[right][h3][b][i][color=B100de]Master Plum[/color][/i][/b][/h3][color=B100de]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color]
[color=B100de][i][b]Location: [/b][/i][/color]Shadowell Manor: Music Room (Couch Left)
[color=B100de][i][b]Skills:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=B100de][i][b]Hit Points:[/b][/i][/color] 5
[color=B100de]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color][/right]

Tick tick tick, tock tock tock, tick tock tick tock. The movement of idle hands around the clock, with every second came and gone, moved the pieces and the pawns. The dolt and Rave went one, Creme and the lady another, and between the four of them perhaps one will find some help. For now Plum had to keep his foot dressed, soaking up the sanguine wine. Had Mauve not sunk the dagger deeper perhaps the bleeding would have stopped, but that witch had to have her sadistic fun. At least now she would have to be wary around him, for what sort of man forgives so easily such cruelty? In self defense he protected himself from her sudden assault, but next time he would need no weapons to punish her aggression. Well, just his mind perhaps, just his mind.

And in his time alone, Plum relaxed, chuckling to himself. His bird still flitting about the piano, watching the master smile. A sharp whistle of his trained companion and there the raven flew back to the man's shoulder. The only one he knew he could care to trust, his faithful feathered friend. A clicking of this tongue entertained his bird, though the man was still hunched over applying pressure to his foot. The pain was bearable, a wincing sting here and there, but fortunately the body's response to such shock was just that. Surely by the time the dinner guests arrive, he'd be walking with a limp. If walking at all, Plum mused with a grimace. Where was that doctor? Why did he take so long to find?

Talking to his raven, and pouting his woes and worries, they may think Plum mad. Complaining in their secret way of all things to a bird's ear, of Mauve's treachery, of the idiot's stupidity in standing there wasting time, and of how the Lord of the Manor himself wanted them all dead. Of course the raven never spoke, never more speaking than Plum's imagination. Perhaps it was the bloodless, or was the man truly mad enough to think himself talking with himself? Yet none were around to hear him speak to the blackest beak, thus could the man be his true self, and let himself unwind.