12th Autumn 519 AV
"speech"
"others"
"speech"
"others"
Morning dawned bright. Ennisa was now on her second night of sleeplessness, and she was grouchy as all hell. The sweetness of Emma's innocence had worn off sometime during the night, halfway between the delirium of almost-sleep and the irritation of a ghost's finger between one's ribs. Vaguely she remembered shouting at the ghost girl in a string of incoherent swears and jibes, which explained Emma's forlorn expression. Good, she thought. Yours and Madeira's game is not quite so much fun any more. Serves you right.
Ennisa had been stewing over her ploy all night, and now that the dawn rest was over, she figured there was no time like the present to confront the Spiritist. She gently pushed herself from the wall where she had been leaning, looking out of the window, and scooped her bag from the floor. She shoved her notebook inside and strapped her dagger to her waist like she always did. "Come along, dear, we're off to see your mistress!" The grin she showed Emma lasted for less than a tick before her features dropped back to the sarcastic and annoyed expression she had been wearing most of the night, and she pushed the door open with an almighty heave. Petch the neighbours.
She strode down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. It was in this same hurried, oblivious manner that she made her way to Infinity Manor. It was another beautiful day, but she was so petching tired that she couldn't appreciate the glory as Syna's rays cast beams of honeyed light across the softly scudding skies. She was on a mission, and that mission was the pursuit of sleep. She would get her sleep, one way or another.
As she had only recently been outside the Manor, she remembered the way fairly well, and she only had to stop and look at her notes once in the journey. Once she reached the final few chimes, the going was easy. Infinity Manor appeared in front of her like a looming embodiment of everything that she was coming to hate about the Spiritist who'd cursed her. Pretty, mysterious, and unmoving. Imposing, even, in a softly shabby way. She remembered Rostam's words, that the house was alive, and wondered how.
However, she wasn't there to theorise. Now was the time for action, not daydreaming. She'd done enough of that already the past few bells. She strode up to the boundary that fenced the building off from the rest of Lhavit, and pushed open the gate. She took a deep breath, and pushed forwards.
As she walked up the smooth cobbled path, she slowed as she composed herself. As best she could, she eased the lines from her forehead and tamed the pissed-off look down to something a little softer. She would be contrite... mixed with a little bit of mystery. Never mind the dark circles under her eyes, or the frazzled knots in her long ashy hair, or indeed her scruffy boots and overall dishevelled appearance.
There was a small set of stairs in front of her, and she calmly walked up them, thinking about the living nature of the house and how that might manifest. The stairs led up to a neat balcony that hugged the curved exterior walls. The front door was right there. Her eyes were drawn to two plaques placed on the door. She read them both, and narrowed her eyes, before raising her head to look around warily. Ghosts. Plural. How many did this woman have?
There was a handily-presented okomo-shaped door knocker, and so Ennisa steeled herself and knocked. Rat-tat-tat. Three firm, sharp knocks. She waited for Madeira, or someone, to open the door.
Ennisa had been stewing over her ploy all night, and now that the dawn rest was over, she figured there was no time like the present to confront the Spiritist. She gently pushed herself from the wall where she had been leaning, looking out of the window, and scooped her bag from the floor. She shoved her notebook inside and strapped her dagger to her waist like she always did. "Come along, dear, we're off to see your mistress!" The grin she showed Emma lasted for less than a tick before her features dropped back to the sarcastic and annoyed expression she had been wearing most of the night, and she pushed the door open with an almighty heave. Petch the neighbours.
She strode down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. It was in this same hurried, oblivious manner that she made her way to Infinity Manor. It was another beautiful day, but she was so petching tired that she couldn't appreciate the glory as Syna's rays cast beams of honeyed light across the softly scudding skies. She was on a mission, and that mission was the pursuit of sleep. She would get her sleep, one way or another.
As she had only recently been outside the Manor, she remembered the way fairly well, and she only had to stop and look at her notes once in the journey. Once she reached the final few chimes, the going was easy. Infinity Manor appeared in front of her like a looming embodiment of everything that she was coming to hate about the Spiritist who'd cursed her. Pretty, mysterious, and unmoving. Imposing, even, in a softly shabby way. She remembered Rostam's words, that the house was alive, and wondered how.
However, she wasn't there to theorise. Now was the time for action, not daydreaming. She'd done enough of that already the past few bells. She strode up to the boundary that fenced the building off from the rest of Lhavit, and pushed open the gate. She took a deep breath, and pushed forwards.
As she walked up the smooth cobbled path, she slowed as she composed herself. As best she could, she eased the lines from her forehead and tamed the pissed-off look down to something a little softer. She would be contrite... mixed with a little bit of mystery. Never mind the dark circles under her eyes, or the frazzled knots in her long ashy hair, or indeed her scruffy boots and overall dishevelled appearance.
There was a small set of stairs in front of her, and she calmly walked up them, thinking about the living nature of the house and how that might manifest. The stairs led up to a neat balcony that hugged the curved exterior walls. The front door was right there. Her eyes were drawn to two plaques placed on the door. She read them both, and narrowed her eyes, before raising her head to look around warily. Ghosts. Plural. How many did this woman have?
There was a handily-presented okomo-shaped door knocker, and so Ennisa steeled herself and knocked. Rat-tat-tat. Three firm, sharp knocks. She waited for Madeira, or someone, to open the door.