto Madiyarov

Caretaker

Location: the breakfast hall

Tags: Olivia Hawthorne

SavannahSmiles

Adelaide Furse

mizton

Ozymandias

Sunsmiter

Colette LeBelle

Feral

Charlotte Jones

tityanya

Ethel

Ashy_OCdesigns

Quinn Richardson

CeaserXIX

Annai Mestra

@aurivee_

Frida Wagner

Ghostiiys

Mateo Solinas

AmberV

Jasper Cummings

housegoat13

Doris Martin

Paperface

Abigail Lipton (NPC)

Sunsmiter

What a difference one day could make in this place. Truly he thought, it was as if the plague had come to visit. Pockmarked eyes gawked blearily at the breakfast spread as bruising bodies moved to rub them, blinded by the glaring white of medicinal gauze. Like cutlass slipping out from its scabbard, rays of sunlight skewered their way through the dining hall windows on a warpath to expose all the sins of the night before. There lay a drape so heavy on the neck, no one could seem to lift a head or eye to greet him and his young companion as they took their seats.

It was all so unlike the morning before. However, following the wretched, woeful business with Abigail, it felt somewhat soothing for the soldier within to come out smelling like sage and silk again; a hopeful sign towards normalcy that sliver of old optimism could say. Makoto pried out his chair, and upon realizing Olivia was intent on staying by his side, did the same for the one beside it. Nearby, blonde and brittle stood in listless supervision, grazing on toast. Just as brief as her helping hand was in setting the table earlier, his greeting nod lingered no more in her direction than a fly would in any one place. "Adelaide."

Cemented by the gnaw of days-old hunger, his gaze never left the table as he sat down, zeroed in on the bowl of granny apples that proceeded to lose one member to his breakfast knife. Deft as a dogsbody fighting the last workhour, he began to flay the skin, drawn by the voice to glance up to his left. Two seats down sat the boy of time, exhaustion lining the last of his yawn, his words and his expression. For good reason too; thanks to his oddity, the scene of Frida's outburst would no longer be such a bane in the caretakers' existences to put to order again.

The only thing out of order was the mention of Annai. The veteran's ministrations slowed to a crawl as a sharp, signature side eye swept across the length of the table. A good number had made good time and shown up as proper as sleep, or lack thereof, allowed them. Colette had certainly let the notion of propriety escape her this morning; the French girl could barely keep herself upright, long, sleepy back curved closely against a very concerned-looking Charlotte. Ethel no longer seemed to have spiders on the brain, replaced instead by the worrying notion of demons. And having only minutes before passed him and Olivia in the hall on crutches left at his door, Quinn appeared more sullen than ever, eye sealed shut tighter than a clam. A dark welt bloomed along his jaw, testament from the knoutout strike and their outside adventure the night before. Makoto was beholden to give where credit was due; the boy had some mettle. Bruised and ankle broken, but thanks to him, not dead and at the table, nonetheless.

The same, however, could not be said for Annai. The illusionist girl was indeed not at her usual seat; neither was the mind reader, Ozymandias' mate, Mason or that queen of quarrels, that cursed blonde wonder of a she-wolf. Briefly, Makoto threw a glance towards Adelaide and wondered where the other three were. Mateo, he had not seen since they set everything up for breakfast before Makoto withdrew to pray and meditate. The man, he remembered, still looked haunted. As if the spirit of whatever happened in that house of God made home in him. What was more, he was told that Georgie was back from death itself and under their roof, a puzzling burden the man was surely preoccupied with now. And Jasper, he understood, had acted as the primary restraining force against Frida and gods knew what injuries he had taken upon himself as a result. Doris... Makoto could only draw out an exhale of air, to cool off the deep-seated, singular concern pricking at his consciousness. He turned back to the boy, nodding both as acknowledgement and greeting.

"Best leave the details alone, Ozy," he said, a glint growing steadily in his eye as he set the apple and knife aside and dug into the sausage, bacon and egg with all the grace of a soldier's first day off of rations. "She will be taken care of for what she did with her oddity. You and your oddity on other hand, did a fine job fixing the dining hall. Maybe even enough to justify more complex exercises for you on next oddity-centered lesson, hm?"

