shelley_winters

As she releases the weaves holding her portal together, Lanfear wonders idly if perhaps putting the child to sleep might not have been an idea. Not that it matters either way, the girl is utterly helpless. Bound and gagged by flows of air in an intricate weave that tightens the harder she struggles, she could as well fly unaided as escape. Her expression tightens in minor disgust as she regards the girl's face, streaming with tears. She wouldn't have to put up with that with her sleeping, but fear is a useful tool in questioning.

The Chosen waves an irritable hand, and Shelley blinks violently as tears dry rapidly off her face. Vision unblurred, she can see the room they are in, reasonably large and mostly composed of white stone. She stumbles as the weave holding her drop her the little way to the floor, but manages to stay upright as the beautiful darkhaired woman sits down elegantly on the one piece of furniture in the room - a small couch of ivory velvet - and watches her as if she is some kind of interesting but slightly unpleasant small animal.

Gulping back another sob, Shelley steps back -- and meets an invisible but solid wall of air. Outstretched hands find one either side of her as well, and her eyes come reluctantly back to Lanfear's.

The woman tilts her head. "You should really calm down, you know. Hysterics will do nothing."

Shelley glares hate, tears still welling. "Can hardly stop, you killed him!"

Just a baby cat, and she crushed him as if he could even have done anything.

Lanfear eyes the girl in slight disgust. Stolen away by one of the Chosen and the child was hung up on the demise of one tiny creature? Evidently Ishamael had taken a lover as crazed as himself.

"Possibly you should concern yourself with talking to me, Lady Selae - or Lady Shelley, whichever you go by."

Dark eyes regard the child, who remains silent. Shelley swallows hard. What does she want her to say?

"Tell me about Ishamael, Shelley. Anything that comes to mind - what is he working on at the moment, for a start?"

There a few reasons she can't answer that, unfortunately - ultimately, she doesn't know, but there is also an unpleasant tightening sensation prickling over her skin, starting from the mark on her left hand. Oh dear.

"...I don't know."

"Really?"

A short, thin weave of air designed to bruise and just scuff the skin, and the girl gasps in shock under the invisible blow across her lower back, just about managing to remain upright. Dark eyes narrow critically. Little real pain tolerance, though she tries not to show it. Breaking the girl will be easy, if it comes to that.

"You understand I do not have a lot of time," the Chosen continues, as the girl before her tries to stay still, "Cooperation is therefore in your best interest."

Another blow, this time lighter, but with a thinner weave that slices cloth and skin alike. Shelley twists as spots of blood slowly begin to bloom along the shallow scrape. Oh, that hurts, though the immediate pain fades to a throbbing after a few moments, and she swallows, pale.

Lanfear smiles warmly, beautifully.

"Tell me something you think I will find useful."

Which of course, means that Shelley can do nothing of the sort. Her skin is one all-over prickle as she searches frantically for something she can say to placate the other woman that won't break her oath.

In the silence, Lanfear's expression slowly hardens. Bonds of air tighten around the girl's wrists, hauling her up off the floor. Bare feet kick uselessly and Shelley's teeth clench at the stretching feel of being suspended. A short, sharp pain in her stomach - her thigh - her foot - her right arm, and blood slowly begins to trickle from small, throbbing wounds. It takes all her willpower not to sob.

"Speak to me, girl."

But no matter how she tries, she cannot make herself answer.

Oh, god. Oh, god...

[OOC: Directly after this.]

It's a jolt, waking so suddenly. She stares at the shadowy ceiling, damp with sweat and shaking. She remembers... An all-too familiar nightmare which changed into a very unfamiliar dream where she and Ishamael had been children - and she couldn't do anything.

In dreams, anything's normal, but she could think, but her dream-body didn't obey the least thing she tried to do. It's still dark outside. The girl sits up, rubbing her head. That wasn't like anything, and she never dreams like that, and it makes no sense...

The dress had taken ages to get off. Loira was asleep by the time they arrived - or probably was - and Shelley would have felt guilty calling for her. The makeup had taken a good while to remove, too - even now she's not certain that faint smudges just under her eyes do not still remain - her lips are definitely still darker than normal.

