#ada wong.

[dimitresca]

-- "And what, prey tell, would you say is your 'specialty.' " Dinner with a business associate is often illuminating. So it frustrates her - though she hides it well, she thinks - when @yngai becomes instead, harder to pin down. She swirls her wine, one eye narrowing slightly while her smile grows that little bit colder.

[dimitresca]

taps her with their beak

[dimitresca]

*leaves a crow feather where the ornate bottle of sanguis virginis once lay*

Crowley is a thief. That is well and certain. Oh, they are family to Mother Miranda so they are family to us, Moreau in a meeting had said when her temper had flared over this. We are not a family at all, she had snapped. We are Lords. Moreau had wailed, Beneviento had quaked, and Heisenberg ---- that rat-bastard  ---- had stayed silent. He chewed on his cigar, he smirked, he lowered his hat to cover his eyes, and he had said nothing. Fine! She'd announced into the pathetic mess. Fine. I shall be the one to liaise with the creature, because I am the one of us with sense and disposition befitting it. I couldn’t trust even one of you to kill them.

And is this not proof? Mother Miranda's prophet or not   ( and they most certainly were - for everyone's sake, for her sanity’s sake - not )   they are a thief. A thief! She picks up the common feather: to her, it resembles Miranda’s own. That thought is enough to send her to a rage. When has she ever been lesser than a crow? When has she ever been anything but the best, the most praised, the most special?  Eighty years of service, only to be pissed over by a wild animal with a beak and no title. Releasing a mangled cry, she slashes the fine wooden desk where the bottle had been, where she knows the bottle had been, because she did not misplace things, and her maids knew where to keep them. The feather is slashed into thirds, and the desk is gouged to the point of ugliness.  Where is she? Where is Mother Miranda? Off playing house with some lazy, impoverished, stupid little manthing and his allegedly valuable child. Months of ruling a village with no villagers to rule.Alongside and equal to Heisenberg, no less. And now, this?  She could pray, if she were a senseless and idiotic  nun. She could cry with frustration at how wrong everything is, at how little she liked the dashing of her own bloody wealth for the sake of Miranda’s Hail Mary pass at motherhood once more. And, yes, she was understanding, of course she was understanding! No one understood more than she! Miranda had gifted her daughters of her own, no less. But, it ought to be said at a certain point, she really thinks the woman ought to simply get over it.  Lady Dimitrescu retracts her nails, feeling the pain in her wrist as she does, and she grips her fists into balls. The thief has been here, in her castle, and she can’t convince a damn person to kill them. And, better for anyone but her to do it. Mother Miranda could do worse than death to her if Alcina was responsible for breaking something that ought not have been broken. The night sky outside cracks with a bolt of lightning. Had the Lady been facing that window, she might have seen the outline of a hooked crows beak mask, splayed long and shadowed over her floor. Instead, she lets out a bellow, and tells her only remaining, terrified maid that she is going to her room.  She needs a drink.

  @yngai​ is a troll

[dimitresca]

          @yngai​ arrives at a castle at midnight 

The golden firelight flickers, keeping the center of the ornate floor well-lit and warm. Lady Dimitrescu cuts a golden outline, the dark of her back to the entrance, silhouette eerie too-large relative to the noble furniture. No door had been opened   -    there are no maids living here anymore. The Crow, as a creature, did not seem like the sort to use the proper entrance, ever. Their appearance in her life, even, proved a very classless addition indeed. Lithe footsteps approach   ( and Alcina Dimitrescu has always revelled in the exhibtionist nature of her simply being, rich and disinterested in those beneath her )   so the Lady takes a moment to raise her teacup to her lips, to think on what she knows thus far:  their backstory; Heisenberg’s endorsement; Miranda’s history of single-minded willfulness.  

“And here I was, thinking you wouldn’t have the heart to show.” She purrs, voice high and feminine  -  cold, too. Smug. She doesn’t raise the brim of her hat enough to reveal anymore than her lips, her teacup. There exists the implication that Alcina Dimitrescu is either very poised and practiced in her monstrosity, or performing. Then, darkly and with great disdain:  “I see the reverse psychology worked on you after all.” 

[dimitresca]

an intricate, ornate display of animal bone awaits her in her bedchambers, dotted like would be rose petals along her silken blood-stained sheets. they weren't hard to source, or even clean, dead crows litter this village like a bad omen for an intruder fashioned in their image. the unfortunate soul who carved the mask they wear had done most of the work already, & she'll honor his life as a gift to the lady of this castle. an echo of miranda, a shadow of the crow, a blasphemy to the faith. ada has noted when alcina & her daughter go on the hunt & sneaked in while the castle remained quiet, it would be a terrible surprise otherwise, & her diary does say today is the most special day of all.

at the foot of the bed, a note in pristine cursive writing : a gift from the wretched beast that grows fat from your wealth. my spoils for yours. may my mask invade your dreams once more. yours truly, the crow

@yngai crowley, the masked menace, leaves unwanted birthday wishes.

