Now, he didn’t normally listen to gossip, but there were whispers about her. He knew the very bare minimum about her. According to a few other townies, she had a reputation for not being the kindest person around. He also knew that she lived in a beautiful home which likely made her well-off. Probably too well off to actually want to talk to someone like him. Still Milo thought it was best to be polite with her. His cheeks heated up and he cleared his throat. “I’m sure you have enough storage in that house of yours not to need a unit,” He speculated, keeping his voice soft as he did. “What are you doing down here?”
ah — to look at him again, she realised she remembered this one, as he featured ( perhaps the fastest to earn their place there; one would think he’d be more careful, in a town where fae were known to walk ) on the list. ‘the list’ being comprised of people she could exert influence over, were she so inclined to do so.
he had heard correctly: rory was far from the kindest soul barton hollow had to offer, and she was very well off indeed.
when she exerted the influence she had earned, it was usually in little ways, pulling on strings barely noticeable, like when she weaved assertiveness into her response to his question, “don’t worry about it.”
Anastasia sat at her desk working on her paper when she heard it. The sound of the doggy door in the kitchen opening up. “oh no. MASON!” she called springing up out of her seat and sprinting to the door. Sure enough she had forgotten to lock it. This was a bad idea, she knew that. But she couldn’t leave him out there, not on a wolf night.
Anya undid all the locks her father installed and opened the door, running out the yard and into the woods. “MASON! Mason!” she whisper yelled eyes having trouble adjusting to the dark. She caught sight of him and sighed in relief quickly grabbing his collar. A low growl escaped the pitbull’s throat and a crack of a stick came from behind her and she froze, slowly turning to see what was behind her.
with the working day conquered, lorelei cavendish — not perturbed in the slightest by the glowing full moon, nor by the growl or howl of the wolves beyond her window — had no intention of leaving her perfect sanctuary that night; her tea steaming and curling smoke up toward the ceiling, her ( annotated ) book open on her knees, dressed comfortably, it was a haven such that nothing — not even the comforting arms of the darkness — could tempt the fae out of doors.
( nothing (pronoun) — nothing; no single thing. with the exclusion of anya grayson stumbling through the dark after her dog, for example. when one was running in desperation toward and through the wood, you could go further than you ever intended to. )
“if she is enough of an idiot to go out into the forests on the night of the full moon, she can shoulder the conseq—”
she didn’t, however, even finish the sentence before she had risen to her feet and pushed herself off the wall, some inner part of herself — ignored, and yet known innately — cringing at this implied and demonstrated sentiment.
perhaps this sentiment was because she owed it to the girl; few had a better concept of debt than the fae, and lorelei had relieved anya of one parent already. she wouldn’t mind getting to relieve barton hollow of theodore — who she ( for personal amusement ) called ‘teddy,’ because she found him and his little schoolboy hobby ( like being a child, and playing cops and robbers, or ghostbusters ) no more threatening than one — either; it was also indelibly clear that anya would never forgive her if she did and was found out, but she’d cross forward-slash burn that bridge when she got to it.
in the night, she was far more powerful; there was more to work with, for a darkness fae. the quote rung true: the shadows betray you because they serve me. appearing next to anya, she locked eyes with the wolf, knowing fully that it could sense her for what she was.
and when she spoke it was not so much a request or a suggestion, as much as an out and out command. “take the dog and run.”
One of the best things about being your own lab rat was that you didn’t need to have conversations with anyone else about what you were doing. His whole process was awkward enough as it was and the idea of dealing with anyone else during it made his stomach turn. That was why he immediately tensed up when he noticed someone nearby to him. Watching him as he set up a camera high up on the inside of his storage unit. “I was just-” He stammered out awkwardly, climbing down the small step ladder before gesturing up towards his camera. “You can never be too careful about security…”
to instil nerves. to flip the stomach akin to a roller-coaster with her mere presence in a room; such were the seemingly mundane occurrences that made lorelei’s lengthy life worth enduring day upon day. everyone’s tell was different. on this occasion, the muscles tensed, sentences stammered and left unfinished with a haphazard excuse; she chuckled, low in her throat and amused. “hmm, yes — that’s certainly what it looks like.”
