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ID: B6rj8/kw/qst/6216391#6216392
3/22/2025, 4:36:48 PM
Your name is Chlotsuintha, and an hour ago, you were already convinced that this was to be the longest night of your life.
That was before you abandoned the stage and team that was so dearly fought for, so important for your escape. That was before you made yourself known by appearance at yet another Public House for no benefit, and ultimately no reason. That was before you found the Mount to be on a level of alert so disproportionate with the supposed cause - a spate of banditry on the roads - that you have to think there is much more to it all. That was before you presented yourself to Guards – to Guards! – at a Gatehouse, having given up on winning your way through the Landward Walls on your own. And that was before those Guards asked you to explain what was in the rough bundle in your arms, the very one which you have secreted your Wand of Head-Knocking in.
You are now increasingly convinced that this is to be the last night of your life.
Having long since worn yourself down to a nub, you cannot think things through. Your instincts to avoid danger, to cut your losses cleanly and early, to take and make compromises - the very instincts that have served you your whole life - now, tonight, seem keen to condemn you. You got scared off by the prospect of either talking or sneaking your way out of Cancer House, so you walked - well, snuck - away. But now you have no idea how you are suppose to extricate your stage and team from Cancer House. You do not even know if you can ... though you have no plan on how to leave the Mount but for to drive yourself out on the stage. And you cannot imagine getting your father's work and equipment - the whole fraying reason you have lingered here so fraying long - out of the Mount on a hired stage. You are going to need that. Your stage, your team. Or, or .... maybe another one ... though tomorrow - which is already today - is Titheday, so finding anyone to do business with and actually doing it is going to be all the harder. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy ...
"Domina?"
Shit! The Guards! You're fraying yourself straight to the Heights of Hell! The bundle, the bundle ... right! If the Guards bought the bill of sale about you being out on the streets to return to your strictly fictitious father at his similarly fictitious accommodations on account of some vague-yet-serious misconduct at some whole-cloth relatives house, then perhaps you may run with it ...
"Proof. It is proof. And I'd ... really rather not speak of it any further."
The look between the Guards, the pregnant pause ... you think you have sold them, but you - you wish you had your wand Socketed. Or that you didn't have it at all. You are not sure which would be better. Was this all a mistake? The story? Trying to talk your way through the wall? Trying ... trying to be a Witch? Trying to be your father's heir? You don't even feel scared at this point, just ... numb. Hollow and numb. Save for your head, which now feels fit to fall off.
That was before you abandoned the stage and team that was so dearly fought for, so important for your escape. That was before you made yourself known by appearance at yet another Public House for no benefit, and ultimately no reason. That was before you found the Mount to be on a level of alert so disproportionate with the supposed cause - a spate of banditry on the roads - that you have to think there is much more to it all. That was before you presented yourself to Guards – to Guards! – at a Gatehouse, having given up on winning your way through the Landward Walls on your own. And that was before those Guards asked you to explain what was in the rough bundle in your arms, the very one which you have secreted your Wand of Head-Knocking in.
You are now increasingly convinced that this is to be the last night of your life.
Having long since worn yourself down to a nub, you cannot think things through. Your instincts to avoid danger, to cut your losses cleanly and early, to take and make compromises - the very instincts that have served you your whole life - now, tonight, seem keen to condemn you. You got scared off by the prospect of either talking or sneaking your way out of Cancer House, so you walked - well, snuck - away. But now you have no idea how you are suppose to extricate your stage and team from Cancer House. You do not even know if you can ... though you have no plan on how to leave the Mount but for to drive yourself out on the stage. And you cannot imagine getting your father's work and equipment - the whole fraying reason you have lingered here so fraying long - out of the Mount on a hired stage. You are going to need that. Your stage, your team. Or, or .... maybe another one ... though tomorrow - which is already today - is Titheday, so finding anyone to do business with and actually doing it is going to be all the harder. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy ...
"Domina?"
Shit! The Guards! You're fraying yourself straight to the Heights of Hell! The bundle, the bundle ... right! If the Guards bought the bill of sale about you being out on the streets to return to your strictly fictitious father at his similarly fictitious accommodations on account of some vague-yet-serious misconduct at some whole-cloth relatives house, then perhaps you may run with it ...
"Proof. It is proof. And I'd ... really rather not speak of it any further."
The look between the Guards, the pregnant pause ... you think you have sold them, but you - you wish you had your wand Socketed. Or that you didn't have it at all. You are not sure which would be better. Was this all a mistake? The story? Trying to talk your way through the wall? Trying ... trying to be a Witch? Trying to be your father's heir? You don't even feel scared at this point, just ... numb. Hollow and numb. Save for your head, which now feels fit to fall off.
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