date: 21/01/21
location: elite boxing gym
availability: unavailable for @geniie
Within this crowd, they’re all one and the same - here for the same purpose, desperate for the winning result. Priscilla had placed her bets, drank away a dry throat and conversed with a few who sought to greet her. Each conversation held little substance but formalities were a necessity to invoke some sense of feeling from others. Whether to be feared or enjoyed, one would first have to know you existed. It was often why Priscilla selected her words meticulously when in contact with strangers - she sought for both Famine and War to dread her very existence.
      When she wreathes between those enthralled by the violence, she’s stood at the furthest stretch of the room when she sees her: Pestilence’s own little thief. A girl Priscilla longed to nurture into equal parts cruel and twisted. It is only then does she smile something wicked, moving across the room to accompany her.
     "Our little wraith,” she greets, her voice as sly as the chattering of fox teeth. “Had any difficulties - or, better yet, pinched anything of interest?”
The room itself is bursting at the seams, desperately trying to squeeze both of their egos into one small space. The furniture would get up and run if it could, and as it should. Priscilla and Jack have what could be the makings of a dangerous duo with plenty of benefits for the both of them, but for some reason, neither are able to see it that way. They only see each other as a hindrance, or other times they’re each just a step ladder for the other to climb. Regardless, her demeanour, while it does dampen Jack’s spirits, can’t bring him down today. Not with the week ahead of him.
“I can see to that.” He remarks obtusely in response to her comment about a dagger to the heart. He is smiling, but it is calculated and mischievous above anything else. He has to remain very astute when he’s with Priscilla, he needs to be on his toes so that he can catch anything she throws at him, quite literally sometimes. “If we have business to attend to it should be done over a drink, even in unwanted company.” He moves to the end table on the right-hand side of the room where Priscilla sits, taking the seat opposite her and slipping out a hip flask from the inside of his suit jacket. He always comes prepared. Despite all of his hang-ups about Priscilla, he still extends his hand to offer it to her first. He’s not a complete animal, you know, at least not when it concerns decorum. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me on the conference, darling?“ He smiles arrogantly, eyebrow cocked.Â
"That thought of yours will have to stay in your head,” she replies. “We both know you couldn’t move quick enough to brush the hair out of my face, let alone inflict physical harm.” Her jaw angles towards him, far sharper as she smiles - her lips pressed tightly together as if it were forced. There’s a brief moment in which she considers a retort - something to twist around his heart to see if he possessed one at all. Though she knew, for what it was worth, that the both of them owned one somewhere; held at a distance, guarded by the hubris they enacted.
      When he offers her the flask, she considers it only to lift her palm in return. “You first. God forbid you’ve poisoned the thing.” It was the fundamental belief of a gentleman to offer before taking it for yourself, though most gentlemen did not acquaint themselves to the likes of Priscilla. Thus, no matter how minor the inaugural act was, Priscilla’s trust could not be so easily given. To trust Jack Tanner was not an easy feat - it was perhaps why she held him at arm’s length, revelled in the back-and-forth of their tumultuous interactions. He never longed to know her further, to peel back the superficial layers that the both of them shared. Perhaps it would disappoint him to divulge that’s she no more a rose caught between thorns than that of a serpent between threads of green grass and dry dirt. “Congratulate you?” Priscilla laughs - a full, round sound; a concoction of equal mirth and acidity. “For being nannied by our dear Seraphim? The only thing I’m certain I’ll do is give her ibuprofen before she leaves.” She lingers a little too longingly on the darkness of his eyes. “Or do you so desperately seek my praise?”
date and time: 22/01/21 02:14 a.m.
location: priscilla’s apartment
availability: unavailable for @nadiasalem​
It’s not a glamorous hour for Priscilla, she’s relinquished herself from half of her armour and exchanged it for that of comfortable pyjamas and leftover Chinese food. Her appearance held weight in the daytime; she dressed to instil both fear in others and power in herself. Perhaps it was an intimate sentiment to find her without pointed heels and bejewelled garments, though she’d speak as if she were no less divine.
       She considers the week in its finer details - the Monday of her own performance, the Thursday which strikes a fire within her. As a violent woman, she relished the thunder storms of others; the bloodied knuckles and venomous tongues. It was all ungodly, all a truth many never spoke of. Still, with equal measure, she sought her own solitude - a moment where her world existed free of all things cataclysmic. A sense of concord kept her sane.
      When she hears the rattle of her door, she slips from the couch she’s perched upon and hopes the visitor seeks the same; yearns for the anonymous figure to be one in particular. Perhaps if she readied herself for disappointment she’d be far less cruel. Thus, with a languid sigh dispelling from her lips, she opens the door to reveal a resemblance of her own harsh lines and dark edges.