“oh everything and nothing. sometimes my head feel so full of things, i can hardly keep it straight ! One day it might explode.” she giggled, fidgeting with her hands as she spoke to her. “Right now it’s if we have any new admits today at the clinic, what to make for dinner, and the lyrics to don’t worry be happy.” she half joked. “May I ask you something personal Professor?”
lorelei’s head tilted, dark eyes filled with a familiar bedfellow: fascination. to ascribe deeper meaning to the more frivolous was — while irrational — often the sole way to survive conversation; some kind of harmless gratification, that played into the brand of arrogance that came when you were possessed almost entirely by your own intelligence.
“i think that’s the nature of what it is to exist,” she said, a thoughtful and distant smile curling over her lips. her fingertips secured around the countertop, a grounding in reality: for tiresome though it was to exist within it, she knew it was a fate to which all were condemned. “to have one’s own private and personal chaos, so vigorous and alive we feel as though our bodies are too fragile, and could not possibly contain it; and what we attach to, the things that define that chaos, speaks to who we are as beings.”
the question, of course, instilled slight tension, when the tone turned from joking ( which was only vaguely irritating ) to more serious ( which bridged on intrusive. ) yet she maintained her air of calm, meticulous as ever. “certainly you can ask, and we shall see if i am inclined to answer.”
Dakota walked along the empty sidewalk in the dark, her grip tight around her keys as she cautiously walked along the deserted street towards home. Lately, she’d been avoiding walking home after one of her late shifts at Nightshade, but when she’d come out of work after everyone else, her car wouldn’t start, and despite her better judgement, she’d decided to leg it. Turning a corner down a street a few blocks from her home, she was grateful for her heightened senses as she felt the presence of another on the otherwise deserted street. Hesitating, she scanned the street, suddenly feeling uneasy.
to fear the night — in the labyrinthine mind of lorelei cavendish, so perfectly attuned to the darkness — was folly; she had never questioned judgement wandering through the streets, though she had always been curious of those who called out. drew attention, and her curiosity, which begged the question: was it safer to have the darkness fae’s interest, or not?
( history taught that to be interesting was safer, and yet it left existences on the edge of a knife, as the most deadly thing was to have lorelei cavendish’s interest and then lose it. )
she tilted her head, cigarette in her fingers. “well, that quite depends: who’s asking?”
“Be a lifeguard, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Yeah, nobody says a thing about the chlorine killing your hair though, huh?” Kendra scoffed, fixing her hair in the mirror before she turned towards Lorelai. “What have you been up to, anyways? I’ve had entirely too much of humans this week” the younger complained with a roll of her eyes. She had picked up a few overtime shifts in the hopes of causing some mischief but the turnover had been frankly rather disappointing.
“people rarely do give much time to the drawbacks,” rory hummed, hands rested against her sides, tapping her fingertips idly against the material of her trousers, gaze casting over her shoulder at those who remained. “it’d be inefficient, for a start: it’d reduce the amount of interest — and they’re desperate: that’s a theme amongst humans. short-lived, and more limpet than fae in all manners except the physical.”
the latter question brought a slight smile to her lips, hands leaving her sides to clasp in the middle.
“this week? teaching, as per always; translating virginia woolf’s letters to vita sackville west into several languages, steadily decimating a man’s self-esteem. and seeking instant gratification on the burberry website because i genuinely deserve to treat myself for managing not to resort to killing someone out of pity for them after they told me they ate at pret a manger four times in a row.”
When Freya spotted Rory out of the corner of her eye a slow smirk spread across her lips. Her partner in crime appeared at the most opportune time. She drummed her fingers again more frost covering the bartop. Freya kept her eyes on the man now concerned with her friend, their predatory eyes on him. “I doubt he knows what an apology is.” she countered. “Besides, I’m not wearing an apron, do I look like the hired help around here?” She clicked her tongue. Technically she was, but Freya never saw herself as that. She was the event planner, she hosted extravagant parties that her creative mind dreamt up and brought to life. She was larger than life, at least she thought so.
