Marlowe (doppelt) wrote in cirque_rp, @ 2020-11-10 18:53:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !thread, c: birdie tackett, c: cressida wolfram, c: grayson brisk, c: james deckard, c: marlowe ashe, player: ana, player: kate, player: mandy, player: tris, player: vi |
WHO - James + Marlowe [Birdie, Cress]
WHAT - James returns. Marlowe seizes an opportunity for mischief.
WHERE - The Midway
WHEN - Nov 15th, because we're tortoises this week.
WARNINGS - TBA.
In an uncommon turnout, Nevermore had been quiet this Sunday evening. It must have been the new chill in the air, keeping delicate southern sensibilities indoors, or the beginning of the holiday season giving patrons a reason to second guess the cost of admission. Whatever the cause, Marlowe disliked empty seats in the house. She took it as a personal affront. She had the pipes to put butts in chairs, and yet there were chairs, empty of said butts. She didn't stay after clocking out for a drink to end the work week.
On her way back to the plantation house, she disguised herself as the Cirque's favorite Goblin roustabout to pass the mirror labyrinth. She didn't want to talk to Maxwell, and hadn't since she'd returned. He was supposed to be dead. That he wasn't defied the natural cycle, the balance of Summer and Winter, life and death, order and entropy. No longer of Winter, she respected their creed. The Fae were nothing if not changeless, bound by the strict rules of their nature. Marlowe's was mischief. So when she heard commotion from the Labyrinth and a voice not belonging to Maxwell, her catlike curiosity got the best of her.
Out of sight, she tilted her head, angling a slice of Merrick's inhuman eyes around a tentpole to investigate. Instantly, she recognized the man outside the mirror hall. How fortuitous! Just a week ago, she'd spied the Oracle having an ugly breakdown in the Plantation's hall at a saintless hour. If she'd not sought to understand why, she'd have been a poor excuse for a Fetch. The Winter Court had long enlisted her kind as spies and assassins for good reason. In doubling the annoyingly lovely, somewhat nasty Siren, she'd partaken of a handful of delectable memories, including several of the tall figure framed by a portal into the mirrors: James Deckard. Merrick grinned behind his cover, flashing pointed teeth. A bit of fun might smudge out the disappointment of her work shift. Though she'd not seen which manner of creature James was, she could feel cold magics, even with a tent between them. The familiarity of it called to her. He'd been gone for several months, enough to set at least one bitter heart to weeping. That she knew, as well.
Yes yes yes. The temptation was too great. Merrick shivered, then blurred. Where he'd crouched, Cressida Wolfram appeared in his stead, bedecked in finely textured assorted blacks: terrifically dull, but a mood setter. Marlowe brushed her hands down the front of the Siren's garb and slim frame before rounding the tentpole, setting herself in character like a method actor gone too far. Eat your heart out, Jack Nicholson.
"...Jaime?" Feverish hope and doubt in equal portion creased the Oracle's brow where she stopped, rooted in the Midway a half dozen paces from the labyrinth's ingress. Her white eyes unfocused but directed towards the place where the seer seemed to expect him, she waited, her breath stalled. "Are you...?" She couldn't finish. Her throat worked visibly, faith battling pride.