❂

CODE BY SEROBLISS / VALOROUS ORDER

Sybela · Jan 27, 2023

/* ------ right side ------ */

/* ------ image 1 ------ */

location | Gwyn's bedroom >> Hallways >> Breakfast Hall

/* ------ image 2 ------ */

Mentions | Mac, Jasper, Colette

/* ------ image 3 ------ */

tag |

/* ------ left side ------ */

Doris & Gwyn

/* ------ main textbox ------ */

Doris brought her hand up to the center of the bedroom door, extending two of her knuckles forward to tap against the hardwood twice. “Gwyn, are you awake?” Among her gentle tone, the sound of the first knock awakened a vague feeling of forgetfulness. Something felt off about knocking, but that could not be right. The realization came the second time her knuckles hit the door. As the evening prior, she had momentarily forgotten Gwyn had gone deaf, but Doris could hardly disregard a young lady's right to privacy and walk in unannounced. Stricken with a dilemma, she paused for a moment. Hints of embarrassment reddened her face as she came upon a solution. Knock, knock...

The knocking thought lingered in her mind as she awaited a response. That painful momentary silence only heightened her self-consciousness until Gwyn's mental reply brought it back to average levels again. A quiet lilt of a voice filled her head with a chuckle; Good morning, Miss Doris.

Good morning to you as well, Gwyn. Doris replied, an amused lightness to her thoughts. Even when at her own expense, hearing the girl chuckle more than made up for the embarrassment. I will come in now. She announced, calmly turning the handle on the door. I believe it is more proper to look at a person while speaking to them - not their bedroom door. She teased, opening the door with an all too common creak of the hinges. The room behind the door was no different from the tidy bedroom it had always been, but there was a distinct change in the girl occupying the space by herself. Her pale gaze found a rarely seen gracefulness to the girl's loose curls and carefully selected white-and-blue clothing. You look positively radiant today, Gwyn. May I ask about the occasion?

Gwyn turned to face Doris, fiddling with the clothed fingers on each hand. “I can hear this morning, Miss Doris. If you want, you can speak.” She muses, a small smile playing on her lips.

The compliment brought a tinge of red to her cheekbones; the once pale visage was now akin to something like the rouge girls would often dote upon their skin.

“I...I wanted to look nice...Pretty.” Gwyn admits, kicking her feet to the scuffed floorboards. “Everyone is so beautiful here, and I normally look...Sbwriel.” The Welsh word fell from her lips, and just as quickly, she corrected herself. “Rubbish. Sorry, Miss. It slips out sometimes.”

She crossed the distance to her caretaker, peering around the beautiful woman to inquire about any injuries that had happened the night prior; “Are you okay now, Miss Doris? You had the worst of the attack, and I did worry about you all night.”

A sigh of relief escaped from Doris' mouth upon hearing the sudden deafness had cleared up overnight. “Do you have any ideas as to how it might have happened? Anything that might assist in preventing it from happening--” She silenced herself, the red tinge on Gwyn's cheeks shifting her interest. “Let us simply be glad it cleared up, shall we?” A reassuring smile curved her lips. “You should not compare yourself to rubbish, Gwyn. That aside, I am positive you will impress today.”

“Ah-” An apprehensive sound left her as Gwyn neared her back. “...I am fine, Gwyn. It is nothing that should concern you. Jasper did a fine job tending to me.” Her pleasant tone concealed the aching pain as she spoke. “Truthfully, I came to see if you were well – not the other way around. I take it you will be fine to join breakfast?” She gestured lightly towards the door. “Might I escort you to your seat, young lady?”

How could she possibly explain the events of the Other? Even now, as she thought about the cruel, twisted place, a shiver ran down her spine. “Overstimulation.” Gwyn quickly offered to her favourite caretaker. “Everything just...Bubbled over, and I couldn’t handle it...I suppose.” Despite Doris attempting to quell her words, Gwyn still answered- It was only the polite thing to do.

If only she weren’t too afraid of physical touch. If only the thought of skin-on-skin contact didn’t churn her stomach to the point of vomiting. Perhaps...Perhaps she could be of help to those injured. She learned, after all, with her mother and neighbours about bandaging and other medical applications. It would indeed be a test to see if she could remember any of it, though.

“Mr Jasper is very helpful” Gwyn nodded in response, grateful to the young man who did his best to ensure everyone was okay at the expense of his health. Perhaps she’d take him some biscuits and tea sometime, something to thank him for his continuous work.

