#🎠 > exile answers

[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]

"Ah, sorry about that. I have a habit of walking quietly."

This simple question, of everything possibly wrong that she could've been scared by in the room, was the most terrifying. The truth was that she didn't actually know - from her own jerry-rigged repairs and construction, there was no telling exactly what was the issue.

She assumed that if she oiled it, everything would be fine. Though a clockmaker and not a mechanic or similar, she'd wordlessly hoped the other man in the room could help her understand otherwise.

"Walking with the prosthetic isn't causing me pain, as such, and it's in relievingly good shape in relation to how long I've had it for, but I'm rather worried it might lock up on me or malfunction in some other manner."

The Exile smiled in an attempt to ease Mendel, though the gesture was shaky and hesitant as if she weren't used to it. She didn't mean him any harm, though she didn't know his intentions.

"The mechanisms in the sole of the foot, also, have been quite unreliable as of late. I have magnets there, to assist me in certain jobs, but I think they may need changing. Of course, I can do this myself, though lack the necessary tools."

The woman wasn't unused to strange sights, and to be scared of something akin to a prosthetic [though she deemed it just a replacement... on further inspection, it didn't seem to function as an eye...] would mark her a hypocrite.

Still, to see this man with a clock face so plainly sitting in his head was... perplexing. Standing there, she almost longed to reach out and touch the glass, but stopped herself. That would be rude.

"Ah... Excuse me, Sir, but do you have any oil or tools that I might borrow for a moment? I hate to bother you, but walking might become a hassle very soon. I'd be happy to compensate by buying something from you, of course."

The Exile asked this while looking down, then shifting her attention to folding up her pant leg on the right. It seemed only one of her legs was real, though her prosthetic could pass for a real limb unless inspected closely enough.

~ 🎠 [ @oletus-carousel ]

Alarmed, as one might say, the Clockmaker's head jolted up from his work. The watchface clattered to the counter, while he caught his breath—eye pressed shut, his sigh of relief was palpable.

Regaining his composure, the Clockmaker swallowed thick; his head hung as he laughed, light and low.

"Goodness," he started, startle still evident in the hitch of his shoulders, "I didn't hear you come in."

The Clockmaker shook his head, straightening out. It'd do neither of them any good for him to catch on his momentary blindspot—he'd simply been engrossed in his handiwork. He brushed the watch aside, and put his needlepoint screwdriver back into its carrier.

While he tucked the latter away, he took a moment to take the Exile in, his eyes catching on her rolled up pant leg. It was a convincing façade, alright, a near-perfect swatch match. Practical, nude to the eye—

He gestured for her to sit.

"What might be wrong with it?" He asked, leaning over in his own chair to faff with his tools. They sat in their box under his desk; it was much easier for him to bend down than it was for him to walk.

[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 thoughts on the Marble Serpent, or any notable others? One’s gaze from the crowds seems a bit different, I feel.

The Gladiator braced themself against a crumbling marble column, chest heaving with gasping breaths. The fact remained that they barely had enough time to rest, let alone stand around answering insignificant questions, but she'd take whatever excuse she could get if the Serpent in question would allow her a break.

Her gaze trailed down to the ground, trying to ignore the taste of blood in her mouth. Having bitten her cheek as she sparred with The Triumph - in between displayed matches, of course, when the fighting never truly ceased - was the least of it all, but its familiarity made her stomach turn. Just how adjusted she was to the bitter eternity was sickening enough.

"The Marble Serpent... does not care for me. But she doesn't resent me, either, and her helpers provide me with the necessary healing to ensure I don't die. That's really all I can expect here. The best case scenario is sustaining healable wounds. You don't want to know the other ones, the mental ones. You don't deserve to know. Not now, not ever. I pray you leave the grounds just as naive as you came."

A halfhearted smile twisted her face, though it fell after mere seconds. Happiness wasn't something she was used to.

"As for the other crowd members... I do not know them as well as I could. Many of them return here to do odd jobs, fulfilling debts to the mocking deity The Serpent has carved for herself in their eyes. I cannot really tell you their names, but one... she often tries to leave the stands when The Triumph is resting, but seeing Marble Serpent's workers - you know the ones, they look like young girls - seems to frighten her away for some reason.

