01-23-2018, 03:26 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-23-2018, 01:05 PM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: rounding this out so that the ending is less abrupt.
)
Isolda stayed on the roof until just before noon, well after the tiles had grown uncomfortably hot. She was trying to develop a plan, something more sophisticated than simply 'show up to the gala and keep an eye on Ghidorah', but she had already extended herself further in one morning than in the past three months combined, and her emotional energy was largely tapped out.
Subtly but certainly, her carefully tended solitude was coming undone, its foundations undermined by their very nature. Turning away from the situation would mean retreating even further from the world than she had before, and that wasn't something Isolda thought she could survive - but that still didn't make taking action any easier after so much time spent blissfully at rest; Following the confrontation with her uncle and the second unexpected meeting with Mothra's twin messengers, the heiress simply didn't have enough mental fortitude left to both keep her phantom tenants quiet and continue dealing with serious matters today.
Besides, Uncle William had always been the one who made the plans; Even leaving everything else aside, that simple fact made Isolda feel as though her head was filled with bees.
She needed some time to rest.
Although she had the entire Northwest tower of the keep to herself, Isolda's apartments were less opulent than the Duke's.
The only exception to the theme was Isolda's bedchamber; There, the walls were papered in white lace overlaid with alternating patterns of green ivy and tiny crimson owls, and exotic green rugs were piled on the floor. A large wardrobe occupied one corner, and beside it was a chest of drawers, both constructed of solid sea-green jade. A silk sofa embroidered with emerald thread commanded the middle of the room, and a single, narrow bay window, complete with a love-seat bedecked with embroidered green cushions overlooked the Northernmost corner of the valley. One entire wall was given over to an oaken bookcase, which was full to bursting with everything from leather grimoires of dubious provenance to trashy paperback romance-novels (a taste she'd acquired in Costa del Sol, shortly after arriving in the Omniverse). The clashing scents of sea-salt, old paper and lilac perfume intertwined to form a uniquely relaxing miasma, a smell that the room's creator had carried in her mind from another time and place.
There was no bed, and no source of light besides the rays of the afternoon sun streaming in the through the window. Isolda had gotten rid of the former shortly after summoning the Northwest tower: she didn't sleep very often, and when she did, she found that building a nest out of pillows on the sofa worked best.
If she wanted a lamp, her attendants could get one for her.
The pretty-but-forgettable women who made up her entourage weren't exactly human: they were empty vessels - soul-less summoned bodies that some of Isolda's more tractable ghostly passengers could be persuaded to inhabit in order to perform complex tasks, and to maintain appearances when she was moving about the castle unshrouded.
Right now, seated on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap, Isolda had two of them brushing and braiding her hair - one standing behind her, the other seated at her side.
Aside from the fact that she enjoyed looking nice, it was a relaxing ritual for a number of reasons: It gave the ghosts something to do, it took some of the pressure off of the heiress's mind, and it reminded her of happier times, before she became a walking necropolis. Unfortunately, today it wasn't working. For whatever reason, for the first time since coming to the Omniverse, it bothered Isolda that her handmaidens weren't real.
"Do you remember who you were?" She asked. It was an unusual interruption - typically, the entire tonsorial procedure happened within a comfortable bubble of silence, save for the whispering of fingers, flax and hair - but it was something she'd wondered for some time. Her handmaidens had never shown more than the vaguest hint of personality, but possessing these blank slates was the only time the spirits acted as distinct individuals.
Both handmaidens chorused, "No, milady." and continued with their task. Isolda's eyelids drooped, and a frown tugged at the corner of her mouth. Then the one standing behind her added calmly, "Not specifically. But we are very angry."
The other nodded. "Toweringly angry. Some more than others."
The noblewoman started to nod, then caught herself. "I've always wondered about that. I know that my brothers are among your number, and probably my father. I would expect them to feel different, though I knew them hardly at all... But the feedback I get from some of you has an edge to it that the others lack. Like there's some additional outrage, some extra source of anger beyond the obvious."
For a moment, the room seemed colder. Isolda got the uncomfortable feeling she had said something wrong.
"That," said the one at her back, looking at its partner with blunt disapproval as it tied off a braid, "Is not something we are willing to discuss."
Her handmaidens finished their task in silence, and though the heiress attempted to engage them several more times, in the end they retreated down the hall to their annex and vacated their vessels without saying another word. The dull, distant double-thump of two bodies hitting the floor bespoke an unusual lack of care.
Isolda stared at her wardrobe, and deliberately thought about nothing. It was a copy of a piece of furniture she'd owned when she was thirteen; She didn't know what had happened to the original, and she'd always found that oddly comforting. After years of idleness there were suddenly things she needed to do, and too much potential for catastrophe if she simply didn't do them - but with the morning Isolda had had, it felt good to just sit still.
Ghostly fingers ruffled the carpets, and pillows began to float about the room. Before she knew it, she had drifted into a fitful sleep.