“Oh!” She suddenly exclaimed in surprise. “I’m wonderful, Miss Doris. I’ve been doing my exercises all morning for my headaches and-, And I think I may have had a breakthrough this morn.” Her fingers splayed out before her, fiddling with excitement. “I do look forward to seeing the outcome at breakfast. I hope it’s onwards and upwards here for my headaches.”

Hearing the offer to walk to breakfast was nothing short of joy and happiness for Gwyneira. She hadn’t been escorted to breakfast before, and, to walk in with her favourite, beautiful caretaker, was a wonderful thing. “I’d love to, shall we leave now, Miss Doris?” She skipped past Miss Doris, careful not to touch her on the way out, and waited for the teacher to accompany her.

Although Gwyn's mentions of overstimulation were concerning, Doris held her tongue for the moment. Standing down, she let the girl speak her mind while still eager to converse. The moment of patience paid off soon after. A single phrase - I'm wonderful - quickly nipped the budding concerns in Doris' mind, leaving only a genuine smile to present. “I am delighted to hear this morning has been so kind to you. I had hoped it would be.”

“But, yes,” she agreed, watching on with joy as the girl skipped past, “Let us go.” Joining her side with a more reserved pace, she chaperoned Gwyn through the halls as best she could while her injuries opposed her fervently. “Gwyn, if you feel burdened by something today, please make me aware,” she mentioned suddenly, seemingly prompted by her own strain, “I would hate to see your high spirits fade knowing I could have done something to prevent it.”

Gwyn chewed her cheek during their trek to the breakfast hall, each step growing slower with the buzz that filtered into her head, but, she pushed through.

Thoughts occupied her, and, in stealing a glance at Doris, she finally spoke into her caretaker's mind with something that had been burdening her; Miss Doris...Last night- you mentioned Abigail was in the hospital, Gwyn started, her lips still other than the occasional chew against cheek flesh Was it a lie? I'm only asking because I saw the staircase- it was surrounded by these... Her thoughts trailed off, and her hands came together quietly, squeezing into a tight fist. Gnarly colours. Frightful ones. She chanced another look towards Miss Doris, worrying at her lip.

The question slipped into her mind and gave pause to both thoughts and movements. It halted Doris in the middle of the hallway before resuming her route. Acting as if the sudden shock had not startled her into stillness. Makoto found her on the stairs... That is why. Doris' thoughts were disorganized and frazzled but forced out a response. She must have left her room during the night... It is likely she wanted to tell us of her illness. She cast her pale gaze to the side, avoiding her child interrogator. The vague likeness of the Owner was present in her mind keeping the truth sealed behind tight lips. We do not know why she would have chosen the stairs. There are no other floors beyond those steps... I promi-- assure you.

Gwyn mulled over the words from Doris. Would she need to ask Makoto about Abigail? Surely not, the man gave her the chills by just a mere thought in his direction. The caretaker had done her no wrong but she wasn’t exactly sure if they had greeted each other than a small nod. Makoto, Mr Mac— He was someone Gwyn had always wanted to speak with, put a voice to the thoughts she often saw in disarray through the woven threads of his mind.

Actually getting to speak with the man? That was a difficult task. If he wasn’t so busy with his daily tasks, his time seemed to be eaten by Olivia. If it wasn’t Olivia, then he was chasing after Frida. There wasn’t enough hours in the day for Mr Makoto.

While silence had befallen her, Gwyn was lost in her own subconscious. Trapped to the thoughts that pestered and badgered her about Colette. Her pink-haired accomplice deserved to know what information she knew of Abigail— Her chérie. But wasn’t it best to let things go? Abigail would be returning from the hospital at some point and everything would be cleared up, Gwyn was sure of it!

But where did that leave her?

What would become of her friendship with Colette?

Her stomach knotted at the thought of being replaced. Hadn’t she done that to Abigail, though? Here she was; dolling herself up, dressing in the best clothes she had and even worrying over the smallest of strands that sat on top her head and what for? Just to eventually be replaced?

Her happy thoughts turned pathetic, her thoughts a bit too discombobulated for her liking.

“Miss Doris.” Gwyn spoke without thinking as they neared the breakfast hall. “How do you—“ She broke off, sucking on her lower lip with fervent worry. “What does liking someone feel like?” Gwyn finally got out, holding her breath as she awaited an answer.

