#marienttes

her stateroom, 11:29pm, draped over a velvet armchair. long hair unspools in braids, an uncanny fatigue her primary accessory. how long has it been, since she has let anyone into her wing? all meetings are held on the opposite side of the palace, in halls designed for brief, impersonal discussion. and yet, here in the western wing, sits @marienttes⸻ shoulders proud without incline. alert as ever. an excellent harbinger, through and through, loyal without question.

half-empty firewater. two cups, only one of them touched. uncharacteristic flush seeking pearl cheeks. when was the last time she drank? certainly not since the death of her father. indeed, even now, she cannot tell how much of it is placebo, how much is true intoxication; how much of it she would like to be real.

is this her own slow death? yearning for a past that haunts each cell of life?

“ ... sandrone. ” the weight of her words are evident, sweet liquor accompanied by ice. when anastasya opens lidded eyes, a vision of those long-dead beseiges her, black hair and melted eyes. they mix with the woman before her, now, and perhaps her reason is truly impaired⸻ she reaches, head hanging off her perch, and takes one loop of synthetic hair between slender fingers. “ your hair is just like theirs. [ ... ] silk. ”

It would have been easy to miss the Marionette. She was an ELUSIVE creature, not entirely dissimilar to the likes of Il Dottore - rarely seen, widely renowned and more of a shadow of a title than a tangible figure. She was like a spider, perched comfortably in the corner of an attic, spinning her webs and schemes. As it stood, his exclusion from the meetings of the Harbingers meant that their paths rarely crossed.

Things were easier that way. Aether much preferred to keep his distance from the Tsaritsa and all her closest confidantes. His current arrangement of limited proximity worked well, and he had little intention on budging from his terms, even if Her Majesty simply refused to let up on her own endeavours to COLLECT him.

It was inconvenient, but Aether was clever if nothing else. There were always gaps to slip through, excuses to weave, avenues to take when all other doors seemed to drift mysteriously shut. He only had to ENDURE until he’d obtained all that he needed, until he could leave this all behind with no further thought of evasion left to entertain.

Today with yet another GRUELLING negotiation with the Archon herself concluded, Aether stepped out into the hallway beyond the doors of the Tsaritsa’s private office. The guards stood to either side offered only stiff nods before they slotted back into place, the doors shutting inaudibly behind him with only a whisper of frosty air licking at his shoulderblades in farewell.

Ah. he wasn’t alone.

' Hmm ? What's wrong ? Is there something ... '

On my face , she had intended to finish , assuming Sandrone's heavy steps must have noble cause ! There's certainly no chance The Marionette would have issue with Columbina making herself rather comfortable in Sandrone's bed — it wasn't in use , after all , and she's always careful to ensure she fix the sheets and pillows accordingly . When fellow harbinger reaches for the comforter she'd wrapped herself in , Columbina is certain she will be shooed away , or worse , subject to swatting hands rushing her out .

To her surprise , the reaction is ... uncharacteristically delicate . Placing herself beside goddess with ease , were it not for her quickness to hide expression , it would almost seem displaying this affection came natural to her .

As instructed , she remains still . Her head shifts to face Sandrone , voice a whisper to spare her of any embarrassment .

[ 03. ] sender cruelly applies pressure to receiver's [ wound / bruise ]. / while patching him up i think 🤔

Aether made a wordless grunt of pain, biting down SHARPLY on what would have been a choice handful of expletives. The snow was frigid beneath him and there was an uneven crag of ice encrusted stone digging into the small of his lower back. Uncomfortable as it all was, he refused to give her the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

“Stop moving - ” He half-choked, half-croaked out, a mosaic of stars and black spots dancing in his vision. He shuddered, grabbing at her hands and shakily repositioning them, feeling his own blood, slick and HOT beneath his palms. There was a bullet ( or the fragments of one ) nestled somewhere within the curve of his waist, but it was hard to focus on that with the copious volume of blood currently spurting from the entry wound.

❝    now,   what   sort   of   quaint   little   projects   continue   to   occupy   your   time   ?     ❞     yes,   he   invited   himself   into   the   room.   he   doesn't   need   permission. 

@marienttes      ⋆˚✰     ݁˖⭑     .ᐟ

@marienttes ; ❛ do you stick your head into everyone's business, or just mine? ❜

scaramouche lets out a short, humorless laugh as his gaze flicks toward sandrone — violet eyes narrowing with clear irritation. a fellow puppet among the fatui, and yet the two never could seem to find any common ground ( unless it involved gossiping about dottore . . . ). maybe that's why he was never invited to her infamous tea parties, not that he particularly cared either way.

❝ please, ❞ he scoffs, folding his arms, ❝ if i really wanted to stick my nose into your business, you'd know it, ❞ the balladeer tilts his head slightly, expression twisting into a thin, mocking smile, ❝ but watching you tangle yourself up in your own mess? that’s hardly interfering. i think of it more as entertainment. ❞