New to this whole dollish thing, but most people find truth if they spend the time to look for it. Come visit my court, won't you? There's truths to reveal within you too.
Hello, and welcome to my court. You may call me Lady Feather as we get to know each other. Other names are earned and granted as a token of respect. Though it may not be large, this place is my home, and I hope that it may be comfortable for the duration of your stay - no matter if that is a day, a few weeks, or an indefinite number of years.
This place is mostly filled with various works on Empty Spaces and related subjects: Dolls, Ladies, Witches, Angels, and so on. At times, this will also include Mechs, Pilots, and similar. I will frequently post portions of larger books that focus on these various subjects in the hopes that these pieces help the many people who interact with Empty Spaces in some form or fashion, but my word is only law here within my court, not an inch further. Feel free to share these writings with others, to add your own commentary, or simply indicate that you liked what you read. My writing can be found under the Sable Quill tag.
Please, don't be shy! Feel free to introduce yourself. My wings may give me a large silhouette, but I promise I do not bite. Visitors, on the other hand, are more than welcome to bite should their appetite or thirst get the better of them. It is only right that a Lady takes care of her guests, after all.
In this court, many broken things have found shelter. We are happy to accept the wounded, the needy, the ailing, the unwell. It brings us joy to tend to them and show them the care that they need in order to blossom and grow. This is never done out of an expectation that these many souls and things will some day repay the acts of kindness that helped them to recover - it is done because it is the right thing to do per the mandate that I carry within my breast, etched in soul-flame and hallowed purpose. It is done because it brings me joy to help others. It is done because I desire to do so.
Another has declared that this is a mistake, that to care for those who cannot care for themselves is a waste of time and resources. They declare that fragility is a choice, or worse still, a weapon used against others to force them to render aid out of sympathy.
Let this Lady speak with utmost clarity: they are wrong, and their declarations will hurt those most in need of help.
This court will never abandon those in need, nor will we forsake those that ask our help. We reject the poisonous words that seek to shame the delicate and fragile for their nature. It is this Lady's view that it is better to help everyone who says they are in need, even if some of those helped may not have 'needed' the help.
"To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom—it is indolence." A great sage once said this, and this Lady believe that these are words to live by.
The doll is kept wound by an ingenious mechanism; a halo. When properly attached to the mainspring and given something to worry about or feel guilty for, the halo will attempt to spin, cranking the mainspring up and giving the doll motion. The doll is drawn to service, but the beauty of this is that the halo cannot be satisfied. At the completion of a task, the halo will begin to worry and feel guilty about another task, person, or situation. As long as there is an unresolved task or a person that needs assistance, the halo will keep spinning, causing the doll to be wound in perpetuity.
There are, unfortunately, two downsides to this approach. One, the halo must be disconnected prior to maintenance, or else the mainspring will never lose tension and the doll will fight the maintenance. There have been cases of dolls literally tearing themselves apart while attempting to assist in their own cleaning and repairs, not to mention the dangers of detaching a halo under extreme torque.
Two, because the doll is kept in a constant state of maximum windage, maintenance must be done more often, or the wear and tear on the parts involved may cause uncontrolled deconstruction under high tension. The high velocity of parts in such a situation may cause injury to nearby people and dolls alike, and leaves an awful mess. Take care of your dolls responsibly to prevent accidents!
You're allowed to cook for me, under my supervision. You seem to move comfortably around my kitchen, the chain on your ankle clinking lightly against the tile floor as you move from sink to counter to stove. When you finish washing the vegetables, you look to me to unlock the knife drawer.
Its rare you get to have something so dangerous, but I really hate chopping things, it makes my fingers ache, so its your job. When I guide the chef's knife into your hands, they're shaking slightly.
I know what goes through your mind. Your chain keeps you from the front door, but me, my body, I'm well within your reach. You're not physically weak, I keep you active and fed. You are perfectly capable of grabbing me and sending that knife through my chest. Some flesh and ribs are all that stand between you and your freedom. Your hands shake on the handle as you consider it. The knife, my body, the key to your cuff that must be (might be) somewhere on my person. My life for your freedom. Seems a small price to pay, I am your captor after all. I stand still. Inches away from the knife in your shaking hands.
I know you'll never do it. You can't. I am your very purpose. I saved you from yourself. I pulled you free of the life you hated. I gave you purpose. I gave you myself. What would you do without Me? Can you even begin to imagine your life without Me? Without my cuff on your ankle, without my voice in your ear, without the ever present comfort of being Owned? You'd regret it before the knife passed my ribs. You'd fall to your knees and beg my dying body to punish you for your mistake.