Starvation is nothing more than the eating of the self. All fat, all will, all joy is burned up in her baleful fireplace of a heart until there remains nothing. Dreams - dreams increasingly haunted by the presence of her failures, and mocking, grinning creatures like the Duke and the Crow-Faced criminal - dog her. Try as she might, even her daughters cannot maintain their mother's good spirits on this day. There is time only to eat a little, and resent what goes uneaten. She resents Crowley. Perhaps that's why she dreamt of them. Perhaps that is why one diary entry, leafed through, she can tell, reads: I bit down, and tasted hot, salty blood. It spilled over me, wetting my breasts, my stomach, my hips. Crowley turned to feathers in my hand, and I realised I held only the shattered glass of a wine-bottle. When all the glass was pulled from my never-healing legs, I turned - and they awaited me here, in my bedroom. I bit down. It all happened again. Ceaselessly.

If all it took to eat was resentment, Crowley would feast forever. She returns from the hunt, and sees the constellation of bones arranged on that barren bed of hers, barren as these lands of hers. It repulses her, to know that the Crow has been so close. But something to hate gives a faint warmth like that from a furnace. Without Crowley to rage against, she would be well and truly alone. And that would be all the worse. Her eyes cut through the words of the note. She's amazed the handwriting is more than - and pardon the pun - chicken scrawl. The Lady's face drops. She rips the note. In her anger, she extends those terrible, large claws of her and bats the bones from her bed, sending silk and shredded cotton in their wake. With a huff, she waits there in the dark. Aching for Crowley, and the chance to plunge these claws of hers through the creatures soft viscera.

[sunsugarsuntzu]

I love resident evil 4 I love resident evil in general. Resident evil

[dimitresca]

​ @yngai​   liked  for  a  starter .

People go into that castle,     any old villager could easily whisper to another in the tavern,  and when do they come out?  No one has left the Castle for more than a day in years. Women go in, and when they are seen again there is something so wrong with them. Their eyes have gone hard and dull, their stomachs are fed but their jaws are snapped shut. Serving there is unnerving, and in so many ways before a woman might disappear she might wither to something unfamiliar, so that a father might proclaim: this is not the girl I raised. Someone has taken the will her mother birthed her with, and rolled it in between their thumb and forefinger like a game, until it was nothing, and nowhere.  And isn’t it funny, in a sick way, how many disappear from this neck of the woods? Give Glory to Mother Miranda for her protection that your children might not be next. And, have you heard, that villager might say to their old friend, about the poor Widow Dalca?  The last of her family - that son of hers - was found in the woods. Or, his leg was. (Identified by his tattoo              horrible affair.) She dug up her husband’s grave in a fit, and found his body missing, replaced by earthy garlic cloves. She dug up her daughter, and it was the same. She complained to the castle, and hasn’t been seen since.  What did she expect?  In the crisp morning light, there stood proof that someone from the Castle had been out, and performed a duty most unusual. To the door of Mother Miranda’s shrine was pinned a letter. It was delicate from the early morning chill, a crisp sun lighting fields up for rolling miles in their silvered green frosted glory.  And, a third villager might contend as the night wore on and the topics that daylight bleached away from tired minds were allowed to rise once more as drunken ghosts, has anyone heard of that mysterious figure? The one with that crow mask. Everyone would shush them, every night, with every intruding sentence. Mother Miranda was very clear: things will get worse before they get better, and that howling will not cease until every unfaithful heart was gone.  Some might feel the need to  roll their eyes, but the truth is that no one would. Things were getting bad again.  The letter fluttered under the weight of a crowd of eyes. It was lined with the seal of House Dimitrescu.

           TO THE ENTITY KNOWN ONLY BY THEIR MASK,  Thrice in the past week you have been observed trespassing onto fields that are property of Castle DImitrescu. Many more times than that, you have trespassed upon land owned by the Lady Dimitrescu, as the majority of land in this village is Hers by deed. Throw yourself upon the mercy of House Dimitrescu, and live.             TO THE VILLAGE SERFS TO THE COUNTESS DIMITRESCU For the arrest of this masked interloper             alive             Castle Dimitrescu is prepared to offer the grand sum of 1,000 lei.                                                 LADY DIMITRESCU

[residentevilmania-blog]