Maybe if she talked to him some day, then all of this would end. But I suppose that's just wishful thinking."

[oletus-carousel]

If there was anyone you would want to meet under a better time, perhaps even another lifetime in much better circumstances, is there anyone who specifically comes to mind?

Carrie took a moment of silence to think of all of the faces in the manor. There were so many poor souls trapped there with her, beyond the relative safety of the interview room, and she didn't really know what to say. Too many possibilities were contained in a simple question. Her position shifted on the seat, fingers reaching to smooth over worn metal.

Even in some place like that, suspended beyond the horrors of outside's game, there were reminders lingering. The very place she sat in was a broken Rocket Chair, with the cuffs around her ankles and wrists opened but still present. The desk that she leaned against was a metallic barrier of sorts found in the Arms Factory, too.

They hoped whoever was out there didn't have to be interrogated like she did, above all else. That they could live normally, or as close to relative normalcy as the Manor could provide.

She took a deep breath before responding, feeling her heart beat in her chest for a moment of focus and pause.

"I cannot choose just one person, to tell you the truth, but I'll afford you one answer for the two sides so that I don't take too long.

Out of all the Hunters, I think I would like to meet Leo. "Hell Ember", according to the file I was given. Miss Woods has confided things in me over the time I've spent here, and he seems more of a victim than any sort of villain. Tragedy twists the mind, creates holes in places where logic resides, and makes one inhuman. I think I can empathise, in my own way.

As for my fellow Survivors? Alice de Ross. "Memory", if you'd prefer. Although she seems present as the Journalist, carving her life away from the things that haunt her, I've yet to see what images her camera contains. I don't think she'd allow me to see them, and that's completely fine with me. Though I see Alice as the Journalist she is now, not this fading child, I can't deny her existence. I hope she feels better over time."

[oletus-carousel]

🎶 What are your thoughts on the show itself? Is there anything that particularly interests you?

By this point, the normally neat and properly-conducted "Maestro" of the show was looking rather tired. The sheaves of yellow-edged paper that she'd been pouring over were almost slipping off the desk, but she had her head down enough that they were of little concern to her at the time. When she was in such a state, nothing much could shake her from her concentration.

Unless, of course, more things were asked of her.

For this reason, she was able to catch the papers as her gaze swept once again to the doorway. This she kept locked, and only specific people had the permission to open it, let alone the keys - few were allowed to disturb her beyond callings-out other than her fellow show-mates.

"I'd let you in, I would, but I seem to have misplaced my key."

Carrie called out, touching the key on the chain that stayed around her neck at all times. Of course she wasn't so clumsy. When she next spoke, it was with a reverence, and tone detached enough to draw the [incorrect] conclusion that she'd caught herself up in another daydream of unafforded brilliance.

"The truth is, dear visitor, that I know little of the show beyond its music. It remains shrouded in mystery to me, as I am only the composer, even though you could call it a musical. I am a young talent, you see, and the Master has yet to place their faith in me to the extent I'd prefer.

The lights will flicker with a stagehand's cue, yes, but the music sets the scene. It accentuates emotion, pulling it from the very chests and eyes of the audience and exposing it for the joy of those on the stage. It is essential for the motivation of those watching - interest can be lost, after all, if there is no noise to hone in on - and those performing all the same.

Call me morbid for my fascinations all you'd like, but I'd like to know who dies in the story to greater detail. I can't yet compose my own scores, see, if I cannot draw forth that tragedy."

[oletus-carousel]

[[A small letter is slipped underneath the door. The envelope is light blue- almost white- and it is sealed with a sticker of a flower. The text is written in blue ink, slightly smudged as if the writer was in a hurry, or anxious.]]

"I'm sorry to bother you so soon, but if you can find time soon to meet, I would appreciate it. I have reason to believe that an old 'acquaintance' of sorts is (or at least was) here, and I'm worried about what it might mean.

You know where to find me,

K.R."

The Exile stood from her seat in the interview room, walking over to pick up the envelope. Why it couldn't wait until she was finished being... 'imprisoned' in that room was beyond her, but she'd learned well enough to take chances as soon as they came for fear of letting important information slip through their fingers.

