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[embodies]

its first gut response, which it swallows down like bile, is anger. for rejection is not something moreau takes to well, despite its frequency or perhaps exactly because of it. there are not many who are agreeable with the creature's desires, and those who are act out of fear, repulsion. it knows, can tell when people are playing pretend. it is only with this knowledge that it rescinds any spittle of rage that were about to form, snuffing out the coals with the reminder that she truly ( ? ) would partake if she could. for it snuffles out lies as if they were earthy truffles, does not catch the scent of falsehood in her claims. alcina has been known to stake claim to her toys in mysterious ways : moreau could sense the musky tobacco smell of her like a stamped wax seal the moment the maid had set foot in its domain. she would if she could. it finds comfort in this sentiment, two would - be companions held woefully apart by opposing sides. it thinks of romeo and juliet and a wet glaze coats its eyes in a teary layer at the reminiscence.

❛ —more for me. ❜ it would shrug if it remembered how, shoulders unevenly skewed at the apex of a hunched back. instead it simply makes about procuring itself a cup of tea ( perhaps secretly hoping its tepid allure would tempt the woman into changing her mind ) and sipping as a lord would do. it is a lord after all. they would do best to remember that. but it is ever hard to match that title with the picture that is painted, a webbed pinkie finger uplifted in an attempt at dainty manner as the concoction runs sloppily down its bulbous chins. it swallows are audible gulps, greed of the rich at its most grotesque. for the first time, it wonders at her name. why she's here.

❛ your lady must be interested in what i'm working on. you can admit it, m-moreau won't tell. ❜ a smile spreads disturbingly on a rotting countenance, the teeth that remain askew and decayed, lick of a corroded tongue wetting piscean lips. its breath would be off - putting if the rest of its body were not already. but how it relishes in this farce of gossip, two tittering talkers belying secrets over drinks. it is nice to feel included in something.

The village children used to tell stories of a monster that lived in the reservoir. At seven, she had believed them. At seventeen, she had laughed and tossed her hair over one shoulder and then swam in that very water with the eldest of her cousins.

Milena thinks now of her tender, sun-kissed legs having floated tantalisingly just above those dark depths where she is now certain that this creature had surely lurked all the while. The thought alone causes a light, clammy sweat to bead upon her forehead as Lord Moreau staggers through his creaking, water-logged territory. Were he capable of anything more than a lumber, he may almost have looked busy with how he frets over the amenities.

Funny, Milena thinks. She had never been treated as anyone who might deserve any degree of respect or dignity in so very long. In the village, there had been shreds of community and family. In the castle, there are none -- her blood is too lowly for the Countess, and yet her tastes now run too queer for the other staff. She is isolated -- painfully so, and yet that is not quite enough to outweigh her creeping fear of the creature before her.

Lord Moreau offers her putrid tea and sweating cheese and then vomits right at his own feet. Her stomach flips, but if there is one thing that she has grown competent in, it's maintaining a calm demeanour.

"Thank you, my Lord," she says softly, nodding her head forwards in a short, respectful bow for whatever he might look like, he is still a Lord.

"It's very kind of you to offer, but my Lady does not permit me to indulge, I'm afraid. She prefers that I eat according to a set diet."

It's embarrassing to admit, but ultimately less painful than eating anything that Lord Moreau offers her. The imprint of her Mistress' jaw throbs beneath the bandage on the juncture between her neck and shoulder.