#moissette

Posting this drunk WOOOiooiiofwe[odkmpkOOhip here we gooo yeah

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From the moment she was crowned the Aranha of Aucèux on her 2nd birthday, Moissette had known she would never get a truly normal childhood. And honestly, that was mostly fine by her. She already had had an off-the-charts IQ that gave her the maturity of a grown woman within two years after her birth, so she was never going to be a normal child in the first place. And as exhausting as her job could be, she could still set her own hours and use her free time to manufacture a semblance of childhood.

And currently, her favorite way to do so was a sleepover with Emilet.

Since Emilet had moved into the Cathedral apartments after Moissette had chosen her along with Josquin and Qualil for her companions, it was really a question of which part of the complex they would sleep in, Emilet's apartment or Moissette's suite. Other than that, the entire Cathedral was fair game for any sleepover mischief the two girls might cook up. Which was how, on this particular late evening, Emilet ended up lounging on Moissette's throne while Moissette pranced about in front of the dais as a sniveling caricature of Raimbaut.

“And I demand that my demanding list of demands be carried out immediately as soon as I finish demanding my list of demanding demands,” Emilet's tiny voice boomed as she waved a dismissive hand in the air and made her best pompous face. “I demand it, do you hear me? I demand it!”

Moissette tried not to laugh as she quivered with exaggerated terror and feigned a ridiculous stutter. “W-w-why y-y-yes of c-c-course m-m-mea d-d-drolla g-g-g-gr-grazida, your d-d-d-demands sh-sh-sh-shall b-b-b-be d-d-done!”

“But first!” Emilet declared, holding up a finger. “I demand that you perform an expert ballet dance right this moment. And you shall make it up on the spot, and I demand that it shall be magnificent!”

Breaking character, Moissette raised an eyebrow. “Raimbaut doesn't dance, though.”

“HE DOES TODAY!!!”

“Oh y-y-yes f-f-fine alright, I-I-I-I do t-t-today!”

Now, Moissette was a good dancer, and no one in the empire hesitated to tell her that she was better than all other aucelais. She could barely recall a time when she hadn't known how to dance well. So if anything, pretending to dance badly was actually more of a challenge for her, and Emilet knew that. If anyone else had asked her to do so in a game or otherwise, even Josquin or Qualil, Moissette would've rudely refused at best.

But Emilet was...Emilet.

So Moissette obliged.

Taking a deep breath, the young ruler tossed herself up and down in the air, flailing her no longer chubby arms and legs wildly while still managing to land en point instead of crashing to the floor. A few bungled arabesques and grand jetes later, she threw in a few gargoyle faces for good measure.

To her credit, Emilet kept her bored expression. “Impressive, truly,” she drawled. “I now demand you add a song to your routine. Lighten my dreary spirits.”

Oh, now this Moissette could do. Stifling a wicked grin, she took a deep breath, and as she made her next flailing leap, opened her mouth…

“NNNYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

A shorter drabble to make up for the previous, longer one. Poor Moissette. She may be the antagonist, but I love her dearly and hate seeing her suffer like this... :’(

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It had been eleven days since Moissette slept.

She’d stopped trying to conceal the circles under her bloodshot almond eyes, stopped trying to comb her hair back into anything other than a limp afro, hadn’t even changed tunics recently.

“What’s next?” she whispered to herself, tracing the chart she’d scribbled all over the paper on her tent’s center table in a fit of delirium. “What could possibly be next?”

Poisoned water. Locusts, frogs. Disease. Landslide. The cursed darkness.

Emilet.

Absently she picked at her face. Acne. Perks of being a twelve-year-old.

A movement caught her eye, and she turned in her seat to see who had entered her tent. Blearily she recognized Raimbaut, his once weasley little face now littered with pockmarks. He’d gotten hit bad with the disease, but was one of the lucky ones. “You...you haven’t had anything to, um, eat today,” he managed, looking at something in his hands.

Moissette turned back to her chart, trying to make sense of her own scribblings. “I’m not hungry,” she answered, her voice hoarse. “Leave me. Please.”

But Raimbaut didn’t leave. He brought over the thing he’d been holding and set it on the table next to her. It was a wooden cup of cold coffee. “You are doing the best you can,” he said hesitantly, trying for encouragement. “And our forces are still strong. Erm, I mean, at least it can’t get any worse—”

He leapt back in shock as Moissette hissed and swept the wooden cup off the table, dark brown liquid sloshing everywhere and sinking into the dirt floor. She never turned down coffee.

“Yes! It can!” she yelled at him, voice bordering on hysteria. “How many more, Raimbaut? How many more?!?”

All the energy visibly collapsed out of her, and a strangled sob tore its way out of her throat.

How many more? What would come next?

Lmao so I lied about Moissette not coming back until Day 12, she's back a little earlier than I thought she'd be. But this one was just way too much fun to write for me to keep my word. Also it may or may not be based on a certain story from the Bible, brownie points if you know it!

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Moissette had mixed feelings about Visiting Hours™.

On the one hand, it was one of the most crucial aspects of her job as Aucèux’s current Aranha. She was the head of government and religion, and this meant she was the chief peacekeeper in her country empire. Her subjects came to her to solve their problems when no one else was able to, and she had the final say in every affair. Her word was, quite literally, that of God. It was the highest honor in the land.

On the other hand, the amount of tedium that came with it was also the highest in the land.

“I’m telling you, the baby is mine!” the woman on Moissette’s left protested for the umpteenth time, stamping her foot and jabbing her finger at the woman on the right. “That pute is a liar and a thief!”