“Yes Gwyn?” Doris asked carefully, preparing herself for another round of necessary dishonesty. There was no desire to withhold the truth from the young girl, none at all. There was only a small hope that lying to her would prevent Abigail's fate from befalling another child. However, as she prepared for more questions regarding the 'missing' girl, Gwyn threw her a curveball. Such a sudden, drastic change in topic left Doris ill-prepared to hold back an impulsive mental response. Embers. The light of two cigarettes, burning like twin stars in a sky of smoke. Close, but distant, all at once.

“What does liking someone feel like...” Doris muttered the question to herself. She knew what liking someone felt like. The smoke in her mind cleared, revealing her personal infatuation. “Safety,” Doris replied with admiration towards the mental image, “It feels like safety... It feels like nothing could possibly harm you when you are near that someone--”

“Ah, do you have someone like that, Gwyn?”

“Safety,” Gwyn repeated, the word sounding familiar to her considering what she and Colette had been through. Of course, she felt safe with the pink-haired lady— They’d gone through literal hell together.

Colette was like a cocoon of warmth, a bundle of silk and cloth with invigorating touches.
“I—“ She started but broke off at the unsavoury word that rolled about on her tongue.

Gwyn was taught from a young age that girls were to like boys and boys were to like girls. Liking someone of the same gender and indulging in blasphemous fantasies would indeed send her to the depths of hell when she did die.

But the thought of being separated from the pinkette didn’t sit well with her. The tangle of emotions, much like a hairball from a cat, lodged itself in her oesophagus and painfully constricted her breathing until— Colette’s smile.

Warm, fuzzy. Pinks and reds with a brilliant yellow behind them. Her smile, her laugh– just her. With a deep breath, Gwyn resigned herself to be truthful.

“Colette, Miss Doris. I feel…Shy around Colette. I think she’s beautiful, from her shade of hair down to the elegant stride in her step.” A pause.
“She—She makes me feel safe.” Stopping before the door, Gwyn turns towards Doris and rocks back on the heels of her feet, hand bracing the wall at the sudden invasion of voices that pestered her due to close proximity.

She singled out Doris’ voice and thoughts though, casting out the others and following that single red thread that shot in a straight line, curling around the image of a very familiar man. She audible gasped, smacking her free hand against her mouth to quell her surprise.

“Miss Doris!” Gwyn giggled from behind her hand, “How scandalous!” It was a jest, something to lighten the serious discussion they just had. Gwyn, however, couldn’t get over the infatuation Doris had with a certain someone. Were there events that led up to this? How did it come to be?

“How—When?” She pestered the caretaker.

"People are-- going to find that difficult to understand, Gwyn..." Doris replied, choosing her words carefully. She would have denied her if her words were less genuine. These ideas made little sense to her, and a lot of the world outside would agree. Then again, all that did or did not make sense to the world blurred within these walls. Was it really that difficult to understand this compared to everything that happened on these grounds? But, one day, Gwyn would have to leave this place. She would have to be prepared to face the world outside. Doris sighed shortly, her eyes measuring the distance between them and the breakfast hall's entrance. "I do suppose there are quite a number of things that are difficult to understand about us all..."

"Would you not agree?" Doris asked with a small smile, letting her gaze follow Gwyn's rocking. "If she makes you feel safe, then who am I to say--"

"...Yes?" Doris instinctively responded to her name. "What, scandalous? What in the world do-- Gwyn!" After realization came to shock, Doris hastily redirected her gaze towards the breakfast hall. Her hand gestured for the girl to follow as she approached the doorway with the faint red of embarrassment staining her cheeks. "That is-- come along! We do not want to keep everybody waiting."

The joyful encounter between the two had been the most enjoyable conversation Gwyn had had in a long time. It was genuine, warming— A conversation meant for a mother and daughter. Gwyn, in more ways than one, guessed that is how her relationship with Doris summed up to be; A parental bond.

“Don’t worry, Miss!” She sings towards the caretaker, “Your secret is safe with me—” Abruptly, her sentence is cut short. When she stepped into the breakfast hall, Gwyn was greeted by the sight of Colette cozying up with Charlotte. The black tendrils that snuffed out her happy mood wasted no time. It was jealousy, and she was jealous.

Rather than draw attention to herself, she bid Doris farewell and ventured forth towards the empty chair next to Colette, sitting down and intertwining her fingers against her lap.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

Fantasy The Case of Lockheed Orphanage for the Supernaturally Gifted

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