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greetings. this is a revamped rp blog for 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 and angie doll from re. village. this utterly miserable tale of a dollmaker has been fashioned by milla, 29, she / her. highly triggering content such as violence and death applies. occasional images of dolls and spiders. carrd can be found here. ♡

dark themes heavy. strongly headcanon influenced. crossover friendly.

but he already had, hadn't he, given her another chance in life by helping her free from the dreariest ward that'd been built for the city's most cursed women ? donna remembered it very clearly; the moment this expert thief's soundless steps had led him into her haunted quarters and expected to find something completely different than a trembling person 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 in misery and worn out cotton. the reason not to die, in a sense, had been him helping her down the wall of coarse and rain touched stone, all the way towards the slippery shore and a boat. sure, she had promised a notable reward for his efforts, but by no means there'd been any concrete reason for him to turn a stealthy mission into a rescue of a potential lunatic. she had needed him, but the longer she'd known him, the more convinced she'd become about how garrett had needed her too, and still did. after all, he'd kept coming back to her window ever since she'd turned this small apartment into her very own home.

a melancholy smile tempted her mouth as she guided her thoughts back to present time and slowly continued stitching a torn side seam of his fingerless glove. a subtle feeling of warmth grew and lingered beneath donna's chest as she shifted in her spot on the other side of a well cluttered table, and glanced towards his familiar figure 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 on a windowsill. ❝ ...you have. and yet ...dying wouldn't be ...so terrible. not after ...finding a ...home. ❞ a moment passed until she paused the stitching and whispered with unexpected softness, ❝ ...maybe you have been ...looking for more reasons ...to live, garrett ? i wonder... are you finding ...any here ? ❞

there had been days when the sounds of late autumn's rain had calmed her greatly and made her feel more connected to the misery also known as half-hearted life, and some when she'd experienced distress in imagining the downpour ruining the dainty flora decorating dear claudia's resting place — the tiny ranunculus repens may be resilient, but for how long could it withstand heavy rainwater's tireless assault ? those questions and many more tended to throw endless loops in the front of her mind on rainy days, but on this particular one the dollmaker found herself more interested in knowing what'd brought the weather's notion on his smart tongue. ❝ ... ❞ donna's gaze rose slowly from her needlework to the familiar figure, or rather his turned back and the dining room 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰. swallowing the tightness in her throat, she decided to test how her hoarse voice would sound like against the rain's soothingly steady rhythm. ❝ ...and ...what are you ...counting them ...for ? ❞ could it be he was planning to bring some rainy day activity to fruition, or worse, leave ?

why use scissors when you can bite the thread, huh.

whether  or  not  the  reaction  caused  by  her  uninvited  interruption  had  stirred  any amusement  in  the  dollmaker  would  forever  remain  a  silent  mystery  —  one  among  the  others,  𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝  and  bent,  locked  up  in  a  chest  of  sleepless  aching.  no verbal  response  to  karl’s voiced  thoughts  reached  donna's  selective tongue  as  she  studied  her  surroundings  through  the  dark  veil  which  more  often  than  not  hid  her  features  from  the  outside  world,  her  left  arm  squeezing  an  infamously  horrid  creature  ill tempered  doll  as  close  to  her  chest  as  possible.  she  hated  it  here-  no,  she  hated  the  foreign  sounds  and  smells,  and  the  displeasure  that  his  unapologetic crudeness  in  language  was.  her  breast  rose  and  fell  slowly  as  she  ever  nonchalantly brushed aside his commentary and sighed soundly through her nose, stepping aside to scout for a spot to either sit down on or perhaps hide. the latter wouldn't have caused any trouble, after all, as what one might've called equipment and reusable parts of all kind, was piles of trash under her watchful eye. the irony of it all was almost as sweet as the misery she'd experienced upon noticing that the music box had began playing unsteady clicks instead of the eerie nursery tune she'd wished to hear.

