[hr][center][sub][color=cecece]Present - Late Morning[/color] [color=f6989d]《》[/color] [color=cecece]Lady Melody Heathering[/color] [color=f6989d]《》[/color] [color=cecece]The Haven for Wayward Girls[/color] [color=f6989d]《》[/color][color=cecece]Melody[@Memoria]Mayweather, Prudence[@PatientBean]Morris[@Blizz][/color][/sub][/center][hr][table][row][/row][row][cell][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5383761][img]https://i.imgur.com/pt4mTWr.jpeg[/img][/url][color=2e2c2c]▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇[/color][/cell][cell][quote] [color=8d8e8f] The compliment lingered in the air like incense. [i]“A saint among many.”[/i] Melody did not correct Mayweather. Her lashes lowered, the corners of her mouth curled in a soft, unbothered grace, and her irises shifted: from storm-swept dusk to something rounder, warmer. Lavender melting into lilac. As if her soul had briefly settled into its bones and found itself welcome there. She seemed to still herself... shoulders lowering, hands folding together. A momentary quiet gathered around her like a shawl. [color=f6989d][b]“I don’t know about sainthood,”[/b][/color] she said after a beat, her voice gentle, shaded with a smile. [color=f6989d][b]“But I do know how to boil tea, hum lullabies, and sit with grief. I suppose that's more than most."[/b][/color] A slight hint of melancholy settled in her gaze. When Mayweather offered to send word for Morris from wherever he was tucked away—likely that cold little lab of his—Melody’s smile remained, though her head inclined in gentle refusal. [color=f6989d][b]“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself, Mayweather. You’ve much to manage as it is,”[/b][/color] she said, a tone of understanding nestled behind her words. [color=f6989d][b]“I’ll find him.”[/b][/color] Melody exited with grace, trailing the quiet warmth of her presence behind her like perfume. She paused briefly, only to add, [color=f6989d][b]"Thank you."[/b][/color] [hr] Beyond the drawing room and the girls' sleeping quarters, the corridors were quiet in the way cathedrals were... filled with the hush of things left unsaid. Candlelight wavered across aged plaster and gilt-edged tapestries, throwing slow shadows over the stitched coats-of-arms, the stitched bruises of history. Along the walls, portraits of formidable women watched her pass: a weather-beaten sailor with a saber at her hip; a violinist with eyes closed and blood on her bow; a woman clad in widow’s black, her spine as straight as her sorrow. Among others, Melody did not know if these women were real, but she had a nagging sense that each had a story. Each had bled something to build this place, whether historical, fictitious, or otherwise. [i]The Haven was made of them, she thought. Their rage, their devotion, their ruin.[/i] The light played across Melody’s cheekbones as she walked, her silhouette cast beautifully like the anthousai of some forgotten fairytale. And then— A grunt. A muttered curse. Turning a corner, Melody came upon Madame Bisset, arms wrapped around the cracked base of a monstrous flowering pot, its lush orange petals spilling from the rim like overripe tongues. [color=f6989d][b]“Oh dear,”[/b][/color] Melody said with a note of melodic sympathy, stepping closer. [color=f6989d][b]“Shall I—?”[/b][/color] Bisset huffed, [color=a187be]"No, no—leave it."[/color] Madame Bisset waved her off with a breathless flurry. [color=a187be]“Foolish of me to grow something this large in a clay pot. She's an absolute diva."[/color] Melody chuckled behind her palm, coy and fond. Her voice twinkled, [color=f6989d][b]"But what do divas desire more than applause."[/b][/color] The older woman snorted and scoffed but didn’t hide her grin. [color=a187be]“Go on, girl. Off to your haunt.”[/color] Melody offered a delicate curtsy, continuing on. [hr] When alone, without emotion to mirror or company to soften, Melody’s eyes often found their resting hue—a deep, violet shade like candlelight cast through amethyst. That color carried no agenda. No false warmth. It was her own. Just her. The true shade of a woman who’d spent most of her life listening to others before herself. As she neared Morris’s door, her mind wandered toward [i]Mr. Maleficar’s Traveling Circus[/i], which had arrived just before dusk. Perhaps only a few days before. The posters were everywhere in the city... ink-bright and lurid. She hadn’t voiced it aloud, but something in her stirred uneasily when she passed them. Too much color, too much hunger. And yet, she did not want her own reservations to impose on the joy of the girls, who'd already made loud protestations as to why they should be allowed to go. And so, here she was. The door stood ajar. Inside, Morris hunched over a table littered with strange things. He was deep in concentration. He hadn’t heard her knock, it seemed. Three times. The clink of glass, the hush of movement drowned out everything but his own preoccupations. She let herself in, slipping through the door like a sigh and gathering her skirt as to avoid a snag. The room breathed cold. Not in temperature alone, but in the way mortuaries did. Or cleanly dressed battlefields. The walls were bare stone and mortar. A long table held jars with fluids she couldn’t name. On another lay bone fragments that seemed more sculptural than anatomical. One looked like the curve of a femur that hadn't belonged to any creature she recognized. Even so, all the bones held the shape of questions, unfinished and uncertain. A drain waited in the floor, mouth open. Melody didn’t shudder, but she did hesitate, heart slowing. Her fingers curled loosely in front of her skirt as she glanced toward the bones again. [i]Macabre.[/i] That was the word that returned. She’d never fully understood his gift, only that it was crude, practical, blood-bound. Nothing like hers. And perhaps that was the difference between them. He built from remnants; she softened wounds with the breath of feeling. She straightened her spine just slightly, her gift humming beneath her ribs, and adjusting her posture to reduce surprise. Melody's magic had a way of tempering the space around her so as not to rupture the tension of the room. [color=f6989d][b]"Morris?"[/b][/color] she said softly, her voice carrying the gentleness of an older sister waking a child from a dream. [color=f6989d][b]"Forgive me, I tried knocking..."[/b][/color] His attention didn't snap immediately. She let her voice hang. Melody's gaze flickered toward the darker end of the room. Something stirred faintly. Not seen, not known. She felt the soft impression of emotion, a young aura, light and mischievous. It brushed across her empathic senses like the wing of a moth. Melody's eyes shifted in color, one, a deep azure, the other, a soft, rich emerald. She thought it might be [i]Prudence[/i], knowing of the girl's penchant for invisibility, but made no move to acknowledge it. She returned her focus to Morris. [color=f6989d][b]“I see you're in the middle of... something,”[/b][/color] she began, casting another glance at the skeletal framework on his table, [color=f6989d][b]“but I wondered if you might accompany me and a few of the girls into town. The circus has arrived not too long ago, and I thought it might do them good to see a bit of fantasy outside our walls.”[/b][/color] The woman hesitated a beat before she continued, searching for words with velvet care. [color=f6989d][b]"I'd go alone, but..."[/b][/color] she offered a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, [color=f6989d][b]"I imagine the sight of me leading a troupe of mostly lily-faced girls through a strange, tented bazaar might stir more curiosity than comfort. Optics being what they are."[/b][/color] It was more of a half-smile now. Not bitter. Just honest, despite her position in society as the ward of the widowed Baroness Florence Heathering. Her thumb brushed across her palm. She waited then. Heterochromatic eyes steady. Eyes full of witchlight and possibility. Patient. Reaching no further than was welcome. [center] [hider=NPCs] Madame Bisset [img]https://i.imgur.com/Q4bZSxZ.jpeg[/img] Mayweather[@PatientBean] No visual image at present. [/hider] [/center] [/color][/quote][/cell][/row][/table]