Briza

Brocklen hall Asylum ( Accepting players 6/10 spots left no reservations.)

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A Steampunk Mystery

The red haired gentleman wearing the Last Lance mask began speaking, again. An exit to the conversation emerged from his mouth as he spoke. He was smug, cheeky-- and something, however, that eerily reminded Esther of her dear brother. Their height was even similar. Esther's dark eyes studied the gentleman's mannerisms. He appeared so nonchalant about the whole ordeal; and his lack of respect for the White Rabbit was intriguing. She straightened her positioning and drew in a small unnoticeable breath. She could feel the heat of her lips against the mask becoming strangely consoling.

Her right hand reached for the black ribbon tying the venetian white, robin's mask around her face. The ribbon was still secure. She lowered her hand. The last thing she wanted was for the White Rabbit to be disappointed in her. Her eyes looked away from the Last Lance and buried her concentration into small gravely shadows on the ground. Why did she want the White Rabbit's approval so badly? A small quiver crawled around her spine, winding around her long, wiry, bone frame. She gnawed at her lower lip, again. Her gnawing was gentle and not so noticeable unless one was watching her intently. The feeling bit her at the top of her neck and urged her to move.

She began walking towards the intricate table of drinks. It was not the drinks she wanted, but the hallway beyond the ornate, wooden table was wear she wanted to wonder. Besides, how could she trust the beverages? The platform heels carefully touched the floors of the White Rabbit's Manor. Each step was taken slowly and delicately, as if one step too many may anger the whole manor and cause another strike against the wallpaper.

Her walking was probably deemed unusual to an outsider, but she was curious. Curiosity was, after all, mankind's first passion. Evidently, it would probably be the last, as well...

Perhaps, I should open one of the doors, she thought to herself, Just twist the knob and push it open...

As she approached the first door, the gas light flickered small but brilliant shadows onto her naked skin. She paused to admire the natural simplicity of the lamps. They were hauntingly beautiful with tiny details that only a true master of worth and honor could have upheld in his or her work. Finally, her hand reached out, winding her fingers around the doorknob. Before twisting she looked at the guests--perhaps to ponder whether being nosy was the right thing to do.

A Steampunk Mystery

Oh bother! I am not sure if anyone has noticed (due to my editing), but I keep messing up my posts by putting wrong information. My brain is a bit scattered due to school--or as my excuse goes, anyways. I do apologize to everyone (and mostly the people who have taken note). Merci.

A Steampunk Mystery

Esther peeped through her mask, eyeing the other prisoners--or, guests, as they drank away their fears and conversed worriedly about the locked door. She brought her hands to the mouth of her mask, grimly feeling the exterior that was framing her face. How odd it was that the Last Lance was the first to say his name, and the Reckless Aurora, a mirror... Her mind turned back to the graffiti on the wall.

"My key was given to me by my older brother..." She spoke hesitantly. Her voice was small and chirpy, and she was not even sure if it was heard. Her hands drew away from her face, trying to stand strong in the face of the danger arising. Her words floated around her in the shadows of the room. She wanted to grab them as they escaped from her lips and smother them back onto her tongue. Alas, it was too late! Her words had made it across the room--barely, at that.

Perhaps, if she had been quieter. Perhaps, if she had been more like a mouse and less like a bird, no one would have heard her.

The very question made her miss her "key." There was a strange comfort surrounding it. It was the last thing keeping the memory of her brother so vivid. Of course, the very thought of her brother and the gift made her feel a bit more uncomfortable... She desperately wanted to escape the conversation she had entered by darting off down the never-ending hallway. Maybe she would get lost; maybe the hallway would take her in circles; maybe it would set her free. Esther did not dart off, however. In fact, she decided to patiently wait for someone else's response.

Her social shell hardened as she waited for answers. She promised herself she would try to speak less the next time a question was asked.

Suddenly, another guest began throwing himself against the door, helplessly--like a Helpless Pawn. To take her mind from the scene, Esther twirled her tulle bustle back and forth several times, humming in her mind song archaic tune. The man wearing the Helpless Pawn mask stopped and stood still, as did Esther--awaiting for more reactions.

A Steampunk Mystery

The lights were out, and the darkness of her silhouette merged into the darkness and immersed her. She could no longer see the other guests. Esther shrank, hunched her wiry back, and hugged her scrawny body when the scratching sound began clawing the wall. The protruding nose shook back and forth with the movement of her quivering head. She wanted the sound to cease at once. Her teeth grinded each other.

“Wha--?” her mouth let the small question escape from the silent cage of her mouth.

The lights flicked on. She looked around at the guests, “What. The fuck. Is that!?” She heard one of the other guests exclaim in a loud voice. Her head turned, and by the wall, a strike had been written. She felt her pupils widen and then shrink.

She reached for her knife, to prepare for protection… As Esther’s spidery fingers reached inside the pocket of her corset, she remembered that she had placed the knife in the box at the beginning of her arrival.

