ELIZABETH MARCH
QUEEN OF THE CORTEZ

SCATHACH
WITCH OF THE WOOD

STEFANI BIANCHI
STARLET OF ROANOKE

LOVED & BROUGHT TO LIFE BY MANON

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warblest.

One by one, the rest of his choir have VANISHED. A dozen footfalls of butter-soft leather shoes, the ambient chattering of bright, boyish voices, the low hum of music beneath one collective breath — have fallen silent. Their rooms are empty: luggage still in their suitcases, beds still pristine, the warm spice of cologne still lingering — but heavier still, is the reek of ROT. 

The hotel seems ancient, forgotten from a bygone era, although nothing so blatant as sugar cobwebs at autumn or thick, cotton-candy clouds of gray dust, but — there’s nothing modern, as if he’s stepped into the ghost of a past decade. Tinny jazz plays from upstairs, the needle skipping on vinyl, matching Kurt’s HEART, faltering in his chest, his fingers trembling, knees threatening to buckle

The maid, steaming stained sheets ( dark with what he desperately hopes isn’t waste ) in the corridor, the dour clerk at the front desk — no one has seen the male choir. He catches glimpses of a pale figure, from beneath his dark lashes — just a nightmarish trick of his imagination, until — it comes closer, a DRILL between its legs, two of his cardigan buttons are torn from their stitching, and the figment is suddenly REAL.

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Kurt runs, almost stumbling down the stairway, one ankle twisted in the wrong direction, his ribs aching, his blue gaze stinging with salt. ( He wishes Blaine would appear, and lace their fingers together, and tenderly chide him for being scared of creaking floors and mere shadows. ) There’s a woman seated at the bar, regal and accompanied by a maroon-tinted glass, and — he can’t leave her with that man ( or monster ) and he hesitates, wordless and rose-cheeked and tear-stained, to try to warn her. 

                    ❝ — S - someone — someone is AFTER me ! And — and everyone is — ❞ But he can hardly speak, muted by terror. 

the pain of the young man’s heart draws her in quickly, but the yelling and struggling that leads her to him. or rather, him to her. the countess isn’t necessarily a fan of seeing another in pain, especially when said pain is uncalled for, but she isn’t in control of what happens in this hotel; he is. she’s sitting when the male initially enters the area of the blue parrot lounge, but is standing not a second later. he’s drawing attention to himself, drawing attention from all of the guests in the area, and the countess can’t have that. even if she cares to help him. nothing will hurt him with so many people around, so his fear is misplaced in the moment.

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quiet. get control of yourself. ❜   she’ll say once she’s at his side, carefully crouching down in her ( luckily ) flowing gown with a hand at his back.   ❛ i want you to take a deep breath and stand up. can you do that? ❜

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