Subtly but certainly, her carefully tended solitude was coming undone, its foundations undermined by their very nature. Turning away from the situation would mean retreating even further from the world than she had before, and that wasn't something Isolda thought she could survive - but that still didn't make taking action any easier after so much time spent blissfully at rest; Following the confrontation with her uncle and the second unexpected meeting with Mothra's twin messengers, the heiress simply didn't have enough mental fortitude left to both keep her phantom tenants quiet and continue dealing with serious matters today.
Besides, Uncle William had always been the one who made the plans; Even leaving everything else aside, that simple fact made Isolda feel as though her head was filled with bees.
She needed some time to rest.
* * *
Although she had the entire Northwest tower of the keep to herself, Isolda's apartments were less opulent than the Duke's.
There was no gold trim to be found, no lush burgundy carpets or liveried guards; In every room and hall the floors and walls were lacquered oak - tiles and paneling, molding and doors, lit by the flickering golden radiance of glass-hooded oil-lamps mounted in black iron fixtures. There were no windows. Other than the lamps, the only decorations were the occasional painting, with a slight preference for still-lifes over portraiture and landscape, rendered in acrylics and framed in bronze. In every image, without exception, the star-spangled sky was purple and lit by a sun with a bruised black halo. Walking the tower's vacant halls and disused chambers, a one got the impression that they had somehow become trapped within the veins of a massive, petrified tree. Everything smelled like varnish.
The only exception to the theme was Isolda's bedchamber; There, the walls were papered in white lace overlaid with alternating patterns of green ivy and tiny crimson owls, and exotic green rugs were piled on the floor. A large wardrobe occupied one corner, and beside it was a chest of drawers, both constructed of solid sea-green jade. A silk sofa embroidered with emerald thread commanded the middle of the room, and a single, narrow bay window, complete with a love-seat bedecked with embroidered green cushions overlooked the Northernmost corner of the valley. One entire wall was given over to an oaken bookcase, which was full to bursting with everything from leather grimoires of dubious provenance to trashy paperback romance-novels (a taste she'd acquired in Costa del Sol, shortly after arriving in the Omniverse). The clashing scents of sea-salt, old paper and lilac perfume intertwined to form a uniquely relaxing miasma, a smell that the room's creator had carried in her mind from another time and place.
There was no bed, and no source of light besides the rays of the afternoon sun streaming in the through the window. Isolda had gotten rid of the former shortly after summoning the Northwest tower: she didn't sleep very often, and when she did, she found that building a nest out of pillows on the sofa worked best.
If she wanted a lamp, her attendants could get one for her.
The pretty-but-forgettable women who made up her entourage weren't exactly human: they were empty vessels - soul-less summoned bodies that some of Isolda's more tractable ghostly passengers could be persuaded to inhabit in order to perform complex tasks, and to maintain appearances when she was moving about the castle unshrouded.
Right now, seated on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap, Isolda had two of them brushing and braiding her hair - one standing behind her, the other seated at her side.
Aside from the fact that she enjoyed looking nice, it was a relaxing ritual for a number of reasons: It gave the ghosts something to do, it took some of the pressure off of the heiress's mind, and it reminded her of happier times, before she became a walking necropolis. Unfortunately, today it wasn't working. For whatever reason, for the first time since coming to the Omniverse, it bothered Isolda that her handmaidens weren't real.
"Do you remember who you were?" She asked. It was an unusual interruption - typically, the entire tonsorial procedure happened within a comfortable bubble of silence, save for the whispering of fingers, flax and hair - but it was something she'd wondered for some time. Her handmaidens had never shown more than the vaguest hint of personality, but possessing these blank slates was the only time the spirits acted as distinct individuals.
Both handmaidens chorused, "No, milady." and continued with their task. Isolda's eyelids drooped, and a frown tugged at the corner of her mouth. Then the one standing behind her added calmly, "Not specifically. But we are very angry."
The other nodded. "Toweringly angry. Some more than others."
The noblewoman started to nod, then caught herself. "I've always wondered about that. I know that my brothers are among your number, and probably my father. I would expect them to feel different, though I knew them hardly at all... But the feedback I get from some of you has an edge to it that the others lack. Like there's some additional outrage, some extra source of anger beyond the obvious."
For a moment, the room seemed colder. Isolda got the uncomfortable feeling she had said something wrong.
"That," said the one at her back, looking at its partner with blunt disapproval as it tied off a braid, "Is not something we are willing to discuss."
Her handmaidens finished their task in silence, and though the heiress attempted to engage them several more times, in the end they retreated down the hall to their annex and vacated their vessels without saying another word. The dull, distant double-thump of two bodies hitting the floor bespoke an unusual lack of care.
Isolda stared at her wardrobe, and deliberately thought about nothing. It was a copy of a piece of furniture she'd owned when she was thirteen; She didn't know what had happened to the original, and she'd always found that oddly comforting. After years of idleness there were suddenly things she needed to do, and too much potential for catastrophe if she simply didn't do them - but with the morning Isolda had had, it felt good to just sit still.
Ghostly fingers ruffled the carpets, and pillows began to float about the room. Before she knew it, she had drifted into a fitful sleep.