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What does the fox say? This fox plans to be verbose. Go Team Florent! GoT Challenge stuff. |
| I have, unfortunately, been an inside-the-castle-behind -the -screens scenes observer for near most of my fifteen years. As such I have formed opinions soaked in my own sweat and tears. The privileged sort I serve begrudgingly and with many a muttered curse, remain oblivious to their excesses. They choose to pretend I do not exist. They willfully look through, or over me. How many times have the senior castle staff counselled me to hold my tongue? You're a lucky lass. Many would give their teeth to be here. You just as easily could have been a scullery maid. Who ever asked me what I wanted? Scrubbing pots would be a sight more honest and peaceful. I'm at the beck and call of the ladies. Cinch my corset, tighter, tighter you stupid girl. Fetch my stockings. Brush my hair and mind you don't pull. Have you fetched my darning? Who taught you to mend? You're clumsy. You're a lout. You're a louse. Empty my chamber pot! Did you tear my gown? You move like a lumbering cow. They dismiss with a wave of a hand, or a slight nod. If only the desirable bachelors could hear these empty-headed fools tittering and gossiping. I am nothing if not inventive. All my life I've been dismissed and ignored, but I have kept my eyes open and my ears tuned to all that transpires. All that's required to wield and execute a spell is a working memory and enunciation. Garbled mumbles play havoc with outcomes. Someone should shed light, or amplification upon this fragile world. I am that someone. I've absorbed an incantation, or two waiting to be picked up in the dusty, musty back corridors. Thanks to witchcraft and ingenuity I've created a device that seeks out the true, unspoken thoughts trapped in the mind of the shallow, the petty, the self-absorbed. It may resemble a hair comb, a gilded clip, but it is so much more. Cradled in the hair it broadcasts the wearer's true intentions free of deceit and machinations. My invention has certainly spiced up the endless dinner soirees and countless dances serving as meet and greet matchmaking. These mind blurts are positively wicked. Lady Penelope resembles a wrinkled, dusty crow. Who dresses her? I cannot believe Sir Arthur crammed himself into those breeches. I've seen sausages more appealing. Cynthia can't really think she's a catch. That nose of hers is more of a beak and her laugh. Cackle much? She'll need every penny of Daddy's money to snag a suitor. What was Lady Evelyn thinking, or is that drinking? She's far too old for flounces. I suppose I enjoyed the resultant name-calling, tears, foot-stomping, perspiring visages, clumsy pushing, stuttering back-pedaling and vows of dire retributions. The honesty ravaged its hosts. (461 words) |
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