oletus-carousel

[oletus-carousel]

A strange package arrives in front of Carrie's door! Carefully wrapped in a small bit of leather and twine, lays a small piece of bread, a lavender stalk with another strange vine wrapped around it, and a long withered leaf with the following scrawled upon it:

Wither. Distrust is the harshest of poisons.

The Exile - despite all of her exposure to the strange and wonderful at the Circus, being in close proximity to things that appeared to be supernatural - was noticeably shaken when she received this package. She didn't open it immediately, instead checking both directions outside her doorway for any trace of the sender that might have remained.

This was strange, yes, but just about as far from wonderful as they'd ever seen. It was almost sickening, the reaction that her body produced, but no nausea swept her - feverish, then, might have been a better descriptor for the sensation.

There was an odd and unshakeable feeling of unease tugging at the back of her mind, but it wasn't something that they could really define, so they tried to ignore it. Regardless, their stomach flipped at the mere sight of the strange bundle, so they quickly retrieved their gloves from the chest of drawers in their Manor room.

Maybe, maybe, it would ease her not to have to touch it with bare hands. But that comfort wasn't going to last long, judging by the slick of sweat already forming to push through and dampen the comparatively fine silk. She'd left her thicker gloves down in the workshop, but held no logic in frenzied thought to go and retrieve them.

So she picked up the package and set it upon their desk, not taking an eye off the doorway. With strangely trembling steps, The Exile was able to return to that spot, shutting the door. She then went about locking and specially bolting it, as well as drawing her curtains and lining the crack beneath the doorframe with clothing to block out the light.

Only then did Carrie feel safe enough to turn on the lamp beside the desk, directing their focus once more to the 'gift'. Carefully, she unravelled the twine to read the note on the leaf, continuing to tremble despite everything. She had no clue what was happening, but her vision was beginning to blur as the scent of the lavender hit her nose.

"I've never distrusted anyone undeserving."

Her voice was hoarse, scratchy, but she had to say something to disprove whoever had sent the package. They wouldn't let themself live without it. But her body still seemed to fail her despite her efforts, and her eyes begun to stream with tears.

These fell onto the sheet of paper they were intending to use for reply, all but saturating the only thing she could use to retaliate against the sender of the package. She momentarily thought of asking Victor about the origins, but decided it was better to leave it until later.

Oh, she felt so drowsy...

The Exile didn't want to disturb anyone with her troubles, so she took ahold of the vine and begun to twist it back around the bundle. There was hardly any sensation left in her body, taken over as it was by the masking scent of the lavender oil. Everything was a blur of colour in front of her eyes, including the cause of it all.

They didn't want to give in, regardless of the fact their white gloves were becoming stained with more than just worried sweat. Crimson blossomed forth where the vines pricked at and pierced skin, but Carrie didn't have enough strength to pull herself away physically or mentally.

Her eyes begun to close as she fumbled to try and tie something of a knot, but everything was slipping away from her too soon. Her consciousness, her will, her understanding. It was all at the mercy of whoever gave her such a thing, simple though it was. It wasn't just something that could be chalked up to allergies or tiredness.

She slumped forward onto her desk.

[oletus-carousel]

What would you say is your favorite thing about Autumn? Or winter, as the time nears?

The Exile was sprawled out on her bed, gazing blankly upwards at the ceiling of her room in the Manor with little to no intent of moving. She wasn’t in any sort of a hurry, for she’d simply had to repair her prosthetic down in the workshop and it’d sapped all of her energy. She still needed to properly check the joints, but that was something she’d do later.

Hopefully before she tripped over her own snares in a match.

Why the Baron was continually allowing correspondence to reach her in that drowsy, irritable state was nothing short of obvious - he just wanted to be entertained. Compliance wasn’t going to provide.

She soon tucked her legs into her body, curling tighter up into a ball and making a drawn-out groan of indignation. Had anyone else noticed them, they would have been embarrassed, but if there was one thing she was sure of it was that the rooms had as high quality sound proofing as possible. They muttered to themself, tone hoarse and irritated.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

Of course she’d heard the footsteps nearing her doorway at the time, and was doing her best to completely ignore her obligations. The Maid of the Mist would have attended to her, letting her know of the situation, had it proven more serious.

Her bliss was short-lived - that mysterious someone knocked on the door, sliding the hydra-sealed letter underneath it and drawing it to Carrie’s unavoidable attention. She had no choice but to heave herself to her feet and wander to her desk upon its retrieval.

