miss charlotte wells; meteor of the hour (queenofpretend) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2018-07-02 19:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, charlotte wells, ethan chandler |
Who: Mr. Chandler & Miss Wells
What: Post full moon discussion
When: Day after the full moon
Where: Their residence
Warnings: Veiled/non-explicit references to sex trafficking
Status: Complete in gdocs
At some point, in the early afternoon, Ethan had woken from a spot on the floor of his room in Miss Wells home. The sunlight was filtering in through the curtains and the new day did not care for what Ethan had endured the night before. It was the first time he had ever relied solely upon magic to keep him contained during a transformation. Even though Pixie had supplied him with spells the year prior, those were to ensure Miss Ives could not enter the cellar and would not hear the sounds of his lunar counterpart trying to escape from the shackles. There was also precautions to keep him from escaping then as well but it was not a seemingly open space to wander. His shackles had kept him in place and he had no experience with throwing his body against invisible barriers. Last night, in a home where he could not rely upon chains and a cellar door to keep himself contained, he had relied upon the barriers completely. His transformation had thought there was means to an escape. It had caught the scent of those also living in the house and it had sprung forth, ready to break down the door and tear through the home. Only, the barrier was in place, and his form had been thrown against it just a few feet ahead of where he had initially been placed. He had requested that there not be much room to move around in once he was in the barrier. It kept him from destroying the room. Ethan could tell, as he sat up with a wince, that his other self had not been thrilled with this. It felt as though he had thrown himself against a wall repeatedly with a fierce desire to escape. He hadn't succeeded and even with his now bruised and pained state, he was thankful. He would need to compliment Miss Gwynn on her work later. He had moved from the spot on the floor to his bed slowly. He did not bother to undress or kick off his shoes, instead collapsing back down to bury his face in a pillow, shutting out the light by force. He fell back asleep nearly instantly. When he did wake again, the sun was nearing sunset, with the sky a warm and inviting hue. He shifted, rolling over with a groan, before moving to try and move about. He was more sore than normal. Usually, he could recover quick, with nothing more than a sickening dread of what he might have done. Even though this had worked, he was considering the notion of shackles inside the bedroom. Somehow. He emerged from the room with an intent to get a glass of water. “Mr. Chandler, you’re awake.” It was not a small home any means. It was, in fact, large enough to avoid seeing tenants when she did not wish to speak and small enough to find who she needed to when she pleased. Somehow not hearing Mr. Chandler last night was worse than any sounds she might have imagined would occur. It was too much like before, when Mrs. Quigley locked her girls in the rooms at night to make sure they didn’t run away, as her own mother had been when she was first sold to Mrs. Quigley at age ten. Of course, Mr. Chandler was not a harlot. He had requested the changes in his room, and to a certain extent he was in charge. The idea still haunted her. She hadn’t slept well the night before. She was not, and would never be, a bawd, nor would she allow herself to feel like one. “Are you well?” she asked. On normal occassions, he'd have known she was there before she had spoken. His exhaustion from the night before was making it so this was not a normal occasion. He turned so he could face her and summoned an attempt at a smile for a greeting. It didn't quite make it but the look was warm and welcoming. "A few hours before the rest of the town would go to bed, at least," he commented. The question was not one he had anticipated. Perhaps, he knew, because it had been a long time since any had asked it of him. It was a norm in the eyes of Kaetaney and Sir Malcolm had become used to the changes his 'son' underwent with every full. "I'll be myself soon enough," he assured her. This was true. He wondered for a moment if all of Miss Gwynn's spells had operated as he wished. He would know if he simply asked the question. "I hope I didn't disturb you or your tenants?" “I was afraid you were a ghost. I did not hear a sound.” Normally Charlotte meant to be charming when she spoke, but there was an unhappy seriousness to her expression. She watched him carefully for signs that things were worse than he let on. “I don’t know if I care for this arrangement, Mr. Chandler. Whatever this is, it feels