         She’s thankful for the sight.
         "Hm,” she clicks her tongue, petite frame leaning against the doorway. “I did wonder if I’d be your stop-off before you went home.”Â
Jack has always liked being able to use Pest as a base, there is something powerful about being able to just about make out the thrum of the music far down below in the club if you listen hard enough or place your hand upon a surface to feel the vibrations. Jack has a keen ear for such things, the beating pulse of a bass races through him like his own heartbeat and it only spurs him on. He enjoys his role at Pestilence (arguably a little too much) but it does come with a price. A price such as working alongside Priscilla.
The higher-ups have instructed the two Virtues to meet prior to the important week ahead to make agreements on both teams and make sure everything runs smoothly. The only oversight to their request, however, is the fact that this means that Jack and Priscilla have to spend time together. Alone. Surely nothing productive can come from such a meeting, and he doesn’t anticipate that in a good way.
Reluctantly, Jack follows orders. Pushing Priscilla’s buttons can be entertaining, but when work is involved he doesn’t like it when others stick their nose in his business. He knows he has to make the first jab and always come out on top, so as he enters the room to see her already inside he cocks an eyebrow with one side of his mouth arching up into a smirk. “Waiting patiently for me, were you?” He mutters, closing the door behind him and straightening out his sleeves as he glances at her. “Could have made me a drink at least, soften the blow of having to see you.”
This is her pattern: arrive early, be noticed. If Pestilence were to insist on discussing the fine lines of the week that would follow, Priscilla would ensure she remained a force; to exist within this room where all who knew her truly believed she would surpass expectations. It was habitual of her - to stand, almost godlike, observing those who entered this realm behind her. She was never uneasy, never doubtful of her capabilities. A certainty she presumed enabled her alliance with Fazal to succeed - despite the annoyance she lured forth. He knew she would get the job done, he knew she would deliver.Â
       She’s caught between half a thought when she’s disturbed - a conceited tone equipped by that of the most vexatious dark eyes. He nips at her heels like an overzealous terrier and she sighs, lengthy. Priscilla had faced many a challenge throughout her thirty-four years of life but he - he who prodded and poked at her resolute demeanour - was the greatest of all. "Almost as much as I await a dagger through the heart.” It slips out without thought but she means it all the same. Her eyes observe him, taking in all of his sharp edges. “Oh, Tanner,” there’s feigned sincerity in her tone, her eyes widen, doe-like. “You and I both know there’s nothing else you enjoy more.” Perhaps the feeling was mutual but she’d hold her tongue. “Although,” a pause. “If you really want that drink, you’re more than welcome to pick your poison. Arsenic or cyanide?”
Priscilla had never desired to live eternally. She never longed to be a heroine of anyone other than herself, nor to be paraded like that of Guy Fawkes’ failure or Aristotle’s misogyny. Still, the question hung in the air with a weight - her thoughts transpiring at all endless possibilities and yet still succumbing to one alone.Â
      “I never did care too much for the legacy I left behind,” her voice drags with languid measure. “Even ships are remembered.” Though she supposed they were simple to speak of - they came with little sin and far less disappointment. “All I know is that when I do eventually go down, I’ll go down swinging. If you miss me, you can always try speaking my name in the mirror three times.”Â
As the child of a mistress, Priscilla is born with the vehement violence of a star; hauntingly beautiful, too difficult to hide in the shadows. Whilst her mother is as clever as a fox - hiding the truth of her infant away from the father’s darkest and most deranged eye - the gradual distance she expands between their illicit affair prompts further questioning. Still, the man is no more foolish than he is holy; built with a notch at the base of his skull that aches at the first sign of deception.
You see, dear reader, her father is infamous under all light; consuming the glow like black asphalt. As an unmarried man with several equally wicked sons to carry on the heir, his poisonous tongue and the gun in his desk drawer both equate to the life he so desired to have. (There are rumours his hands are more accustomed to the feeling of blood than that of rain water.)
Priscilla’s mother, on the opposite hand, is deemed a lady of the night and is beautiful in the way no one should be. She steals hearts before their wallets and is as quick-handed as she is quick-witted; a talent which keeps her and her beloved new-born well-fed. When both parents meet, they are lured beneath the vibrant lights of a strip club and she steals what she believes to be his beating heart. What she will discover, however, is that the only thing she could seize was his attention - diminishing overtime.
