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ππππ ππππ β
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actively seeking psls for this character β‘
actively seeking psls for this character β‘
actively seeking psls for this character β‘
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She decrees his knowledge of her workings sufficient to take the next step although his insight is anything but complete. Each item of information is a piece of herself surrendered to a stranger whose motivations cannot be corroborated with a mere exchange of words. He must become less strange to her in order to lower her defences. It is a matter of building trust through action. ]
Yes. Sacrifice your right hand to my appetite. I'm feeling mighty peckish, soldier!
[ Her gaze lingers on the gentleman without humour. Her lips part, raising the curtain on a monstrous smile. ]
Then again, a ghost can't be too filling.
[ Her pallor casts doubt on whether the girl is alive at all, a question without a definitive answer; that she eats, however, is a certainty. ]
I want to eat flesh. Human flesh! But the buried are nothing but bones.
[ Millie looks to the bleary glow of city lights like shards of bottle glass blinking in the sky of night. She presumes, perhaps naively, that he is better acquainted with civilisation than herself, in part because he is an adult. ]
Her gaze drifts to a crow perched on the cemetery gate. She points to the bird. ]
Kill it. It'll have to do.
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Is he going to have to stave her off from actually trying to consume from him, orβ No, no, she's quite moved on, though the knowledge that she craves flesh is met with an equal amount of stun. Edward stares at her with some mix of startle and wonder: a meat-eater, in the most ghastly sense. (Unless this is meant in some dark jest, although he cannot be certain that it is. It would make sense that the child with her predator's mouth and deathly hue and unnatural strength might feast on the human living.)
When she directs his attention to the bird, Edward stares mutely for a moment longer, as though lingering to see whether she means it or if she'll bark a laugh at him. There's a purse of his mouth; is this where his fate lies in this unholy unification? A servant to a child's demands? Yet he'll do it anyway, with only the softest huff beneath his breath. (Of course he will; he's been damnably loyal to the little devil since he first lay eyes on her.)
And he isn't even truly irritated by the demand, a faint glint of mirth in his eye as he vanishes abruptly, only to reappear just at the animal's location. He strikes in seconds, too quickly for it to even know he's there. He could snap its neck with a will of his mind, but he opts to stab the thing with the ornate dagger he pulls from his person β for the demon's bloodlust has only livened since Mordrake made connection with Millie Manx, the vile creature attached to him made excitable in the presence of Its own kind. The soul of an animal is nothing to what It really needs to satisfy some of that hunger, but it's something. A life taken with the cursed blade that Mordrake possesses is a hideous thing indeed β and the display of blood, the act of his own hand causing it, pleases the demon. It might exhibit some mercy for him as reward, a brief reprieve from its Hellish whispers.
The bird utters no sound, silenced before it can even react. Still, it's a more gory scene than it had to be, and Edward winces as he pulls the dagger from its large body and reappears at the girl's side. Delicately, fingers pinching it by one bloody wing so as not to get mess on his glove more than is necessary, he holds the limp thing out to her. ]
Your meal, Miss Manx.
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She watches the bird without blinking. Will it detonate with a word from the spectre? Will he pierce it with a phantom spear from afar? The spectacle of his powers has captured her imagination and he is complicit in cementing an expectation of theatrics by flooding the stage of their meeting with smoke.
Her undivided attention is rewarded with a glimpse of his momentary disappearance, swift as the flash of a camera, immortalising the bird in death. Millie turns her head towards his re-materialised self, looks to his face, the bird and back. ]
Look.
[ She lifts a hand, slight and quivering with black glee. ]
I'm trembling. Trembling at the horror we'll unleash.
[ The same hand snatches the bird and Millie sinks her uneven teeth into the carcass feathers and all. The black plumes burst about them from the force of her bite as she devours the animal with both hands like a savage, ripping and tearing until it is little more than a crimson stamp on her uniform and chin.
