#dramartiste

TO: SHAKESPEARE FROM: KOTOMINE SHIROU

Your main theme was tragedy and love, correct? ( message deleted)

How does one be a good romantic partner ( message deleted)

( 1 / 1 ) Caster, I need help.

There, perfect.

& there they sat, the two of them, grownups; and yet in their hearts children, and it was summer: a warm glorious summer day.

    The end of summer was creeping like a vine across the vast fields of brick and stone and technology in a city that came undone at the ends of a barrier. It was a strange place to be summoned into and left to one’s own devices, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. A dead man wasn’t given choices: he was only made to do.

     There was one thing Andersen found himself thankful for, however; and it was a good thing that language was never a barrier here, or there, or anywhere they manifested as spirits, for even though all sorts and kinds walked about shrouded in self-absorption, he still managed to find a familiar face. It was by sheer luck that his small steps managed to match the more flamboyant gait of one he knew too well, and even luckier that it wasn’t the most annoying of company.

     Andersen gingerly dabbed jam across his toast with a knife, stern and hell-bent on having a decent brunch without worrying about whether or not pretending to eat like normal people was necessary. “Well, then. Our influence matters little here, it seems, what with how our captors seem disinterested in communication. No notes, no messages -- just a pat on the ass and a promise of no privacy. I trust you’ve found as much yourself. But I’m not one for fieldwork or labor. In any case, you and I do best when we observe.” He was as stuffy and commanding as ever, despite there being no mission and no ultimate threat of humanity gradually rolling to its end ( or so things seemed on the surface ). 

        𝐖ith a needle in hand and glimmering cloth upon her lap, the Lamb began to add lace to the ornate gown before her. The interior of the modest theatre was lined with dust but was cheerful in its quaint nature. Behind the stage was similarly furnished to the entryway, albeit more cramped, but the sun shone through a paint-chipped window showering the young woman in beams of morning light. 

         A crown of artificial roses and foliage rested atop dark tresses, a piece of the costume that had been finished the day prior. The actress who was to play the Fairy Queen had been unavailable for a fitting which left Elizabeth with little choice for measurements besides herself. As she rose from the workbench a melody came to her and for a moment she allowed herself this morsel of happiness. Slow and steady she hummed a hymn from a lifetime ago as reached for the gauzy wings that had been set beside her prior. Before the vanity, she gingerly pulled her arms through the fragile prop and inspected her reflection. Some more stitch work needed to be done here and there but the seamstress was mostly satisfied with her handiwork. 

         Approaching footsteps forced her gaze away from her own form and to the man that now stood behind her in the mirror’s image. ❝Oh,❞ Her song had ceased and her expression dimmed, but only slightly. If she felt any sort of embarrassment due to her appearance there were no traces of such upon her face as she turned. ❝Are you here for the performance?❞ It was a gentle prod, she was not one to pry but there was little reason for him to be here otherwise. ❝I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I’m afraid opening night is not for another week.❞

Fate was such a curious concept; a thousand threads spun together to form a pattern of crossing paths and begotten love and turbulent tragedy. Or something of the like, at least. Though he held passing interest in it (coincidence or God, they were the only two for him), no doubt his friend was a particular fan. It was a subject featured in heavily in his works, after all (well, Romeo and Juliet, or so he heard).

Curious, then, how he’d find the city; the way it wove stories like a spider overhead. He should ask. He would -- had his eye not fallen to whatever was held in Shakespeare’s hands. In the middle of a park, at the peak of morning traffic. A quick, silent approach was broken by a heaving sigh; the quiet hum of disapproval.

         WHISKED AWAY LIKE A DOVE UPON A BREEZE ! But how familiar it all was. The curve of the streets and the jagged skyline pierced with edifices of modern man. In the city’s depths lurked CHARACTERS of the past, acquaintances and rivals alike. Though magic untapped there was a shift in the air even behind four walls. At a desk with a single brow furled he sat, quill in hand. Ink stained fingers weaving words into enchantments of a different kind, something far less potent but no lesser in power. 

            No measure is taken to conceal the click of her steps. Light footfalls hit the wooden floorboards with a certain MELODIC grace. Approach is languid, unhurried yet agile. Until hands find the edge of the worn oak-surface, easing herself onto his work space without formal address or warning. Instead, a sigh greets him, a gentle exhale before sure declamation.

                                    ❛ Look how thy servants do attend on thee,                                         Each in his office ready at thy beck.                              Wilt thou have music ? Hark ! Apollo plays, Music.                                     And twenty caged nightingales do sing:                                 Or wilt thou sleep ? We'll have thee to a couch                                     Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed                                    On purpose trimm'd up for SEMIRAMIS ! ❜

          FINGERS TRACE ALONG WEATHERED SPINES, peeking through the years worth of writing which has bypassed her own era. ah, how intriguing indeed to see what the years have unraveled in her permanent absence. nails tap upon one, instead plucking it out without hesitation to read the author’s name as friedrich nietzsche. something about philosophy, cracking open the pages to a random page as crimson eyes scan through them. quotes, not ones belonging to any form of play or musical means. still not far from the novels which once littered her tower, far from those of romantic means at that.

          holding the pages open with one hand, another lifts itself near dramatically as she picks a random quote from one of the pages. much like that of an actress preparing for a soliloquy, albeit hardly anything but.

Character Survey of Doom | Not accepting.

> Describe the character’s thought process. Is he more logical, or more intuitive? Idealistic or practical?

At his core, Corvo is intensely idealistic, no matter how those ideals have grown tarnished by suffering and decades-old grudges. Within the confines of his own mind, he tends to wax on right and wrong, the price of the goals he seeks and the Outsider-given powers he’s been given to pursue them, among other things. Few people ever really see this side of him, however, as age and a decades-long career in the military has honed that more practical side of his mind. When tackling a problem (whether it’s a frog stuck in a grandfather clock or a smuggling ring bringing military contraband into the city) Corvo relies on logic in order to overcome the obstacle. But when the problem becomes personal... Corvo’s own heart, so fierce in its love and its hate, often takes over, and his pragmatic thinking is charged with fulfilling these irrational feelings with rational methods.

> Does this character have a personal code of morals or ethics? If so, how did that begin? What would it take to compromise it?

Corvo has a personal set of principles that have been warped by the suffering he’s received—and inflicted—throughout his lifetime. 

As a young man, brought up from the slums and into the Serkonan Grand Guard by a strong sword arm, Corvo’s principles were molded on a very idealistic view on what his military service was meant to entail: he must defend the weak, preserve lawful order, and punish the wicked with extreme prejudice. This zeal was tempered somewhat as he grew older and started a family (of sorts), so before being wrongfully blamed for the Empress’ assassination, Corvo was a good man who held himself to a very certain set of standards.

Losing everything changed things quite a bit. Throughout six months of torture, Corvo held onto his principles—he never once uttered a word of self-incrimination, nor was he coerced into signing false confession—but they were eventually corroded by pain and hate and fear. Corvo left Coldridge Prison with a very different set of principles in his heart. He understood that he could not avail of the old way of doing things... but there was more than a little cynicism there now. Taking lives became less of a burden, and Corvo began to acknowledge that primal satisfaction he gained when killing a foe. Gaining the favor of the Outsider—and with it, power beyond even that of his mortal foes—only exacerbated this desire to contradict his previous morals to satisfy his own urges. However, that ‘good man’ still exists within Corvo, so every time he visits violence on those who might not necessarily deserve it, there rises the ever-present specter of doubt and regret...