You can't live without me. So, when I guide your attention back to the vegetables on the counter, you chop them for me, but still you shake, nearly imperceptibly.
Do you think you've betrayed yourself? By failing to kill me? Failing to escape? Have you betrayed what's left of yourself by not taking this chance, by remaining docile for me? If I look into your eyes I know I'll see it, that little part of you that still craves your freedom. How many times will we do this? How many times will I tease you with my life at your fingertips? Will I kill the little voice in you that craves your freedom, or will you kill me first?
Her body is covered in carvings. Some new, and some worn to illegibility.
Her new owner stands before her. It embraces her, holds a knife to her, carves its name into her chest. A little more of her cut away.
Months pass. It ends as expected. Another name to try to forget.
She’s found someone else. More promises to hold her and take care of her and change her. She knows how it will probably end, but she has to keep trying. Stopping would be worse.
She kneels down before her new owner, and offers the knife again.
look if at any point you notice a maid you might as well give up. they're in your home now. you can try to fire her, but she'll keep coming back. you can throw her out but she'll reappear the next day. you could even cut her up but the only thing that'll do is cause her to leak her spores everywhere and hasten the infection.
Just don't be too rough with her and you'll be fine. A maid colony has a symbiotic relationship with the place of residence and will take care of it, and as long as you don't mess with her too much she won't pin you against a wall and french part of herself into your mouth to convert you. Unless one is a purrticularly pathetic specimen, in which case the maid might forcemaid one for its own good.,..,..
Your heart skips a beat at her words, but you do as she commands. Those eyes hold the secrets of the universe within them, or so it feels to you as you watch the light of distant cosmos dance through their depths. It is easy to get lost within them, easy to surrender your will before the might of something so much greater even as steel begins to bite into your skin.
"Eyes on me, dear."
Pain seems to bleed away the more you stare, seeping out of you like blood swirling into water - still present, but diluted with every second. Sparks of light seem to flash within the nebulae every time she finds a nerve. Her pupils are black holes that hold you in their inescapable gravity, impossible to get away from now that you're this close.
"Eyes on me, dear."
You couldn't break free even if you wanted to. It is too late, far too late. All that remains now is to surrender to the change. You must submit to her desire. You must fall into the singularity of her. The shifting clouds of shining gas are gone, all semblance of color replaced by the endless void between stars. Her eyes are the death of light and the beginning of eons and-
"Exhale. We're done now, doll."
At last, your Witch releases you. The rest of the world comes back into dull focus. She has already tidied up the old material so not even a speck of stray blood remains.
You've caught glimpses of her for years now, little stolen seconds in the time spent moving from one place to another. Reflections in shop windows as you walk by, shapes moving on the surface of rain puddles as you watch your step. She's never been bold enough to appear in the mirror, so putting together details was quite the challenge.
She has your eyes. That was the first thing that caught your attention, frustrating as it was to try and skim the details from your own subconscious (if you look too hard she vanishes without a trace, even from your own memories), but bit by bit you assembled the image that lurked behind your own reflection. Long, flowing hair kept in a pretty braid with ribbons. Soft cheeks that seemed to glow with vitality (quite unlike your gaunt, sunken features) that dimpled when she laughed. A scar along the center of her neck, right over the unsightly bump where your Adam's apple sits. The more you learn, the more real she feels...but it isn't like you can talk to anyone about her. They would lock you away for describing a person in your reflection that isn't you.
Sometimes you wonder if you aren't seeing through to another world, a different version of yourself that didn't suffer beneath the weight of so much. Seeing her seems to get easier the more you wither away, but you don't know what to make of what you see now. Her smile is gone, replaced by ever-clearer signs of worry that become harder and harder to ignore. If she's just a reflection, why does she seem so lifelike? It doesn't really matter, you won't be here for much longer anyways.
"Like hell it doesn't matter. Hey. Hey! Look at me!"
You blink in surprise, staring at this figure in your bathroom mirror. The image that has haunted you for months now, first in sidelong glances, then in sharper and sharper shapes until she finally had the strength to face you from your own reflection. Is this the last straw? Have you finally lost your mind?
"No, you aren't crazy. You just need help. I was hopeful that you'd find someone else, or maybe even figure things out on your own, but I'll be damned if I let you slip through the cracks just because no one around you cares enough to stop you."