She spits out a snapped femur then posts up mysteriously before Mordrake. The child lifts her chin and closes her eyes, awaiting something implicit in his role as her manservant? Enabler? Father figure? What she awaits is for him to clean her up. ]
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But what it comes down to is that he'd asked her explicitly about sustenance, and when faced with providing it for her, there is to be no hesitation. He'll care for her, as promised. And despite the curl at the corner of his mouth of faint disgust as he holds the bird inbetween pinched digits, he'd repeat the violent (and dramatic; he does enjoy a show) act if it would satisfy her.
When it does, indeed, become known that it will satisfy her, something is affirmed within the spectre, and it is that he has fulfilled a true need for the girl, that it isn't a tease. He stares at the shuddering hand that she lifts to show him, with that same mixture of bemusement, true startle, and some sort of horrid awe β 'the horrors we'll unleash' β there's no time to let the words absorb before she's scarfing down the dead thing like a starved beast, and Mordrake casts his wide gaze to watch the entire gruesome act.
...Gruesome, but not off-putting. Not really. It would be a pure lie to claim that each rip of her jagged teeth to flesh and feather doesn't enchant him further to Millie. She's more monstrous than most any adult horror he's encountered. He's come across souls holding the weight of so many dark things, but this.... The spirit stares as though in wonder as he watches her eat, raw and unforgiving, leaking blood all over. She'd actually eat his hand off if it did get in the way. He's slowly withdrawn it, letting both of his hands fold politely across his torso as he watches her feed, and when the demon hoarsely whispers Its delight, he barely flinches. (How deeply does his own darkness go? He'll never know where he ends and worse things begin.)
When the girl moves to stand before him, head lifted up almost expectantly β eyes shut, which is a strange display of.... not quite vulnerability from her, although maybe, perhaps something somewhat trusting, a momentary guard let down around him, or perhaps he still has no true idea what to make of her β his thought-process is already aligned with what she's expecting, because goodness she's made a mess. And he is prepared for it, hand flicking with a quick flourish to extract the neatly folded handkerchief from within his breast pocket.
It's a familiar gesture, even if he's never used it for anything quite like this before. But it's a part of him, a phantasmal extension of himself β the cloth. Offered to many of the souls he comes to claim, for often their owners weep with either fear or relief to see him. Edward lifts it to her, but the girl's eyes are still closed, and he realisesβ ...another first. ]
Now I'm the one trembling at the mess you've made. My word. [ It's not quite a chastise, even if he says it with all the sternness of an unhappy butler coming across a spilled mess on a freshly-washed floor. But the cloth to her cheek is soft and careful as he fusses over the state of her, free hand gently coaxing her face to one side and then the other as he wipes the blood, as much of it as he can, from her wan visage. ]
There. If you become hungry again, do tell me and I'll find more. We mustn't have you tearing out the throats of passerby on the streets.
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She awaits his ministrations as though they are par for the course, a duty thrust upon Edward to his unknowing. It's surely learned behaviour, given the confidence with which she choreographs her post-meal dance, but learned from whom? He could hazard a guess, but too rash a judgement carries the risk of doing away with all nuance. Millie does approach him like another figure in her life, but not exactly like them. He is yet himself.
Her actions convey a measure of unspoken trust, though were Millie to reflect on this development, she would make a face, chagrined at her negligence before an adult. But here and now, shutting her eyes and relaxing her inhibitions feels right, if only for a moment. ]
Are you now. Is your dead heart athumping.
[ Words delivered blindly and without the emphasis of a question mark but with the beginnings of a smile upon her bloodsoaked lips. The minute cracks in his expertly cultivated demeanour are all the more salient for his refinement.
The girl tolerates the manipulation of her face to a point, the onset of a whine building in her throat just as the deed is done. ]
Argh... am I decent yet?
[ Millie opens her eyes. ]
I'm glad you understand: whether bystanders die depends on you. I have no tender feelings for the hoi polloi.