Sitting crosslegged on her bed, she drags the brush through her hair again, slowly, enjoying the feel of having it loose after keeping it up so long. The thin white linen of her nightdress feels nice, too, loose and cool after the slightly restricting dress.

That's over with, then. Terrifying and humiliating and uncomfortable, but done with.

Shelley restrains herself from sticking her tongue out as Ishamael and Lanfear go off - to plot something horrible, no doubt. Idly she imagines the reactions. Incredulous stares, followed by everyone pretending they saw nothing, most likely. Followed by a furious lecture later on...

She swallows, pulling her hands back down from where she had been nervously playing with the ter'angreal around her neck. How she had managed to forget about the thing, she has no idea.

This place is crowded, and frightening, and full of people she hates, and she wants to go home.

The dances are slow, the music subtle and strangely hypnotic. Barely dressed dancers flow elegantly through complex dance steps, alone and with one another, while guests dance in pairs, resplendent in rich costumes, but no match for grace.

To escape the world I gotta enjoy this simple dance

Hand in hand, face to face, those not talking or watching each other by the sides are dancing. But eyes flicker a little too keenly, a little too aware despite the abundance of expensive wine being passed about by blank-faced, statuesque ornamental slaves. This is business, for most, elaborately disguised as pleasure.

And it seemed that everything was on my side

(blood on my side)

The Forsaken create little clearings in the crowd as respectful and fearful Darkfriends keep a careful distance between themselves and their Masters and Mistresses, and it remains that way as Graendal leads Shelley by the hand to the centre of the floor.

Look who took you under
With seven inches in
Blood is on the dance floor
Blood is on the knife

Shelley idly flicks through the pages of the book, not really reading. The seamstress is due to arrive, and Loira had left to escort her up when she did.

She hopes it's a she.

Not that she can do much about it now, short of pitching a fit, which she would never do anyway because it might get Loira in trouble. Never mind that the woman must be a darkfriend to work for Ishamael, she still doesn't want her maid punished for her 'misbehaviour.' The girl sighs, and closes the book.

Footsteps.

[OOC: Directly after this demonstration of Ishamael's power.]

The silence is almost shocking as they vanish from the centre of the storm. The air against her soaking, icy cold skin feels so warm, and she can tell from the slight impact as he steps that they are on solid ground now. Light makes her screw up her eyes, but oh, it's a relief.

Her hands release their tight grip on his robe, and she slides her arms from around his neck pointedly. She won't play. He's mad, and he could hurt her on a whim, and will - she should get out of here.

"P-put me down, please."

It is so hot, even in the shade, Shelley thinks fretfully. Today there isn't even a breeze to cool it down a little as she sits outside the porch. She had thought about going down to the beach, but there is only unrelenting sun there, and no trees near enough to sit underneath.

The girl stares at nothing in particular, battling with her irritation at looking forward to going back to the estate. She wants to go home, to ther bar, not back there! But the few days here alone with Ishamael have really begun to wear on her.

She sighs.

Shelley kicks her feet aimlessly, sitting on the edge of one of the chairs in Ishamael's sitting room. The Restorer had moved him to his chambers, and now she just had to wait.

She should probably think about what to do if he dies. Staying in the house would be silly - she would be dead in a day - but leaving would also be tricky. Oh, god.

No. He'll recover. He took the drug Vashti found, he drank plenty of water, and the woman in the other room seemed competent. Unless she had reasons of her own to want him dead, in which case-

Oh, shut up, Shelley.

And Shelley doesn't know where to go, or what to do.

He went into the house after storming off like he has the right to be angry after-

After he kissed her.

Oh God. Okay. Nothing he hadn't done before, if more... scary.

She sighs, dropping her forehead down onto drawn-up knees. She has moved from where they were before but remained in the garden. Ishamael went inside. Staying away seemed the thing to do.

She wants to go home. But it's only been a few days since she came back, and with him angry...

She doesn't know what to do.