“Should we teach him a lesson?” Probably not the best thing to do, but she had already been annoyed by her phone call and now this rude man and a man he seemed to be, human, her nose scrunched up at the thought.
rory did pride herself on her ability to make an entrance — at the perfect time, at the crescendo — to escalate a moment beyond the highest it was thought that it could go; to watch that concern ignite, see it grow all the more brilliant and wavering within the eyes as they steadily realised what force had been stirred. not something she got to enjoy on the clock, of course ( it didn’t fall under ‘professionalism’ ) but off of it, she could be allowed to indulge in the most innocent of her vices.
frost continued to spread over the bartop, climbing abandoned empty glasses and creeping over the sides. she tilted her head at the man, “you do know that bartenders tend to be on the other side, yes?”
larger than life was a word she’d certainly use for freya. it came out in bursts of brilliance, but was always there, simply manifested in the parties she threw; many saw only the bigger picture, of course, but rory’s mind was the sort to find the intricacies and enjoy them. such an art was not the same as the ‘hired help,’ and anyone who could not see the world of difference between the two needed, simply, to look again.
probably not the best thing to do, no, but sometimes — just sometimes! — it felt good to do it anyway. “that depends: what do you have in mind,” she retracted her hand from the man’s shoulder and smoothed over the shirt where she’d crinkled it. “and is he worth the time?”
For awhile Anya had just stood their admiring the woman. She was so…ethereal but at the same time intimating. Like holding a petal full of poison. Anastasia wished she could be that breathtaking. But that kind of aura was never one to be intertwined with her. “Hello Professor.” she stammered out when she was finally acknowledged. “sorry I was just lost in thought…” she muttered walking closer. “I came to turn in that make up paper you let me do. Thank you so much for that by the way. I really think you’ll like this one. Or rather..I hope you do.” she rambled on, a heart warming smile on her face.
( well, don’t say any of that out loud: rory didn’t need any addition to her existing ego. )
like holding a petal full of poison. ah, if only the sheriff’s daughter could know how right she was, how tantalisingly close to the truth of who lorelei cavendish truly was; yet, for now, she would just enjoy that typical awe-struck admiration. that aura wouldn’t fit anya grayson, no, but surely a little more steel about her couldn’t be a bad thing. if rory were the sort of woman to pity ( she certainly wasn’t ) then perhaps she’d feel sorry for someone so gentle, so easily made to quail.
“well, you’re quite welcome,” she hummed, curious as to what would have to reside in someone’s heart to produce a smile like that; at least, a genuine one. lying was easy. “we can but hope and see; what on earth could be on your mind to have you caught up so far away?”
far away in a figurative sense, of course, much like one might say ‘away with the fairies.’
“ That depends, “ a smirk graced his lips. “ You wouldn’t happen to have an extra cigarette for me would you.”
Syphon didn’t make it a habit of smoking not, not that it would have a negative effect on him one way or the other. He just liked how it looked, the way the smoke drifted out through the orifice. The scent of tobacco was oddly satisfying to him. Most fascinating was the fire it held. The heat the burned the paper and dried leaves. The orange, reddish tinge when you breathed it in. There was little about this place that he liked with the exception of fire. It reminded him of home. Where they were all meant to be, not mingling with mortals and lesser creatures. Not when he and his ilk were worshipped like gods among the mortals.
Now he was missing home, frowning. He caught sight of the picture in her hand. “Why do you have a picture of Dorian Grey?Where you his patron?” Though they would share drinks together there was so much about Lorelei he didn’t know. He found her fascinating though he was sure she viewed him as a mild annoyance - perhaps more so now. No matter, it didn’t dampen his own curiosity.
lorelei cavendish was, in general, not a woman generally inclined to share; not that this fact would surprise anyone who knew rory well. smoking was a vice she particularly enjoyed, for the air that it gave one to seemingly dance with death, which was all the more delicious when the risk was never truly there for her. there was no dance, but people perceived that there was, and when you studied the written word as intimately as she had you learned to have a certain appreciation for how you were seen from the outside.
others’ view of you was essentially third person limited — and certainly there was a relief for rory that it was not third person omniscient; the thought of anyone knowing so much about her was entirely frightening — and you could be a hundred different versions of you to one hundred different people, each their own distance from the real you. almost everyone was a mild annoyance to her, so it certainly wasn’t something to be taken personally. she viewed syphon as less, in fact, of an annoyance than the rest of them, except, of course, for freya. she handed him a cigarette without speaking, the silence the time it took to decide what mood she would be in for the evening.
she chuckled. “dorian gray is, regretfully, wholly fictional — though if he were real, i’d certainly be intrigued to keep his company.”