Her hands trembled as she picked up the glass pen from where it sat submerged in its jar of shimmering coloured ink, and she steadied herself for a while by directing her gaze out the window. An overhanging tree brushed against the glass, bowing with the unexpected weight of many leaves.

"Well, I suppose your answer is a simple one. I don't much care for either season, and vastly prefer summer's shine, but... if I must make a choice, I would say that the colours are the best part of autumn. The vegetation's final stand, the flourish before the harsh withering of winter. It's both beautiful to consider, to appreciate, and to behold when the time is right.

There's something to admire about that, don't you think?

Winter brings with it the possibility of snow, of fragile and glittering frost, but everything has the potential to melt. To fade within an instant before its appreciation has time to blossom forth. It also brings turbulence. I'm... truly not one to like the more regular weather patterns welcomed by the season.

Storms and rainy days are more frequent than what can be truly justified as "good weather", which makes me quite scared and frankly depressed. Call me dramatic all you'd like."

The young woman took pause, pen hovering over page, and sighed quietly before signing off.

"I apologise if my response is not to your liking."

[oletus-carousel]

🎶 If you enjoy symphonies, what of the ones songbirds like a nightingale may bring?

The Maestro was staring listlessly down at a freshly emptied and cleaned desk, an irritated frown twisting her expression. There wasn't much that could incite such a reaction from them, but they had heard an update from one of their superiors earlier in the day that'd thrown them into nothing short of a frenzy.

Doors were locked, ears trained to the music that swelled in their mind. The young talent was at such a point in their creative process that they tuned out all other suggestions, no matter how wise and appreciated feedback could prove. Some thought them naive, even narcissistic, but they were the only person they could trust.

Everything had to be immaculate.

Someone would likely have a gruesome punishment for them, warned of in hushed tone amongst crew and actor alike, even though they'd never gathered concrete proof. It was better to have a negative motive to get their work done than none at all. Whether or not they believed in anything remained to be seen.

The letter that slid beneath the doorframe went unnoticed at first, but the Maestro shook herself from the haze enough to sit down with it. A familiarly shimmering purple ink met page soon after, empty staff paper flipped to the blank side to accomodate a response. The particular hue of ink was stolen from a certain Novelist, but he didn't need to know.

"Birdsong is some of the most pure musicality to be found in this godforsaken world. I have no particular attachment to whichever bird, but take every encounter I can get to listen to them as they call and whistle and sing. It's truly a shame that they don't venture closer to these walls, but I can hardly blame them.

They can find their own freedom and keep it.

A different voice than the better-known opera, less adjusted, but something that should be savoured while it lasts... I seldom hear any calls here in the Manor that could be listed as song. They are cries, woeful drones and pleads, as if to carry the sentiment of us trapped Survivors to whoever roams beyond.

The crows and ravens are my friends, just as much as they are my inspirations. I've no opinion on the nightingale, as she never graces me with her presence, but her song is rumoured to be the loveliest there is. Though... there are similarities even between human and bird.

Both will refuse to sing in a cage."

[oletus-carousel]

(🎶)

You.

Could you not have been bothered to merely get your own? There’s supplies about everywhere, for your taking of whatever so desperately needed to be written, instead of right from off of my desk mere moments I left to get to further some outlines.

Ink is valuable enough on its own, I do not need it dried as I near the ending of sentences, nor do you need so much of it so that it may spill.

I have my novels to write, as do you, Maestro, with your notes.

Borrow some from others, I could care less, but I expect your supplier to be anyone but I from now on.

~ 🖋️

"De Ross,

Kindly go fuck yourself."

[oletus-carousel]

🎶 What are your opinions on your fellow backstage/cast members?

As was usual for the scatterbrained musical genius, a moment of tense silence hung in the air before she raised her head from her desk. She'd hardly realised that someone was waiting for her at the doorway, and the large eyes of the silent maid did nothing to comfort the paranoia that struck her so deeply.

A shudder worked its way down her spine, shaking the calligraphic pen atop the staff she wrote on. Of course there were more convenient ways to print her works, with the increase of technologies, but the woman was devoted to her craft enough that she'd not wanted anything to shift.

Change could spell disaster, and the show loomed ever closer.