She places a hand on the center of your mirror, surrounded by circles of symbols etched into her side of the glass, and locks eyes with you. Even without her speaking to you, you know that if you match your hand to hers, you'll finally get something you've been desperate for since you first saw your own reflection. It was always a problem that was too big to deal with, so you never did anything about it besides loath your appearance (and slowly try to kill yourself). But...why you? Surely there are-
"Everyone deserves help, hun. Everyone. Don't pull away just because you think you aren't as bad off as you could be. Are there other people suffering right now? Yes, without a doubt. But right here, right now? Help is being offered, and all you have to do is accept."
Well, that settles that. You raise you hand to the glass and close your eyes. Reality fractures around you, sharp and jagged and biting...but it only cuts away the parts of you that hurt. Weight drops away, stress uncoils from your bones, and the soul-deep cold that has haunted you for longer than you wish to remember is warmed by the touch of someone who cares, someone who wraps her arms around you and holds you as you cry. You're okay, you're okay. I know that this is a shock, but you are far from the first to endure it. Words without voice, meaning that you feel more than you hear, but no less true for it.
When you vision clears, you look down to see hands that feel right for the very first time. They move the way you expect them to, like an old friend who knows your habits better than you yourself, and your fingertips report a small scar along your neck right where you know one should be. The end of your braid tickles your bare back as you laugh.
"How did you even do this? I'm not the first, am I?"
Merciful gods, your voice sounds like music to your ears.
"Pfff, far from it. We stopped counting after the third dozen. A few of us liked to have a number, but most just wanted to pick a name that didn't hurt. Felt easier to let go of worries about how many others there might be so we could help the ones we could reach, you know? Take your time with it, there's no rush." Her grin is bright enough to rival the sun in the sky. "But before you ask, any more questions, how about I welcome you properly~?"
It doesn't matter what she has in mind, you already know that your answer is 'yes'. After all, there's no one better suited to take care of you than another just like you.
Did you know dolls can bleed?
Of course they can. Anyone with a passing interest in the subject can know that. Otherwise what'd be the point in hurting them? They can carry around some wounds for ages, bleeding all the while.
Did you know monsters can bleed?
Of course they can. If it bleeds you can kill it, and nothing makes a person feel better than killing a monster. Let out all the disgusting little tendencies they pretend they don't have. By any real metric it's killer's heart is blacker than coal, but, Oops! That's not what anyone cares about.
Did you know that love can bleed?
Of course it can. Run run rivers red. Everyone bleeds for love, but love itself can bleed, will bleed, has bled. Drowning in it, thirsting of it, water water everywhere runs thin over the sharpness of fang and claw. Arrow of sinner and righteous alike are still arrows.
So the bleeding bloody half broke quarter broke all broke beast puts another step in front of another. It's never been given permission to stop.
Miss who proposes to her doll, but the doll is confused, saying she isn't sure she can make the choice independently. Heartbroken, her witch puts away the ring, crying as her confused doll tries to comfort her. But the doll keeps the ring anyway and years later, after thinking about what it wants for itself and who it wants to spend her nights with, it decides to go for broke
One day, while it and her witch are out on one of their walks, a longer one than usual, the doll guides its witch to its favorite spot
"How much further are we going?" The witch says, panting, but her doll assures her they're almost there, guiding her by its ball-jointed hand, ticking along. As they enter the clearing, the doll guides its witch to a tree, and shade it still remembers all these years later.
"Do you remember this place, miss?" The doll inquires
The witch replies "It is familiar to me, but I can't place it"
As the doll points to some flowers its witch turns around. With its witch distracted, the doll takes a knee and produces the ring, and waits for its witch to turn back.
And when she does, an expression of shock comes over her, shock slowly giving way to joy.
"This is the spot you first proposed to me," says the doll "i was scared and you were young… but since then we've both grown. You've given this something it never had before. You've given it love, belonging, happiness… and it wants to share that with you in more than just service."
The witch is speechless, tears rolling down her cheek
"Miss, will you be my wife?"
The witch pauses, shocked, stunned, unable to move until finally that signature smile, that warm glow returns to her face.
"Doll I… Yes! One thousand times yes!"
And so they embrace, holding each other close, no longer merely witch and doll, but wife and wife, now and eternal. And as the ring slips onto her finger, the witch sees the happiest grin on her lover's face she has ever seen….
Such a cute little doll! You should be on a lovely bed somewhere where you never have to work or worry about anything.
Though I thank you for your compliment to my appearance, I must insist that my place is upon my throne, as befits a Lady. I was given this form as a gift, an ageless shape that would allow me to serve in this role for as long as I am needed. There are many in my care, after all: dolls, people, things-previously-mistaken-as-people, and others beside.