Freya angrily tapped on her phone. She wanted acrobatic dancers for the club and now their manager was giving her the runaround and upping the price, a fatal mistake on their part. The bartop she drummed her nails on with her free hand began to frost. She turned around shaking her head at the person next to her. “I’m not the bartender.” she snapped letting out a frustrated sigh.
— when altercation struck, it never took lorelei long to come out of the woodwork; gliding from the shadows in the club’s corner, a laugh ringing out from her lips as she appeared on the opposite side of freya’s... unwelcome guest. delighting in watching how the stranger ( not acquainted with her particular airs and graces ) shifted beneath the gaze she turned on them, the grin she gave having a distinct sharpened edge. if it were anyone else, rory would have let the poor man be. she wouldn’t so much have batted an eyelid as to care for such an insignificance.
but it was freya, and he seemed to ignite acute irritation in the younger faerie, so it seemed only fair — in the spirit of eye for an eye, of course — to make him squirm. she rested her hand on his shoulder. “so rude of him, yet he doesn’t have the respect to introduce himself and apologise for his slight,” lorelei hummed in feigned disappointment, “says a frightful amount of how he treats people in the service industry.”
( did she care, in reality, for how he treated bartenders and people of the same ilk? of course not; it was merely amusing to see cheeks flush in embarrassment. )
— 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 could forge a more blissful existence ( most complete, most filling to the greedy void within lorelei cavendish; most filling, for it would never be full, always gnawing, always hungry ) than her favoured position? poised with a cigarette between her fingers, book tucked in her bag with its copiously written notes; the myriad thoughts of a woman who both read and wrote and could thus fully enjoy from both sides.
( the colours and types of the ink were the best indicator of time’s passage. often events she had witnessed would tint her view of the literature in a slightly different way, but no vision of the written word was to be scoffed at if it could be substantiated with feeling. that was what many lacked that led to her dismissing many as ‘moronic’ — the depth of appreciation and feeling for the ways of wordsmiths that she herself possessed, which she’d never learned not to expect from everyone else. )
somewhere between putting out the cigarette and taking out the picture of dorian gray, she raised an eyebrow: “can I help you?”
At a glance SHE may look like KEIRA KNIGHTLEY, but in reality they’re just UNKNOWN year old LORELEI CAVENDISH, a FAERIE here in Barton Hallow. They are a COURT MEMBER in the DARKNESS SECTOR. They work as a CLASSICS/LITERATURE PROFESSOR here in town and are known for being ERUDITE and INTIMIDATING. I’d watch my back if I were you.
BASICS
Full Name: Lorelei Selene Cavendish
Nicknames / Monikers: Rory, Lori (first name) + Cel, Lena (given name)
Current Titles: Faerie Court Member (darkness sector) & senior lecturer in Classics & Literature at Hollow College
Former Titles: Duchess of Devonshire (circa 18th century) & lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth of York (c. late 15th century to early 16th century) amongst others; she’s been around an incredibly long time, to say the least.
Gender & Pronouns: cis female & she/her
Date of Birth: 31st October, unknown year
Place of Birth: Believed to be what is modern-day Norfolk, England.
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Sexual Orientation: Pansexual ( with a preference for women )
Romantic Orientation: Panromantic
APPEARANCE
Faceclaim: Keira Knightley
Height: 5 ft 7 in (170cm) in human form.
Eye Colour: Brown & “deep-set”
Favoured Expression: Rory calls it “neutral,” others would almost certainly call it “resting bitch face.”
Accent: Decidedly high-society, “received-pronunciation” or ‘stereotypical’ English. She can, however, still do a very good imitation of the Essex accent, as she keeps going back to Colchester, a place with... interesting memories for her.
Clothing Style: Increasingly variant and mood-dependent, swinging between formal and comfortable at her own whim.
TRIVIA
MBTI Type: ENTJ-A
Hogwarts House: Slytherin
Theme Song: Which Witch by Florence + The Machine
Favourite Movie: Dead Poets Society
Preferred Weather: The cool dampness of approaching rain, just before dawn, when the world is perfectly silent and dark; the sun has not come yet, and her strength is at its finest. “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
Favourite Food: In Rory’s opinion ( alternatively known as the right opinion, as she has been known to say ) you just can’t beat a medium-rare ribeye steak.