Routine was the only thing she could afford, even if it meant things were taken slower. Sleepless nights were forced and limits pushed, eye-bags darkened against all advisory just for the perfect melody to be placed on page. She had to prove herself strong, so that the fellows of the stage would not think less of her.

Though the melody and harmony and twist of notes in ear would be carried throughout the play, her preparations would not. They had to be perfect. A pen's blot was cause for riot, red-eyed, and an unforgivable mistake. So she took another sheaf of ivory upon her desk, only allowing the stain of imperfection to serve as reference while she planned a complete rewrite.

There came a voice - sweet, inquisitive, humming question from the doorway, and when she looked the maid was gone. But, not dissuaded, the Maestro afforded a spoken reply, though she believed they wouldn't hear it regardless of how loudly she spoke. The time was long gone.

"My fellows on the Stage, you say?

You make me laugh. They seem not to care about me, they call me a recluse, but they just don't understand. Passion drives, you see, and I do not try to stop it. I have to do whatever I'm able before the curtains are pulled back - each and every note must fit the play to the second, perfectly tailored, and nothing less.

They appear to be good performers, yes, each one of them, and I do pay my due respect as to why they were chosen for their roles, but I'm more enamoured in the story behind them. One could even argue that I don't, depending on who you ask, but I'm simply not one to throw compliments about like they're something to be given casually.

The Angel of Music has swept me up, I daresay, and it'd be a hard task to get me out of that grip... Even now, I wander out of hand, away from task and question, in search of that beauty withheld...

What does it truly matter?

They'll laugh and mock and spit. The rose petals of finale wilt, the flies will gather in corpse of forgotten audience, but all that can save me is the melody. Would it be conceited of me to say so? Of course. But they just don't listen to me enough.

They're fools with masks on. Every single one. Not even that "thrill-seeker", as they dub themself, is true to their role. They put the angelic choir to shame, liken it to what it isn't. What it could never be. They're undeserving of the Angel's name, be it in fiction or not.

I am just called the Maestro, and I am true to that title."

[oletus-carousel]

Do you enjoy any particular holidays?

Carrie was, to say the least, utterly exhausted. She'd come back from a practice match, and had kited the hunter for so long that her prosthetic was locking up in its place. Before she could be accosted by a maid and guided to the appropriate room, she decided to change course.

The one positive to having been in the Manor before her invitation was that she knew certain pathways others did not. For this reason alone, she was able to slip away - limping more than she'd have liked, of course, for the stiffness of her right leg - and find Burke's workshop amidst the chaos.

Luckily, the Hunter wasn't in the vicinity, so she was able to borrow some equipment and retreat to her manor room.

To her disappointment, there lay a glittering orange envelope and matching pen on her desk. Maybe the maids would have been able to reach her in the workshop after all. This wasn't unexpected, not in the least, but it was certainly disappointing.

Not even the most complex locks could delay De Ross and his ilk for long enough.

For now, though, she could hope to reply in relative peace.

"Holidays? Well, I can't say I've had the chance to celebrate much myself, depressing as that may be to you, because of my line of work. Since I was little, I'd really been the entertainer as opposed to the entertained, so I had hardly any time to enjoy the festivities blooming around me personally.

I don't particularly regret that.

Call me insane all you'd like, but it makes my head ache. Such joys could only be shared with my mother and a few of the other troupe members, if they'd time to spare, which you can imagine wasn't all too often. I had my life to get on with, they had theirs, and I don't think anyone hated it.

Save for the one man, who I'm sure you can guess the identity of.

We were all happy, as our own cobbled-together sort of familial unit, even if my father dearest was disapproving of that sort of thing. Of course I had my one decent parent, but I think... my fellows in the circus were just as much family to me as she was.

If you'd believe it, I've never actually been trick-or-treating. I'd like to go, of course, but I can't exactly leave the Manor grounds now to experience it. It just wasn't something those around me saw cause to celebrate or take part in, even though it feels like a small loss or disconnect from culture.

I remember the night of one Hallow's Eve when we were stationed in a strange town for a show... They called it October City. I cannot tell you what happened that show, or whether we were actually able to perform, as my mind is all but blank of that event.

Only the name remains. I'd like to visit again, if I can ever escape this damned place, but that's unlikely.

Consider Hallow's Eve my favourite holiday, even though I haven't celebrated. Feel free to think me strange for it."