When Priscilla recalls her childhood fondly, she envisions the moments in which she’s perched at the foot of her mother’s bed, overseeing the makeup she applies at the vanity. It’s like witchcraft in those hours, her mother’s face set with rouge and powder, observing the evolution of her mother into something of a proud creature - more untouchable than the one in the beginning. When she slinks out into the dead of night, Priscilla never questions the thick handfuls of banknotes that accompany her home. She never questions much at all, really, until her mother fails to return one morning.
In her place, the most unfamiliar man arrives at her front door, telling her of what she knows to be a truth and what she does not know at all: her mother is equal parts prostitute and thief. A stealer of trinkets, of hearts, of children. These things are explained within a brief clause which prompt no further question. She doesn’t understand much - her childlike mind can only muster the words he spills between his lips - but she sees his hand reach outwards and she takes it with haste. Perhaps mother will see her in the evening, perhaps she’ll never see her at all.
From this point, her mother is no more than an echo. A collection of rumours, all beginning and ending with the same two parts. She still exists, somewhere, clinging to her daughter’s stuffed bear.
ACT II:
As she grows with the seasons, her father teaches half the tricks he teaches his sons -  it’s all particularly primal; a euphoric cruelty of sex, violence and stolen goods. Death becomes a most familiar friend, Priscilla held at the centre, a juvenile heart that is chiselled down until it is nothing more than ashen dust; weaned on something all too terrible.
One would suppose it was particularly dangerous to exist as Priscilla did. To make a heroine out of her own monstrous terror. Where her brothers were all thunderous and bloodied knuckles with their rage, she was all lipstick planted on the napes of pretty boys and sweet nothings into the ears of those who reached out to listen. Their foolish endeavours were done with a wrongful belief that she was far less poisonous than the men who declared themselves family, simply because her violence was not outwardly barbaric. It was perhaps why her brothers envied her entirely - she was better than them in the way men do not speak of. How they tried to squeeze out her voice, to brand her useless within the world she had once been sculpted for.
It seemed to be hereditary and she detects her mother in every sagacious choice she makes. After all, her mother did teach her that it was all for the taking if she so desired. All she had to do was contort herself in hopes of consuming the world entirely. And, in the time where Priscilla does thinks of her, she considers how this male hatred could reunite them once more. How she’ll never be alone.
ACT III:
When the hate for her father uncurls behind her third and fourth rib and can no longer be supressed, she takes what little she has in possession and flees to London; picking up menial jobs in local bars and surviving off the tips at the end of each shift. It keeps her afloat for the time being, but Priscilla has always longed for more. Longed to be revered, to be feared, she does not care which.
That is, until, everything happens at once. With the swing of one act to the next, destiny rears its often merciless head. He appears in the form as any other customer, when he comes through the door, though his suit sets him out of place as one would presume it could both buy and sell the very walls which contain them. He’s a quiet man, a man who carries himself in a way that has once predisposed him to all answers, and he pays little mind to the offered pint of beer placed before him. As the hours transcend into the next, he still sits, rubbing at his temples as one phone call laps into another. All of which possess an air of importance. When he finally looks upwards, the phone pressed firmly against his ear just about slips between his fingers when he sees her - carting out an unruly man almost double her size. Only then does he smile.
It begins as much a duty as anything else: moving up the ranks with a feverish passion. Whilst each rank possesses its own challenges, strangers attempting to lick the poisonous salt from her neck, it is only when she steps foot into the realm of Pest does she now know that this is what she was made for. Though she is meant to step upwards with everyone else, they are unaware of the third option - to move sideways. Thus, when there are whispers of promotion - to go beyond the Virtue that she is - she simply declines it. The four walls of Pest would crumble if she left it entirely. Whilst she is yet to learn of whether this was a foolish choice, she remains certain of this: she would never ask to be queen, they were going to beg it from her.
TRIVIA;
Contrary to what was told to her so many years ago, her mother never became of a deathly fate. She was, conversely, offered a large sum of money to send her child to her father. Priscilla, as of now, is unaware of this - but it is something I do wish to explore.
She believes in alternative medicinal techniques, such as crystals and other stones as conduits for natural healing and cleansing energy. They exist as her signature - for gifting and for her own garments.
Priscilla is not so much of a dog woman as she is that of cats, birds and horses. Whilst she does not own either one, she does have an affinity for them and does occasionally slip the stray cats behind the club her leftovers.
She has written many unsent letters to her birth mother; many of which encompass questions surrounding her location, if her heart is as empty as her daughters and why she left her for the taking without attempting to reach out. The mystery surrounding her exists as just that and is perhaps why there is an anger which pulses with each beat of her heart.
Her weapon of choice is always a blade; the sharp kitchen knife, the needle point in her leather sleeve and the dagger placed on display. She prefers the subtlety, the secret that she’s armed.