a crate containing who-knows-whats crossed her vision and a pair of near soundless steps led her closer to it. ❝ ...you didn't answer ...the last time ...i called ❞, came her hoarse response as she began collecting some bits and bobs from top of the crate with her free hand. the chances were he hadn't wanted to answer, which would've been admittedly 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, but it could also be that she'd been so deep in her thoughts that she had skipped the part in which she should've actually dialed the numbers. no matter, she decided, and after taking a step backwards she opened a closed fist and placed the tiny items next to her bringings on his workbench.

the stress of breathing and existing in a place other than her haunted quarters squeezed donna's throat, her restlessness making angie's bony body jerk and its mouth made a sound that strongly resembled childlike taunting. donna hushed the doll before it'd had the chance to unleash some fine lines of mockery, seating it snugly in her lap as she sat down and focused on the lord high and mighty, relaxing her jaw to protest. ❝ ...no. be busy later ...i need it now. fix it. ❞ please make it play again, papà, it keeps nastiest ghouls at bay.

a hooked thumb rose then and caught the starched hem of the dollmaker's veil; once a wave of clear hesitation had reached its peak, she lifted the layer of silk crepe from covering her 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞, suggesting a desire to soon have a smoke. a great tactic to avoid additional discomfort in her opinion, as lungs filled with toxic chemicals and unknown matters would surely prevent other horrors from slipping in. ❝ do you know ...duke ...will he ever come again ? ❞ there was a pause until she tested him. ❝ he could ...fix the box ...if you don't know how. ❞

and so a stranger, or perhaps an unwanted wanderer instead, had stolen the words right from her mind and spilled them out in an apparent state of bewilderment. donna's 𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 figure had been heading home with haste, her destination clearer than any second of stilled waters captured in old films, only to find a head of silver hair studying the area that'd long ago been framed by haunted stone and decorated with snow-kissed graves. then again, maybe his words had been directed at the doll that'd been floating around him for a little while, snickering to itself, dressed in a shabby wedding gown. hm ...

angie twirled around in the air, giggling at the stranger's words in a high pitched voice before finding a seat on donna's right shoulder, tilting its little head to the side with an unsettling click. ❝ really ? i mean reeeaally really ? ❞ the doll mocked, it's tiny hands moving up only to find places on its colorless cheeks. its tongueless mouth stayed open as it gasped dramatically, ❝ you look like a mediocre theater extra who's been stomping around our private gardens for inspiration, and we are the wrongs ? oh, you poor boy, poor thing... ❞

the doll rolled its hollow eyes before crossing its arms over its chest in a childlike manner. ❝ what's a dum-dum like you doing here anyways ? trying to find friends ? ❞ the old gravestones scattered all around the area surely wouldn't offer much company, unless this person 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 to be buried among the others. donna fidgeted idly with her veil, wondering if the stranger had been born with silver hair or if he'd already died once. maybe both.

sailento. indie. rp blog for 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 from re. village. this utterly miserable tale of a dollmaker has been fashioned by milla, 29, she / her.

‎‎❝ ... no. ❞

for but a breath the movement paused, and the pleasant coarseness of an old cotton yarn remained tightly pinned between the cool pad of its weaver's thumb and the tip of an equally deft index finger. admittedly, the idea of another person considering an endless 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 force to be real comforted her greatly — or as much as anything could within the vastness of her horribly twisted imagination. donna's veiled head tilted slightly to the side as she pondered, her seeing eye slowly falling shut in order to let the grim colors flood in and paint some new pictures on the dark canvas of a closed lid. ❝ ... ❞ an enemy could always remain an enemy for sure, but only a dead one could make some fine fertilizer. then again, dear miss aranea might've not been seeking for any advice for gardening by sharing her thoughts with the peculiar dollmaker. the silence between the words of two stretched long until the weaver's lips finally parted, ready to spill a tempting line of curiosity. clearing her throat, donna guided her gaze towards the beauty blessing her haunted quarters.