[oletus-carousel]

How do you feel about the concept of decay? Things falling apart at the seams. Some find it comforting in an odd way, to be freed, but others, it is terrifying and they try to preserve it. Any way they can.

The Exile had been allowed to return to her regular room in the Manor for the first time in an age - as opposed to being cooped up in the so-called "interview" room, to her relief - and was taking full advantage of the break in routine. She lay sprawled out on her bed even though the mattress dug into her back uncomfortably, lying on her back with a pocket watch dangling in front of her eyes.

This had been a gift from her father, despite being engraved with the Muse Mark that the Manor itself featured as a motif. Her eyes followed the watch as it swung, and she almost felt the panicked beating of her heart slow. It spiked, of course, and she jolted upright as a slip of paper was slid underneath the door. She called out, her tone indignant because she'd been startled.

Her ears remained painfully sensitive.

"What is it now, hm? Can't you wait for me to come out to send me your little letters? The paper's going to disintegrate as soon as I pick it up without an envelope."

Little peace was afforded to Carrie since she'd arrived at Oletus Manor, so she'd become even more adjusted to constant vigilance. That was the only trait that'd kept her alive over time, whether it was in the context of a thrillseeker's stunt in the circus or any other instinct to flee. The only reason why she wasn't running then was because there were some locks she couldn't pick.

Another slip of paper was slid under the door to her room, and she sighed. It took her a good few minutes to muster the strength to pick it up, but she instantly regretted taking it back to her desk and letting herself read what was written. The words, distinct and sharp in their curvature, may as well have been written in blood. But she had no choice about responding.

As she wrote, her right hand picked at an embroidered seam around her hip, where the prosthetic joined beneath her pants. Of course, this was only a tear in the fabric, but it made her stomach flip with the note's context. it almost felt like a warning.

"Decay? Why would you ask me about something like that? It's a natural process, of course, and nothing can be preserved forever. Things will rot and twist whether you want them to or not, I'm afraid, and I can't really do anything about it myself. I've a lot of things that I would like to keep in better condition, yes, but that's just not possible sometimes.

Everything will die one of these days. Be replaced and renewed. Human lives are more fragile than we all want to admit, but I won't get all that existential. Decay is just the beginning of that process. Falling apart is going to happen. I guess the emotional side of things is a lot more confusing, but I'd like to think I've made my peace with that, even if it's a lie.

I don't like it. I want to be whole. The feeling of losing myself is always so close, and decay follows. What if I can't pick up the pieces? I'm becoming sand between my own fingers, I fear."

[oletus-carousel]

Gems.. what do you think about them? They shine rather brightly.

The Exile didn't have her pendant with her for once - it was safely tucked away in her Manor room, in a velvet pouch with drawstrings closed tight. This remained in her bedside drawer for when she needed it to soothe herself through the night. When she was asked this question, however, she found herself reaching expectantly towards her neck.

The familiar sensation was gone, and the moon shone beyond the interviewing room that she'd been once more pulled into. The Baron didn't even give her the dignity of sleeping at an average time when there was entertainment to be had. This was far from bothering her, of course, with the routine that'd been established (or lack thereof), but it made nothing better.

After a second of contemplative silence, the young woman spoke, clearing her throat so as not to have her words slur from tiredness.

"Gemstones? They're certainly precious treasures."

Carrie's tone was soft and gaze distant, fingers laced in her lap to prevent any more undignified fidgeting. She was reminiscing. The obvious topic to talk about was skirted around, however, as she mentioned another Manor resident.

"I wonder if Mister Campbell has found anything of the sort... I don't believe his collection just stops at precious metals, though I haven't had the chance to pursue that line of questioning further. I think it'd be horribly invasive of me, seeing as we're far from close."

Carrie gave herself a moment to collect her thoughts and composure before continuing, still refusing to look properly upwards in the interview room.

"To me, the most precious would be the black opal pendant that I own, as it has sentimental value, but I have no idea if it'd be all that special given a proper appraisal. I know that it's the genuine article, not a fake stone, but if memory serves stones of higher carat value can often be cut into... well. Shapes of less lustre.

I suppose it depends, ultimately, on the cut you're going for, but things can almost appear cloudy, lacking stereotypical sparkle at that range. I could be wrong.

I would like to see and learn more about gemstones, truthfully, to verify my own claims, because I think there's more to it than just what looks pretty. Where to get that knowledge? I've no clue."