Favourite Drink: A perfectly paired wine with the above steak. Existence & time-related monetary inflation has made her rich enough to be a “connoisseur,” though she doesn’t necessarily flaunt this all of the time. It can, however, be a quite excellent card to have in her hand when it comes to deal-making.
Favourite Book: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
BIOGRAPHY
Why is Dr. Lorelei Cavendish ( doctorate in classics and literature from Girton College, Cambridge ) so knowledgeable in her field? Well, she crossed paths with a great many of the writers and scholars discussed.
The house you drive by and absently say to your companion, “if I had the money, I’d live there?” She lives in that house. It’s the envy of the town and she wouldn’t take any less. It’s just worthy of her and her first edition books.
Don’t ask her how old she is; she won’t tell you. It’s not like she can: she doesn’t remember when or where she was born herself, which is naught but an unfortunate side-effect of time stretching out unerringly behind you. She has a tight connection to the places she does remember; times she’s dabbled in English nobility, years she’s spent living in Colchester, for example. If she had to give herself an identity based on what she does know of herself, she’d say she was English.
She sounds it, after all.
Her head is so loud, the sound of her own heart and her own thoughts so deafening that it takes effort to place herself in the world.
“Lorelei Cavendish” is not her birth name, and thusly not her real name. Giving her real name to people decreases her power over them: Rory knows this, and she’s not “actually that stupid.” If she believes you are stupid, don’t take it personally — or do, she doesn’t much care — her threshold to consider people learned and intelligent is about as high as the Empire State, at least.
Rory came across Barton Hollow quite by accident, and the irresistible allure of a fresh civilisation appealed to her. New things tend to be the most mould-able, where the traditional ( from whence she came ) are, in her experience, staunch in their ways. So if — from that alone — you’ve come to the conclusion that Lorelei Cavendish is a cunning and silver-tongued piece of work driven by her own machinations: you’re absolutely right.
( She has always picked her occupations to gain power over people: occupations in which people would thoughtlessly break rule number one: never give your name to the Fae. Her position as a teacher, in which students readily give their names, is no exception. )
CONNECTIONS
Best Friend (taken by @freya-frost): The only person in the world Rory wouldn’t stab in the back for her own ends, and likewise the only person she has told her true name. If the darkness faerie’s dreams come to life, then this muse definitely stands to benefit handsomely as her right hand.
Best Enemy: Okay, so think the Doctor and the Master from Doctor Who. Rory is the Master. They were best friends, once, but it went sour once this character worked out the sort of person Rory really was. ‘Sour’ is loose, because this muse is really hopeful of remedying her. It won’t work.
Victims: People she’s tricked and now holds... some degree of influence over. We can plot this out more ( the exact degree ) if you’re interested in it.
Unrequited Love: Someone who has a crush on Rory, but it’s like she doesn’t see them. She does, but she prefers to ignore them apart from the satisfaction they bring to her... considerable ego. She’ll give them brief moments of attention when she wants to feel a little ego boost.
Requited Love: Open to anyone, but she leans to women. I’d love an angsty element. I apologise that I’m only able to express things through song, but something like Visions of Gideon by Sufjan Stevens, or Amsterdam by Daughter, because real love hurts and she needs to feel something.
Reluctant Ward: A muse who is lost, and so Rory’s reluctantly taken them under her wing. Who knows how they’ve wormed their way into her cold, dead, heart — but they’re there now, and there’s nothing she can do about it.
Mentee: Someone with an intense interest in classics and/or literature who she’s taken an interest in.
Burgundian Wine Club aka Drinking Buddy: Self-explanatory, I think. Everyone needs their vices, right?
The Icarus Union: Think of it as a dark-academia aligned grouping that meets in an abandoned building. It’s almost a cult but not quite. It feeds into Rory’s desire for power: to have begun this herself. They are very much like The Secret History by Donna Tartt: wishful for all things grand and beautiful, drinking and wistfully smoking and staring out of windows. Writing their feelings and reading what truly touches their souls. And most of all, hungering for all things beautiful: and beauty is terror, and gifts come with their due prices.
Ex-Lovers: She’s certainly had them.
Cavendish Family: Siblings, half-siblings, cousins, heck even a child or two, or a grandchild. I’m down for whatever.
You don’t know that. I mean, he just keeps repeating the lie. Just because you’re the Prime Minister, it doesn’t mean you get to make up your own facts. — Official Secrets (2019)