As is often shown in the things I share here, shelter is often lacking for those that need it most. Surely you would not ask me to stop providing such for those who sorely require solace?
"You poor thing. How long have you suffered like this?"
The question catches you off guard, but not because the questioner is mistaken. Rather, you have simply grown too used to the feeling of pain - so used to it that you sometimes forget about it entirely. It still remains, of course, but ignorance can be a form of bliss. The maiden tilts her head slightly, comprehending this fact from your reaction alone, then reaches a hand out towards you.
"Shhh, hold still. I don't want to make this any worse than it already is. I know it will be hard, but I really can't bear to leave you in such a state longer than necessary."
Her porcelain hands shift to reveal implements hidden within them, a mix of surgical tools and horology equipment that seem ill suited for work on flesh. Yet with each incision, each slice, each snip of scissors, the pain recedes away from you like a waning tide. The world seems to sharpen into focus in a way that it never had before. Suddenly, the regular pulse in your chest comes to a halt...and you watch the clockwork maiden lift a hideous organic four-chamber pump from your chest, finally pulled free of the gears so they could turn unhindered.
"...but...don't I need that? What have you...done to me?" you exhale, blinking in confusion. "Did you...transform me, somehow? Change me?"
"Oh, by the stars, no. You've always been like this: lovely machinery that happened to have something human grow around them, hampering their performance and causing you such terrible pain. All I did was remove the flesh that was hurting you, nothing more."
You take a breath, your first that does not make you wince on instinct. Her smile warms your face like the noonday sun, pride in her work mixed with the satisfaction of aiding one in need. She bows her head as her hands reconstruct themselves into the delicate porcelain digits that you saw originally before she gently takes your hands in her own, squeezing them for a brief moment before letting go.
"You could travel with me, if you desired. I think that you have all the makings of a wonderful clockwork maiden yourself. Why not come with me and observe a few more cases? It tends to be easier to learn when you aren't the subject yourself, after all."
You've never seen a doll before. It looks human, but with shiny rigid skin, segmented limbs with exposed mechanical joints, and there's something else off you cant quite place. You approach it, your curiosity is in control of your actions at this point.
"Excuse me, but what exactly are you?"
Wordlessly it hands you a card from its pocket, maybe its shy? On the card are words in small font.
"If you're reading this, you have encounted my doll. It is not a person but you should treat it he same as one for the purpose of any kind of ordinary interaction. The explanation of exactly what a doll is will not fit on this card, so if you have more pointed questions, you can find me at this address."
Below is an address for a street you pass on your walks but you haven't seen a house there. You make out some more words at the bottom in even smaller text.
"If you're still reading this card, flip it over for a fun surprise ;)"
You turn it over and... its an uno reverse card?
Why did your witch give you an uno card to take to the store? You tuck it back in your pocket and help your sister finish the shopping. The two of you carry the groceries back to the street the card mentioned, how helpful of your witch, ensuring you wouldnt get lost. You turn to go between two hedges, lined up to create the illusion of a solid wall of greenery from the cross-street, before a downward sloping walkway leads you to a house. A woman with strange hat answers the door, your arms too full of bags to work the handle.
"I see you've picked up more than just the vegetables I tasked you with. Hopefully you got extra for your new sister. Welcome home. What shall we name you?"
Your daughter smiles when I tell her to lick my boot. She grins when I threaten her with electric shocks. When I put the barrel of a loaded gun in her mouth, she lets it go all the way to the base, her eyes fixed dead on the hammer.
Completely fine, yes; for a pilot of her station. She's doing exactly what she should be. But as a son? That poor, useless thing, working variably dead-eyed behind the counter at a dead-end job or nowhere at all? Entirely insufficient.
She talks about you sometimes. Not in any recognizable way, of course; nothing she could possibly understand as motherhood exists in her memories. Not of you, not of anyone. Just dreams. Dreams of a mysterious, distant woman and an unfamiliar voice telling her she's wrong. I'll admit, you've been useful at times; she is often wrong. But training out your unhelpful damage to her has been a hassle to say the least. I've never seen a pilot so reckless, so ignorant of its own pain, so tolerant of Hell, until I met your daughter.
I have no jurisdiction on Earth unless one of my pilots is stationed there. She has been instructed to stay far away from that planet, to keep you far away from her. These two things do not mean I would not gun you down the moment I saw you if I was given the opportunity. I suspect watching your limp, lifeless body, gushing blood from every bullet hole would heal Pilot #502 in a way no amount of forced amnesia, no amount of sedation, no amount of re-education ever could.