[oletus-carousel]

When you were younger, what sort of mischief had you gotten into either with others or just by yourself if at all?

"Oh, I think I got into plenty. But it was all stopped before it got out of hand, because my dear father never wanted the slips to show to others - people who were in the audience or other performers both. My mother laughed, she did, and had the most wonderful smile that lingers with me even now... but I digress."

The bags that remained ever-present beneath the Exile's eyes seemed particularly dark that day, as she continued to rub at them and yawn. It was no fault of her questioner that tiredness was dragging her down, and she even felt guilty for it, but wasn't sure how to express that.

She was, at her own admittance, already going off track.

"It was mostly just running away into strange places when I shouldn't have. My father having to send someone chasing around backstage to see just where I'd gotten myself stuck. Nothing much has changed, truly, except for the fact that nobody can be bothered looking for or catching me in this Manor.

I should be grateful for that silence, I suppose, but it gets terribly boring when nobody reacts to the ways you try to entertain yourself in the right manner. I stir trouble, plenty of it. Just for the Baron, though... it wouldn't be right for me to cause yet more strife for the staff, occupied as they are with cleaning up his mess already."

Although Carrie really had no justifiable reason to hate Orpheus as much as they did, his high-and-mighty attitude was enough.

[oletus-carousel]

Speaking of Gardens, have you ever considered doing so? I know it’s a rather neat activity for some of the residents. It might be a nice chance to get more along with some, the more allies the better.

"Gardening, hm? I can't do it to save my life."

The young woman's voice was light, despite the fact she'd been taken back to the room that she hated so much. She'd crossed her legs and leaned back as much as the Rocket Chair would allow, staring into the bright lights on the ceiling as a much-needed distraction from the mirrors in front.

Carrie'd rather not have known or thought someone was watching her, even though monitoring was what she was used to in such a busy place like Sparkslide had been. The Manor, alongside safety from her past, had promised her change. As much as that'd been a lie thus far, she wasn't going to give up for as long as she was trapped.

Her stubbornness proved one of her best and worst traits, depending on who was asked.

She drummed her fingers along the arms of the chair in no particular rhythm, tempted to hum but feeling her self-consciousness return. After a few seconds, they stared back out at the mirror, clearing their throat to reluctantly continue the answer.

"You see, I've tried many times, but I've just never had a sense for it. I'd much prefer leaving it to Miss Woods here, because she doesn't work like a Hunter - she doesn't kill everything she touches. Morbidity aside, I was never taught well, and what little I've attempted to make grow myself never takes.

I lack a green thumb, even though It'd be very useful because of how much I travel. For now, I'm doomed to rely on others because I can never get the timings right - there are so many factors to check, maintain and adjust even in simple gardening, and some remain uncontrollable.

It's a mental overload, really, for someone as unreliable as I am."

[oletus-carousel]

What are your thoughts on the concept of “Wonderland”? Being lost in such a land? Or do you think you’re already there in a way, with how odd the manor is?

Once again, the Exile had sat herself out in the gardens, but seemed unexpectedly relaxed. Nobody knew she had a question to answer - the paper had come to her in the form of a letter, and was passed on to her from another Manor resident, so the maids were never informed of it quick enough to drag her away.

This was a bliss in itself.

Not often afforded, not savoured enough, as was the case with most positive times Carrie had. A lack of foresight did her no favours. She took a deep breath inwards, fingers curling gently around the unopened envelope. Melly was doing her work well, she was pleased to find, as the scents of the flowers permeated the air.

She took a pencil from one of her pouches, scanning the letter and placing it aside. A reply would be difficult, but not unwritten.

"The concept of a wonderland is multifaceted, good friend, and I doubt I could do your question much justice myself. For the Manor... I think the only person here who'd think of it in such a way would be the Baron himself; his twisted mind reflects and understands this place and its grounds in a way the residents cannot.

Maybe it's a wonderland to the Hunters. They can do what they please, and find glee in the morbidity, the darkness and suffering soaking the pages of this terrible story. They're not as restricted as I am, and know it.

If the concept of a wonderland truly existed for me, it remains unattainable. I can't just sit around waiting for the coach to come and drive me away, can I? It'd be far away from here, somewhere safe and warm beyond a few minutes of stolen sunlight.

Maybe it's a wonderland to the people outside, looking in through golden glasses, the ones who can afford to laugh because they're safe beyond the gates.

