𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 —

[evocandum]

action, picture prompts, overflow, etc. fully welcome wildcards! shippy, general, all goes.

actively seeking psls for this character ♡

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[evocandum]

[ As is quickly becoming pattern, Mordrake is waiting with bated breath (...figuratively speaking, for a being that no longer truly breathes) to see what truths his strange new associate will actually claim as true, and which may be less than that. (Will she really eat the bird or is this simply an impish little trick to see if he'll obey her? Or perhaps it's a tease.)

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 — 'the horrors we'll unleash' — 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 He's slowly withdrawn it, letting both of his hands fold politely across his torso as he watches her feed, and when the demon hoarsely whispers Its delight, he barely flinches.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 — 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 — 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 — 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 realises— ...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.

[hollywar]

[ There is nothing wrong with a good jest, a practical joke or nasty trick; her violence, however, is neither an empty exaggeration stated for effect nor a final recourse to an insoluble problem. It is a self-sustaining mode of being without intrinsic horror, to wit, when Millie declares her admiration of horror, it is as its perpetrator and engine, a being unconscious of its own darkness for it is the essence of her nature as a Christmasland child, requiring no more acknowledgement on her part than the autonomous workings of one's organs. She is a mockery of her former self but not without a kind of purity to the completeness of her corruption. Perhaps figments of light yet circle her soul, but at an immense distance, like stellar objects orbiting the rings of Saturn, the detritus of memories faded and proscribed.

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!

[evocandum]

[ There is much that could be considered about her actions and choices and mannerisms, much to be analysed — he'll tiptoe towards it, no doubt, as he continues making sense of the mysterious being. As much otherworldly insight as he may have gained over these long years (and as much as his own mind has been shaped by its detachment from a mortal form, transforming him into something that can only parody a human being at most) he's almost comically inexperienced with this direct contact. There is always some curtain between himself and the living, no matter how he tries to breach it in their final hours, sitting with them to share conversation and whatever kindness and decency he can hope to exude before casting his terrors upon them. This, by contrast, is extremely intimate.

(Of course, yet again — 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 — 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' — 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 — 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.

[hollywar]

[ He can file her pouncing under the most flagrant offences to proper conduct but without a mechanism to enforce his notion of etiquette, what she does and does not do is contingent on her whims. This is wholly as intended and even foundational in respect to the principles of Christmasland. She is unmanageable because anything that stifles the wildness of a child has been excised from that nocturnal realm of blood and tinsel. Her aggressive behaviour, her unapologetic physicality, is good and proper to her understanding, whereas it is an incursion against his conception of proper bearing. This is not to say the girl is incapable of learning or exercising restraint but that Mordrake contends with a deeply alien perception of the world in Millie.

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 too—I 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.