cruel.” Charlotte had some modern clothing, but around the home she stuck to wearing her own. She did not often go through the trouble of fully dressing. She had a chemise and robe on over it. Despite being a harlot she dressed conservatively. But then, she was also of the mind that the privilege of seeing less should be paid for. Her hair was pinned into a sort of bob which worked well in the heat and left it ready to do whatever she desired with it. It was as close to casual as she ever was. “Is there anywhere in the house that would be more comfortable?” she asked. "That was by design. I am glad to find that my choice witch's abilities held up," he stated. He knew she was most comfortable with Mr. Holland, and he intended to follow her request to ask the man should any other magical need arise, but he did have a fondness for Megan Gwynn. She was the first he had extended any trust towards in this new realm, after all. But he noted the lack of charm and the expression she held. A look of concern was summoned as understanding took hold of him. He did not find it cruel. He found it to be a guarantee of safety and that was all he could ask for. He did not want anymore blood upon his hands. He could endure any discomfort if he knew that this was a secure element of his transformations. "It's a reassurance that I welcome," he spoke, quietly, not wanting to make light of her feelings on the matter. As for the question that followed, he gave pause. "I'm not certain you'd find my previous arrangements any more compassionate." Pulling in a breath, and looking for a second off towards the lower level of the house, he offered up a piece of information about his past. "I was in the habit of using shackles." Charlotte frowned, “Surely something can be done. Have you spoken with Holland?” Without an offer, or perhaps even realizing, Charlotte was slowly leading him downstairs to the kitchen and started to boil up water for tea. The amount of water people drank here was astonishing. No one ever seemed to fall ill from it. And tea itself was plentiful and cheap, while other common luxuries were much harder to come by. “An enchanted sleep, something to make you feel less a prisoner to the moon,” she suggested. "Only so much so that he will reinforce the wards should something go wrong." He did not believe it possible to prevent the change. He had been in the company of many witches in his life. And he had been intimate with one in particular for several weeks. She wanted him to embrace his charge in life so he did not think she would have offered to alter his transformations. "Or do whatever is necessary," he added. He followed her without discussion down towards the kitchen and offered a flick of a smile in gratitude for the kindness she was in the process of offering. He did not move to sit, however, and instead turned to gather a cup for either of them. He set them upon the counter. "That would require a level of trust with Mr. Holland I am not certain I wish to offer." He did not mean this as any disrespect to her or her chosen protector. He doubted he would trust any with such a risk. “You trusted someone to enchant your room in the first place, did you not?” Charlotte asked. “I know nothing of magic, only what Mr. Holland has offered. He is here to provide a service but you are not limited to his services as long as it doesn’t interfere with the safety of those in the house. Do what you must.” She frowned. “There’s a reason the doors lock from the outside. I know you only mean to protect us, but I do not like the thought of it at all.” "Miss Gwynn," he said, quietly, though he did not speak up again as he allowed her to speak. His head tilted just slightly to the side with that statement as he had believed she had wished him to only utilize Mr. Holland's services from there on out. It'd been one of the reasons he'd chosen to bring the man into the fold, at least partially, about what was happening with his transformations. And the statement caught him partially off guard. "I don't care for the idea of taking any risk for my own comfort." His hands were responsible for far too many deaths already. "I have taken note of that," he spoke quietly. He was not a naive man and he understood what this house's likely purpose had once been. He thought for a moment on her prior suggestion with his gaze averted down. "Perhaps it is worth an inquiry but even if he could manage such a thing, I'd still want the barrier or the restraints." “It is your room, Mr. Chandler. I leave it up to your best judgement.” She had made her preference known, but she wasn’t so foolish or stubborn as to risk death over his comfort. Charlotte Wells had strong survival instincts that had made her particularly well suited to her lot in life. Charlotte poured him a cup of tea. Mrs. Quigley had only the finest, most delicate china, fit for lords. |