Maybe it would be to you.

Certainly not me."

[oletus-carousel]

If you had ever met a younger version or memory-esque (in the context of the girl and the journalist for example) of yourself, would there be anything you would say or do to them? Words of advice or of warning for what is to come? Or is it the lack of much else than your feet that’s carried you so far now that shaped you like this?

The young woman shrugged, smoothing her fingers along the shining surface of her pendant - this she still wore, despite the strangely fraying cord. It would be hard to replace if she couldn't ask another Survivor for the material, and she wasn't sure who to approach.

That was a heavy question, especially for such a time. When she turned her head towards the walls, there were no windows to display the moon, but she knew that it shined. It was far too late for her brain to be working. Heedless of personal want, they'd do their best to fulfil their duties.

"Like... Memory?"

They asked, wary, hands pausing about her throat. They'd never seen the Little Girl, of course, but had heard the rumours and moniker often enough that seeing the Journalist still shook her more than she'd care to admit. It was confusing, but they'd not let their own recollections get the better of them for once.

"I... I think that's a very strange scenario, truthfully. Though my past shapes a lot of what I do now, what's the point in going backwards through progress and reliving that strife? There would be none, unless I could offer her a warning."

They slipped the pendant over their head and gazed into the crystal as it shone dully, twisting it about. The Exile's mouth felt dry, their hands nearly slicked with nervous sweat, but they had so much more to express before being allowed to leave.

"I would tell her to keep her head held down, eyes to the ground, and to always plan a way out of situations that frightened her. I would tell her to hold her mother tighter, and her father if he'd allow it. I'd tell her that it was okay to speak against things that hurt her. Maybe that would lessen the impact of the future. Better yet would be helping her avoid what I've been through entirely.

I wouldn't wish it upon her. Not in a million lifetimes."

[oletus-carousel]

Are you one for gossip? Or would you rather ignore or dismiss such things like some other few?

"You wound me, you do."

The Exile's voice came softly, but she was smiling so that the questioner would know her intent. Light mockery was common with her, much as it made things difficult to sort through, as it'd been habit and entertainment both for a long time.

Her eyebrow raised as if reflecting some of the criticism back, but it was more born of confusion than anything malicious.

"I do participate in gossip, on the occasion, but that's mostly if it's about someone I already hate openly. People would expect me to join, so I do, and listening to others complain about issues that I have myself is strangely validating.

I'd rather avoid sewing new seeds of discontent among the Manor residents, being a new arrival myself, heedless of whether they're a Survivor or Hunter. I know that not everyone is here to just make friends while we're not being shepherded into the Arena, so to speak, but more enemies are no good."

The young woman cleared her throat before continuing.

"I already have enough to deal with thanks to past baggage, and I don't want anyone spreading rumours about me behind my back. It's more discussion on my end than catty gossip and indulging in rumours."

[oletus-carousel]

Can you dance well? Have you ever had someone else of any kind to do it alongside or with? Are there any dances particularly notable in your memories?

The Exile had stood in the interview room, and was in the process of trying to push the Rocket Chair away to create more room for herself. There wasn't much point in talking through such a question - though she would write her response and slide it back through the crack underneath the door, as was customary - when she could show it off instead. It would be embarrassing, yes, but more realistic.

She held a small button down on the knee seam of her prosthetic, swinging her leg back and forth for a few seconds before exhaling in relief. Her joints were working just fine, and the magnets in both soles [the innersole of her left shoe had inserts to match] were deactivated just in case.

Eyes slipping closed, she begun to dance, paying no mind to the lack of music to guide her. The simple twirls and steps that took her body were something she'd been taught by her mother, and the carnival's chimes played clearly and cheerfully enough in only her memory. It was nothing like Margie's: not as complex, suited to her body and hers alone.

Not even to that which taught her.

After a few minutes, she opened her eyes again and sunk back into the chair, sigh harsh and exasperated after her physical exertion. She took up the paper, hands trembling lightly as she wrote.

"Of course I know a dance or two... as with most of my memories, it's been my dear mother who taught me, and she always made sure that it was simple enough for me to do while tired. No matter how old I was at the time, she knew my capabilities far better than I did, so I just went along with the flow.

I don't tend to dance now, and I didn't do it much back then. But the idea's nice, as something lasting that I could potentially teach or pass on to another. It's very personal to me, yes, but... I daresay she just laid the groundwork. She acknowledged that I'd change, as she always had. You're welcome to see me for lessons.