[ She looks past the stone arch then takes the lapel of his coat and tugs a single time. ]
Let's go, Eddy!
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(Of course, yet again β Edward can't claim to truly perceive the girl as one of the living; he categorises her this way only by virtue of her having a solid, corporeal form that is more vulnerable than his own for such solidity.)
He narrowly escapes too much fuss, withdrawing his hands just in time as she begins to complain, brows clipped sharply down at her β though with a patient slowness as he neatly folds the cloth and returns it to his pocket. He can't assume she won't snap those teeth at him, no matter if he has not a drop of blood to be drawn, but he won't treat her like an animal, even if he will cautiously respect her tendency to behave like one (the pouncing, Miss Manx, really must not happen again.) But she is not an animal, the way no freak or monster that he has known are animals. Not even the thing tethered to him is an animal. ]
A stark improvement, at least for the moment, [ he answers almost with amusement as she opens her eyes, his own sweeping down her again: taking in the uniform, the tasseled epaulettes at her shoulders, the sword at her side. She'll be a strange sight roaming the "Real World", as she calls it, though no less strange than his own countenance.... They truly make quite the costumed pair.
'whether bystanders die depends on you' β Another disconcerting remark that could be a tease or could be true, and another that Edward has to take at face-value for now, giving a soft exhale. What a responsibility! He'll have to do his best not to cause undue harm to the poor victims who come close into contact, although.... if it came to it, would he help procure a human meal for his new devilish associate? (Yes.) The esteemed, civil aristocrat (hah) will try to avoid such an outcome, at least.
He slips out of his thoughts as she tugs at his coat and prompts him with a childlike enthusiasm, as though they were set off for a night of merriment rather than traversing a land neither of them belong to, with the intent to (probably brutally) combat whatever forces are attacking her realm. ]
On we go then, my dearest. I shall try to keep up. [ He agrees, and steps off towards the cemetery's entrance, now their exit β cane appearing back in hand, his gait a poised one. Fortunately at this hour, the streets to be found leading in are lonesome and quiet, though the lights of the city sparkle perpetually at backdrop, an ever-present buzz a reminder of how very alive this world truly is, and how vast. For all their exchanged abstruse knowledge and insight, neither Mordrake nor his demonic fiend come equipped with internal maps of this domain, and his gaze cast around the environment is a bit tight, severe, and mildly suspicious. ]
Have you somewhere in mind for this headquarters of yours? There are sure to be hotels and boarding homes deeper in the city where we might find privacy, though I not know how elaborate. It has been some time since my last venture to the mortal realm.
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Her costume is likewise a relic from the other side. Far from being a mere aesthetic decision, her costume and those of her pale ilk are unique and loaded with symbolism. A great amount of significance can be read into one's dress in the Real World, and not without sound reason, but the relationship is not quite the same. Here she is a child playing dress-up, perhaps one chaperoned from a production of The Nutcracker by a fellow actor, for Edward's wardrobe is an artifact of a bygone century. ]
Are you pulling my leg? As if a ghost might limp.
[ The certitude leaves her voice before the final syllable. Can a ghost become reliant on a cane? or is the stick a blueblood affectation? He can cover distances in a blink without apparent discomfort. ]
A hill fort would advantage us in open war, but our charge is reconnaissance, assassination. The enemy may be hunting me as I hunt it. Our quarters should be small with a clear view of the exits. We may have to move often, so a temporary headquarters.
[ Her thinking is surprisingly clear-eyed in respect to tactics. Millie abruptly turns about and grabs his coat with both hands. ]
You seem... How should I put it? At sea. I'm an outsider here tooβI get it. But you're my adult. Adulthood opens doors in the Real World. I need you to be competent. We must face this confusion head-on.
[ Millie relaxes her fingers and smooths out the ruffled fabric of his coat as a kind of consolation. ]
Onward then.