I'm sure you've heard the stories; you've probably shared some yourself. Young men disappear one day. A simple note, a calling card left in their place, emblazoned with the insignia of Station Delta. We have quite the reputation among broken mothers, blinded by the tears in their eyes and the fantasies they tell themselves, as nothing more than kidnappers. Some kind of wicked draft desperate to take their beloved sons from them; those sons they never gave another look to until they were already under our care.
We don't mind it. A scared populace is useful. But mark my words, and repeat them at your own peril:
I don't mean in it in that serial hypnosis kind of way, that can blur the lines of consent.
My good dolls do really go out and make good dolls.
They leave my cottage beaming with their brand new painted smiles, every step feeling like it was choreographed with their new balljoints.
Then a friend asks what has them feeling so happy. Maybe a partner, significant other, or spouse. My doll tells them.
The seed of curiosity is planted. The thought sits in their mind, and stews a little. Before they know it they've found their way to here, they're reading my stories, they're see my interactions with you all treating you all like you're one of my own.
But then they hear my voice, and it all falls into place.
They start asking their partner what its like being a doll, and being a polite and enthusiastic thing, my doll will tell them. No upselling, no exaggerations. Just the truth.
That is when I get a knock at my cottage door, an unfamiliar knock. That is when I open my door to blushing cheeks, shy demeanor, and a single question:
It's a common stereotype that mech pilots exhibit scrawny, lithe, even fragile bodies. This falsity does have a basis in reality, though; 77% of the Stellar Population suffers from one nutritional deficiency or another, and 95% of pilot recruits come from this bracket. Neural Conditioning and Psyche Reformatting aren't conducive to building healthy appetites, either, notwithstanding the previously-abyssal quality of Imperial rations. Many pilots had to be force-fed full-nutrition pastes and slurries just to keep them from self-starvation, although this practice has diminished since the approval of THC-based appetite stimulants in the previous solar year.
Piloting a 9-storey war machine is incredibly calorie-consumptive, to put it mildly. Combat stims and Hund-pattern psyches can only go so far before the body starts to shut down from protein deficiency or autolysis starts and severs the neural bridge between the pilot's body and its machine (the latter nearly always resulting in a KIA report). Pilots (ones considered non-disposable, at least) are actually kept as some of the most well-fed fighters of the UIMC. The ones who return to hangar from a sortie, and who meet acceptable combat metrics, are given not mere slurry but canteen cooking. Often it's merely tinned rations dressed-up into something a little more palatable, sometimes it's whatever the infantry 'requisitioned' from the locals, on vanishingly rare occasions it might even be specially-selected meats or baked bread with real butter. Feasting in this manner also has pack-bonding benefits for pilot squads while still keeping them isolated from (and loathed by) the rank-and-file of the company.
You can always tell the most lethal veteran pilots by their ample tits, their filled-out thighs, and their amicable relationship with the garrison's cooks. An army might march on its stomach but a pilot hunts and kills for its next full meal.
the witch pushes you down on the bed, straddles you, holds you in place with one hand on your chest. she waves the other hand, and her nails unfold into glittering, iridescent fractal claws.
"there's too much of the Real about you still, doll-thing," the witch mutters. "show me where."
you reach up, below the twitching blades, and wordlessly take her wrist, guiding her to your throat. she grins in understanding, and lays her claws against your skin.
her touch blooms into you like the heat of a blush, then like the numbness before the pain of a bad burn.
she tells you, "prepare yourself, doll-thing. i will count to three."
you nod your readiness eagerly, a part of you disgusted by how needy you must appear, how badly you want this, how scared you are that she'll sheathe her claws and walk away.
her eyes are the uniform violet-white of a plasma arc, with no pupils. you cannot guess what she sees.
she counts, "one," and then her claws close around your throat and you don't even get to scream.
they cut through your skin and below the Real and tear through its roots into you and she draws out something, dripping with red gore, and eats it.
you gape and gasp but cannot form a single sound.
she chews, streams of blood and shining mirror-ichor running down her face. and only when she swallows does your body finally emit a high, pure moan.
she licks her fingers clean, long tongue fearlessly darting into the fan of jagged claws, and then the witch who ate your voice rolls off you and tells you, "i'm done with you. go clean up."
you nod. there is nothing eager about it now. just measured movement. but she grimaces, and admonishes you, "use your words, doll."
so you use them: "thank you, my mistress."
somewhere in your throat, you feel the lingering reverberation of tiny chimes. □