The other woman snarled and would have lunged at the former, were not four of the royal armed guards restraining them both. “Who are you calling a pute, you heartless salope! You just can’t admit you accidentally suffocated your own child!”

Moissette clenched her jaw and side-eyed the gurgling infant in her own chubby four-year-old arms, thankful the poor thing was too oblivious to be wailing its lungs out at the squabble before them. “Enough!” she barked at the two women, silencing them immediately. “Didn’t one of you say you two had moved in together before this? Why not just get married and have joint custody over this little guy?”

One of the women gave the other the stank eye. “That was on the table,” she ground out, “before Liria here decided to steal my child and my trust!”

The other woman, apparently named Liria, scoffed and tossed her hair. “Oh, please. I wouldn’t marry Jóuselet in a thousand years, not even if she admitted the baby was rightfully mine! See, this is more proof she’s nothing more than a shameful liar.”

“I’m the liar? You don’t even—”

“I SAID ENOUGH!!!”

And just like that, the entire throne room fell silent. As the toddler she was, she was very aware of how being bestowed with the word of God did have its perks.

Moissette hadn’t wanted to resort to this option, but maybe it would work like she hoped it would. She made a show of rolling her eyes, then snapped her fingers for one of her attendants. Her head lady-in-waiting happened to be nearest, and the irony of it being her wasn’t lost on Moissette. “I heard enough, this ends now. Pélegria,” she said flippantly, holding out the infant. “Prepare a vehicle to take this...thing to Ketterpüll. Since it seems to have no mother, I shall send it away to work and live as a Ketterpüller slave.”

Pélegria’s eyes widened in horror but she nodded in comprehension, and reluctantly held out her arms to take the infant.

Liria barked out a bitter laugh while Jóuselet let out a strangled sob. “No! Please, I beg you, have mercy!” the latter cried, shaking off the guards holding her and falling to her knees. “I take it all back, Liria can have my son, she can have him! I’ll go to Ketterpüll in his place, I’ll—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Liria interrupted her. “We screwed up, and now neither of us get the stupid baby! Just as well. Who even wants a child anyway, they’re messy and too much—uh, work...oh...”

Liria trailed off and looked up at a fuming Moissette in terror, realizing too late what she’d said in front of the child ruler. “Mèrda, I’m so-so-so sorry V-Votre Altesse, you’re not, I-I mean I swear I won’t—”

Moissette held up a hand. “Save it. You’re lucky I don’t send you away as a slave, you undeserving chatte. Get out of here. NOW!”

Choking and blubbering, Liria dashed and stumbled and crawled away.

Still on her knees, Jóuselet was quivering. “And me, Votre Altesse?”

“Your true motherly instincts made themselves abundantly clear in the manner you reacted,” Moissette told her in a calmer voice. “Your son...what is his name?”

“Miqueu, ma dròlla grazida.”

“Very well. Miqueu is clearly your own flesh. Take him and raise him well.” She nodded at Pélegria, who took the squirming infant and stepped off the dais to lay him in his overjoyed mother’s arms.

This is my first time writing Moissette du Jongleur, the other main character of my series, and I'm so happy I was finally able to find a prompt that worked for her. She’ll come back later in another day’s prompt.

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A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, you gotta be—” Her meditation rudely interrupted, Moissette rolled her eyes and shoved herself out of her chair. She stormed over to the door of the small library and yanked it open, lightning flashing in her almond eyes. “What have I told you about interrupting my religious textual studies, Raimbaut?!”

Raimbaut, the weaseliest of her messengers and therefore the easiest to yell at and get a frightened reaction out of, blanched and shrank back. “My, er, humblest apologies, V-Votre Altesse,” he stammered, “but I, er, it’s your, I mean, the t-tailor...she, er...”

As he trailed off, it clicked in Moissette’s mind what he was trying to say, and she gasped. Mèrda, the tailor. I completely forgot I scheduled that for today. “I see,” she said aloud, instantly calming down. “Very well, you were right to interrupt. I shall greet her personally. And Raimbaut?”

“Y-yes, dròlla grazida?”

“Accompany me. I may require your assistance.”

Dutifully he padded behind her as she briskly strode through the winding halls until she came to the throne room. Making herself look as dignified as she could in spite of her tardiness, Moissette smoothed her scholar tunic (no time to change into her usual reception tunic, so this would have to do) and carefully arranged herself nonchalantly on her plain grey throne. From across the long room she nodded at the door guards. “Bring her in.”

The heavy wooden doors were opened and in strode the tailor herself, dragging behind her a child-sized wooden rolling clothes rack with a cluster of outfits hanging from it. The tailor was such a frequent presence in the Aranha Cathedral that Moissette had told her to stop bowing a long time ago, and so instead, the older woman rolled her clothes rack all the way up to the base of the throne dais and stood beside it expectantly.

Moissette hopped off the throne and stepped down to examine what the tailor had brought this time, snapping her fingers to indicate Raimbaut should assist her. The tailor had already been here the week before with a different line of tunics for the upcoming anniversary, but Moissette had barely glanced at each outfit before she dismissed them all as “too tasteless and repulsive” for a national holiday celebrating five years of her reign. Shocked, as this had never happened to her before, the tailor had tried to protest, pointing out that the people of Aucèux would think her beautiful in those clothes, but Moissette had merely side-eyed her and the protest died on her lips. “The people, like you, have no imagination. It is my job to supply it for them beyond their wildest dreams, and it is your job to make that possible. I expect the correct wardrobe this time next week, understand?”

Luckily, it didn’t seem that the tailor would need such chastisement this week. As Moissette fingered the costly fabrics and feathers, and as Raimbaut dutifully held each outfit up to her seven-year-old frame, an anticipating grin spread across her face.