Her head slowly turned away from the scar on the wall to look at the other guests’ reactions. Her hand weakly touched her mask. The Fickle Robin. Perhaps, that is how she should introduce herself—if approached. Her fingers gently stroked the caricature, feeling the uniqueness of its build and decoration. She had picked it for its intricate details and her curiosity for birds. But perhaps, the masks meant something more… something personal about each guest.

Brocklen hall Asylum ( Accepting players 6/10 spots left no reservations.)

exit.

Brocklen hall Asylum ( Accepting players 6/10 spots left no reservations.)

Profile coming soon ~ <3

A Steampunk Mystery

Esther was wearing a black corset. Ruffles adorned her small bust, using frill to make up for her lack of lady ornamentation. A black ribbon laced her spine together, tied strictly and sternly into a presentable and fluffed bow. A black tulle bustle, again accented with black lace and the finer fashion of seams, was worn delicately high around her emaciated, flesh-wire waist. Her pale legs could be seen through the lingering bustle. Her calves, on the other hand, were covered by black boots, which laced up to her knees. The nicely judged platform boots added much height to her tall frame. She was beginning to feel conscientious over her choice in wardrobe until the soft, velvety sound of the White Rabbit's voice echoed through the chambers of the optical striped corridor.

Esther swiftly ceased to lean against the wall after feeling the vibration of his tone shiver her bare skin. Her feet stuttered as they glided her from the white and red striped walls. Her dark eyes dazzled as the room revealed itself further into a void of illusions. Something mystical, magical was hidden behind each door. Regardless of the price, she was curiously interested.

Using the beak of the mask, hiding her face, she guided her face to peer back to the guests. A hesitant frown carefully sketched itself over her hidden, pale lips. The guests were not something she was too terribly curious into knowing. However, the White Rabbit had made a mention that she should get to know the other guests.

Her hands rested at her sides. The feel of a shadowy spotlight enveloped her personality and swallowed her mind into a stark graveyard of nothingness. The cat had not died. No, no. The cat had caught her tongue.

"Ignore any... odd sounds you may hear. My staff are quite busy."

Hearing the sound of the White Rabbit's voice, again, excited her heart rate. With another bite of her lower lip, she contained her breaths to small, gentle puffs against the mask. Of course, he had staff, and of course, they were busy. Her cheeks blushed. Her hand lightly pressed her fingers against a black leather collar around her throat. The prints of her fingertips felt the intricate designs stitched into the works of her accessory. Small black jewels dangled from her collar, and her fingers dropped from the collar to the beads, silently apprehending the situation.

She felt flattered to have been invited. Unfortunately, something told her the flattery should be killed as immediately as it had planted itself in her mind. She was not sure what to do: enjoy the evening until the brutal end or be relentlessly scared of the very fact she was in a social gathering under the roof of the very infamous White Rabbit.

Brocklen Hall Asylum

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A Steampunk Mystery

Esther looked around the area of the White Rabbit's manor, she saw no one around the area. A painful sigh of relief rested its hand on her bare, boney shoulders. The steam was rising, and the mood was setting into a cloudy mess of confusion. Closing her black, lacy parasol, Esther turned the intricately sewn décor into a cane; she leaned it against the wall by the door, noticing the note.

Carefully, a thin, pale hand placed itself into the front pocket of her black, corset. A knife was removed. It was worn and obviously much used. A childhood heirloom with many memories she kept close to heart. However, tonight would be different. Tonight would be very different.

After putting the knife into the box, she picked up a face mask: The "Fickle Robin" mask. It fit uncomfortably well over Esther's fragile face. Her dark eyes peered through the mask as she carefully crept her long fingers over the doorknob, opening the door as quietly as possible. Her eyes adverted at the other two guests. A reluctance to socialize stabbed her in the chest; her heart raced. The onset of panic had begun. Her eyes darted at the ground as she quickly closed the door behind her.

She quickly ushered herself into a shadowy area of the entrance; her fingers slowly crept toward each other tightly. She felt for the black fingernail polish she had carefully adorned over her nails just the other evening. The smoothness seemed soothing, and the mood, adjacent to her attack, curiosity, became more apparent in her mind--like a child playing with fire.

Allowing the blooming curiosity to blossom in her mind, she took several small steps closer to the walls. Curiosity killed the cat. But what killed the rabbit? Her front teeth gently nibbled her bottom lip, rubbing the lightly painted skin slowly back-and-forth for some sort of unnerving comfort. She knew about the White Rabbit, and could sense the uncanny tingles of someone watching over all of them. Removing her eyes from the floor, she looked around the entrance, staring at the adornment and fixtures.

She would not mind being a wall flower for the night. A delicate approval of the decorations cuddled inside of her. Perhaps, she could escape without any conversation tonight. She was simply a pale fire flickering in the darkness of the situation, and any small breeze could persuade her into another state of panic--a risk she was not quite ready to fulfill.