Fingers curling around the paper, she found herself almost reluctant to open it. At least the disconcerting area in which she was held was blocking her away from outside concerns. Eyes flickering around the floor near the letter, she spied no feathers lingering.

It was a personal matter, then, and not from Miss Nightingale...

Exhaling to prepare herself for what was written, she finally indulged her thoughts and opened the letter, only to be met with a distinct blue text. It was good to see that "K" had received her earlier correspondence, but the neutral expression the young woman wore only deepened into a concerned frown.

There was no time to mess around with letter-writing; she had to meet with them, and fast...

[oletus-carousel]

🫂 A friendship headcanon

"Friendship? Well, I'm not too good at making friends."

Carrie could only shrug - as this was a frequent fall-back response when she didnt have that much to add - but was smiling all the while. She was thinking of someone fondly. They were an old acquaintance from Sparkslide, who served as her only solace some days through the rigour and intensity of practice.

"I prefer making friends through shared interest, because it's easier that way. It's like giving yourself a bonding springboard: a mutual point, a speed-boost, so you never really feel too disconnected from your friend."

She took something from one of her many pouches, winding it around her fingers and hands distractedly. It looked to be a length of shimmering blue-green ribbon, torn on one end as if ripped away from a larger portion. This was the only thing from this 'friend' she had, and had stolen it from them anyway.

"Kazuki Rosario, or 'Kaz' to me, was my aerialist friend. I took this ribbon from them before I left, and many of my pouches contain trinkets to remember friends by. Tangibility helps combat my bad memory.

Maybe you could look for them yourself."

[oletus-carousel]

❤️‍🔥 A romantic headcanon

"Love is a strange thing to me. I'm more likely to forge bonds with people out of necessity rather than want, need rather than entertainment... But I'm not unloveable, no. I love plenty, and I love harder than I have any cause to."

A small smile took its place on her face, gentle, nearly fond, as she thought of the person she loved most. They'd been taken away from her, as far as they remembered, but the memories lingered as fresh as any first encounter in the mind.

She wondered, then, where they were, but didn't think to mention such a thing. Maybe she'd gain the courage to open up later. For the time being, however, her distinct pendant was replaced with a heart locket. Fitting, but not unplanned. It remained locked.

"I like to give my... well. I would like to give my lover notes to wake up to. Some letters, stamped carefully with wax seals, some scrawled pieces of poetry on scrap, some origami... just anything to remember me by, really. Ink is easier to carry than some memories that fade, and it lingers for longer. I can also make sure all of the records are happy ones."

The woman shrugged. Her next words were softer, almost whispering.

"Some would ink it to skin."

[oletus-carousel]

Do you hold any faith for in any kind of higher power?

"Why should I do that, hm? The bastards have never helped me, whether or not I hold any respect for them. Maybe it'd help me build faith if they did. Silly, I know. Laugh all you want. Why someone like that would help the faithless and pitiful is beyond me, but I suppose we don't see eye-to-eye.

I just don't see any point in blind faith. That's never done anything good for me, and I wish I'd known that sooner."

The Exile's voice became quieter, and she trailed off into momentary silence, fiddling with the pendant about her neck and not even caring when the crystal's sharp edge drew droplets of blood from her fingertips.

"In terms of those that aren't gods, mortals of higher circumstance and ability, you know well what following my gut did - it just dragged me down further into the dirt. I didn't know my worth outside those situations, I idolised, and it ate away at me over time. Don't let that happen to you. Keep your wits about you."

She dully laughed, letting go of the crystal and looking at the crimson beading upwards almost as if... curious. She didn't seem to register the pain of the situation, in any case, and was caught up in memory.

"I also feel as if I've had an encounter with... someone in neither place. Not a god, not mortal, but in a state of suspension between both. Then again, it could've just been a nightmare. That man... I can't recall his name, but he spoke to me in emerald green and venom - not to wax poetic or anything of the sort - and pulled the world out from under me. I wouldn't be eager to see him again, but I have a feeling he won't stay away for long."

[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 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]

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]

⚔️, describe what you fight for in ten words or less.

"Myself, my survival, and the beating of my heart."

[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.