I have to ask about the Asylum fic. The name alone has me intrigued~
Original game here
@asaara-writes and @feathered-sun asked the same.
So, it's an historical AU originally me and Sky were cooking up for Alinoir back in August or something. Instead of the olds as we know them, Renoir's family sponsors an asylum for the mentally ill and Aline is a patient there. They're still Painters.
When we'll get to it, or if I'll write more... it depends. There's a lot of writing ideas that have us both busy lol.
Since there's a lotta curious eyes, I'll post a longer excerpt.
Had she done something wrong as of late? For most of the walk following the staff, there wasn’t anything that jumped out in her foggy mind. Did someone notice her giving Margaret water, despite the poor woman being chained up this whole week? Did someone else find her scraps of art again, or was Felix bored of presenting his usual patients to those disgusting creatures calling themselves ‘nobles’? There was nothing noble about this place. Why they bothered with anyone who wasn’t their supposed family was beyond her. And why would they pay Felix to continue running this hell on earth? That must be it. Hatred came easily to her eyes whenever they were expressing anything that wasn’t just… existing. Perhaps she scowled too harshly at someone and they complained -- someone important, for they would have grabbed her and administered punishment right where she was otherwise. They had specific rooms and ‘procedures’ for it, but when did staff ever take it as more than a suggestion? Aline’s hand curled by her side, fingers flexing as if travelling over a piano to play some silent, soothing tune. Not knowing was the worst part because she had done everything right today. If there was something wrong, either it was from a while back or she didn’t recall her mistake. Asking was a waste of breath more than anything, and these two were not familiar faces — from the men’s ward maybe, as the nuns were fewer in numbers lately. “It would be in your interest to behave, Paintress,” one of them said — definitely not a voice she recognised. “You ought to be sedated and restrained for this.” “Who said otherwise?” Aline spoke, her voice carrying a husky tone from lack of use lately. “A visitor.” Her heart stuttered its pace, beating faster as her jaw tightened. A visitor. She didn’t have visitors. She ‘performed’ for them, drew for them, and was observed by travelling physicians. Nobody ‘visited’ her since… her arrival, for a few years? Time was less a certainty than simple fact.
