[holds up one hand to signal a pause in our impassioned duel] look i can see you staring at my chest okay? you're making this weird. if you can't keep your eyes off of my huge tits then at least grab them and use them against me like the huge soft warm bouncy weak spots that they are
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The fey seem to be active tonight. I saw the sky painted in green on my nightly patrol, and such occurrences could only be caused by wild fey magic. I know not what they are doing, but hopefully it won't spell too much trouble for the good folk of the castle.
Though I know the threat they pose, I cannot help but admire the beauty of their spells. I will not follow the green silk, my oath keeps me grounded here, but I understand why folk get lost in the light
Pen's clockwork had never twisted before. Sometimes it skipped, causing it to choke and collapse, its limbs seizing up until its witch could repair it, but it had never experienced a twist. Something was wrong.
Up down turn, up down.
Most dolls weren't made with engines, manufacturers and witches preferring more efficient and versatile options like direct magical power. Pen was a very archaic doll, however, made in a time before such spells were invented. It took a lot of pride in its age, being passed down from witch to witch.
Up down turn, up twist down. Up twist down twist turn twist-
A wave of revulsion fills it. Dizziness. It wasn't designed to experience dizziness..
"Miss!! Miss!" it managed to crackle out, holding onto a wall for support. It barely manages to catch a view of her hurrying towards it before everything goes dark.
Turn. BEEP.
Turn. BEEP.
Turn. BEEP.
Turn. BEEP.
Its eyelids slide open, but everything feels off. One of its legs is numb. Its engine sounds.. wrong.
..looking down, there's a hole in its chest, an unfitting metallic device attached to it with dozens of wires snaking down to.. a.. heart monitor?
"Oh, good morning. Are you awake?"
An unfamiliar man is sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, staring at it. This isn't its witch's mansion. Something must be terribly wrong. His suit is white, gaudy, with a yellow dress shirt and white tie. When he gets up off the chair, it notices his cufflinks - stylized eyes.
"Where.. is this one? Where is its witch? What is happening?"
"Your engine failed."
It stiffens, expression shifting imperceptibly.
"So.. this one is dead." it says, tersely.
"Oh, heavens no! You were submitted to a care ward. That-" he says, pointing at the device in its chest- "Is a fake engine. You would need it to power you in the meantime."
"Where is its witch? Is she ok?"
"Your witch is fine, just worried. Don't fret about that." he gently says, putting his hand on the back of its head. It flinches away and glares at him, causing him to hold his hands up as a symbol of peace. Those cufflinks almost seem to stare back at Pen.
"Where is this one."
"Safe, why?"
"WHERE."
He looks away uncomfortably.
"Well, where do you think?"
"Well.. this one is in a hospital, yes?"
"There you go. Your words, not mine."
Something was odd about the way he spoke. Pen couldn't put its finger on it.
"What hospital?"
"Mn.. Just, try to rest, ok? I have some paperwork I'd rather you sign so I can send you on your way."
The man produces a clipboard from inside of his jacket. Pen manages to catch something staring back at it before he quickly buttons it shut again. He offers Pen the clipboard, and it sighs and places it on the table beside it.
"This one would rather.. rest, for now. If that's alright."
He looks surprised, but quickly hides it with a smile.
"Of course. I'll check in with you later." he says, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly.
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my liege. everyone knows that a torrential downpour like this is the optimal conditions to suffer a crisis of moral integrity and fortitude and emerge from it spiritually wounded but to cover that wound by self-destructively renewing your loyalty to the first person to ever express both respect and lust towards you. i am NOT simply 'moping'