Don't expect much, though. I'm no prodigy like Miss Zelle."

[oletus-carousel]

Was there ever a time where you felt like you weren’t running at all for once from anything? A moment of peace or solace.

“Not many, few and far between, but they did exist."

The Exile murmured, eyes cast to the floor as her fingers wandered around her pouches. It was clear that she was searching for something, once more preoccupied, but the question was the source of it all. She wouldn't disregard that "task" - answering properly - so quickly.

Despite how cold she appeared, the young woman appreciated any contact she had, and strived to make whoever indulged her [apart from trapping her in that horrid room] feel a sense of satisfaction when they received their answers. It was her one duty until the games began in earnest, and a performance in itself.

"Mostly when I'd first come to the Manor, visiting Tracy and Burke. They were my source of solace in that horrible place, and Mister Lapadura taught me many things. He's the reason why my prosthetic exists, and also why it functions as well as it does."

She'd found a pocket watch, worn with age and golden shine scratched to copper dullness, with a faint etching of the Muse Mark on its front. This she held in her palm for a moment of silence. Though the clock no longer worked, she carried it with her.

"Tracy gave me this watch. I don't know when I'll get the chance, but I want to fix it myself. I want to prove to someone - or something, maybe even the passage of time itself - that her friendship wasn't for nothing in a tangible way."

[oletus-carousel]

Is there any specific spot you often find yourself napping in? Why? Or, is there anywhere you would want to find rest in?

“Whenever I can escape out to the gardens, I sit out on the benches there. As much as it’s embarrassing, if it’s a good sunny day, I’m liable to falling asleep until the groundskeeper or one of my fellow residents comes to wake me. The warmth soaks in, and makes it awfully hard to resist, even though I know I'll get sunburnt after too long. I'm much too pale."

The Exile chuckled, twisting the pendant about in her fingers and watching as the crystal caught the - unfortunately artificial - lights in the room. It was a pain being back, but she had her distractions, and at least the questions weren't all painful. She was grateful that the rocket chair had some cushioning left, considering its obvious wear.

"I don’t often sleep properly, you see. There’s just too much to worry about, and I’ll get a couple of hours at night if I’m lucky. So any proper sleep in this damned Manor is appreciated, even if I wake up aching all over when the staff call me in for a practice match. It's always early when they do it, too.

You'd think they'd want their Survivors to be in top condition, but the Baron claims lethargy makes for a more realistic simulation. I think he's just lying to get more joy out of it for his twisted mind."

She let out an exasperated sigh upon mentioning Orpheus. He was troubling her enough when not in person - she didn't want to think about the day when he'd actually bother to see her face-to-face.

[oletus-carousel]

Are you a cat or dog person? Or, some other animal?

The Exile, sitting on a bench outside the Manor, had taken the opportunity to ask one of her fellows [likely Victor; Wick provided ample distraction, and could bite ankles just as well as any Patroller if prompted with enough treats] to occupy the Baron so she could escape the dread of the interview room.

At that point, she was rather certain that Orpheus was only holding her in there when she was being "interviewed", no matter how many questions the other residents received, but was reluctant to argue with the Baron. He wasn't worth it; if her prosthetic cooperated, she both could and would run faster than any of his staff if she needed a bit of relief.

So she lingered in the gardens, taking her letters away to the boundaries of peace. A pen was always in her pocket, a notebook in her pouches for this reason alone.

"Strictly speaking, as I am now at the Manor, I have a different opinion than I would otherwise. On any regular day, I would tell you I preferred cats. However, the only cat I've come into contact with here is Apostle, who really does hold contempt for me that his owner doesn't display. It's like he's her outlet. I haven't been scratched by him yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to.

As for dogs? Wick is a dear old thing, they are, and they're actually helping me write this letter to you in their own silly way. They sleep an awful lot now, curled at the end of the Postman's bed, but they're still as energetic as ever when they need to deliver. They've learned that I don't like being jumped on, too, so they bark to warn me if they have to deliver something instead.

Other animals... well. The one that sticks out to me as a... not quite a fear, no, but something I'd really not want to encounter is a snake. I'm adjusted to spiders and other critters because of where I came from, but something about them just makes my chest seize. You know enough, I'm assuming, that I don't appreciate feeling restricted."