#millicentclyde

[scyftan]

    They return to London. Larissa emails @millicentclyde three names and phone numbers so that she can begin to shop for the collar she is no doubt planning to somehow hook onto Larissa's own neck. A few days pass, wherein she calls Morticia on the crystal ball, and when her greeting is, "Larissa! Ma chérie! Look at you, what happened?" Larissa bursts into tears and is forced to tell the story, hiccuping and sniffling through it, as Gomez, then Wednesday, then Pugsley join Morticia in humiliating audience to the tale of Larissa, Millicent, and the storm horse.

    "You did have someone in London," Morticia says, voice bubbling with delight.

    "You clearly weren't prepared," Wednesday says. "Kelpies don't live in seawater." The are you stupid? is implied.

    "I'm sorry, Miss Larissa," says Pugsley, who only met her last year, and still doesn't quite know who she is to anyone in his family.

    "The course of true love never did run smooth," sighs Gomez.

    Somehow, impossibly, she feels better after it's all said and done. An Uber driver shows up shortly after the call with food, courtesy of the Addamses' abundant credit ("you need to eat, Larissa," Morticia had said, and Larissa didn't tell her that nothing quite satisfied, after Millicent's cooking). By the next morning, it feels as though she's turned a page, and she's begun to walk mostly without limping, and to tentatively change her shape without much sense of effort. She allows herself to text Millicent and ask for a lunch meeting, to discuss next steps.

    Somehow, they arrange to meet at the house in Birdcage Walk. Larissa insists on ordering in. When she texts Millicent, You've certainly cooked enough for me, all she receives back is a thumbs-up emoji. Insufferable woman. Demented. The frustration is comforting. It makes her feel almost herself, almost normal again, and so does coming up the walk to the front door of number nine, dressed quite like herself again, and hardly stiff at all (although if she isn't careful, she knows she'll set herself back).

    "I wanted to discuss the water horse," Larissa says after they've sat in miserable awkwardness over hot chocolate for a good fifteen minutes. "The being we encountered wasn't a kelpie." She settles in for a good lecture. This is better, too--comforting. Almost normal again. "It was an Each-uisge, a storm horse. Infinitely more dangerous than the average kelpie. I don't want you going back there to seek it out, Millicent."

[duran-duran-esq]

🧤 + 💥 !!!!

⚖️ QUESTIONS FOR THE ROLEPLAYER!

🧤 - what's your favorite kind of dynamic to write?

dolores lends herself very well to the straight-man when paired up with a more clownish muse! i love writing her into silly and goofy situations with a muse that's deeply unserious because it gives them both a chance to shine. i'm also a big fan of throwing her against more abrasive characters like @gordiacea or @epaego because muses like these give her a chance to demonstrate her compassion and them a chance to be something other than a rude asshole. i guess i just enjoy any dynamic that allows both characters to show off a different facet of their personality that otherwise gets lost under the surface traits.

💥 - do you have any advice for newcomers to the rpc?

never be discouraged to yap and rave about your muses. it can be daunting getting into this hobby sometimes because you worry over your portrayal and interaction and whether or not you're being annoying, but let me tell you: going full tilt crazy is the BEST way to get people to obsess over your character with you. the people that follow you followed you specifically because they were curious about whatever goober you've got spinning around in your head and will be just as excited to hear your random and disconnected thoughts as you are to share them. be crazy! be passionate! the right people will stick around and appreciate you the more for it!

[tooth--ache]

// “she places a shock collar on Mr Curry”

HELLO?? MILLICENT??? LMFAOOO

[quoththekitten-nevermore]

i’d be interested in hearing more about ammonia’s nanny and how she’s shaped her into who she is today 💜

DUDE I - no words. TALK ABOUT A GOOD QUESTION. My appreciation is immeasurable 😭💖 and I’m a psych student, so I hope you like detail!! This took so long because I just had so much fun thinking about it - I hope the wait can be forgiven 😅

First, you must know that Ammonia was not an only child - she was raised with three brothers, one of whom was her twin. Her father was their sole source of income and worked + travelled for said work nearly all of the time. Her mother did not work at all, and suffered from a myriad of mental health disorders that resulted in her very rarely leaving her bed (Perhaps this is why Ammonia does so many things with such great effort).

Ammonia’s nanny was an older woman that she only knew as ‘Nanny.’ She was a very traditional person who did not approve of many things - a mess, no matter how creative; a morbid book, no matter how educational; and a certain child’s feline energy and instincts. It wasn’t that Ammonia disliked most ‘little girl’ activities - she just preferred them her own way. A tea party picnic was better in the cemetery, because then the spirits of children could join in! - but Nanny rarely even took her outside at all.

Nanny was hired because Ammonia’s mother would not get up from her bed. Ammonia was around five at the time. She didn’t understand why Mama ignored them all so much then. Her older brother had school to finish, and her father had work. Her twin distracted himself from his anger with his toys. The youngest was a vulnerable toddler - and that was the deciding factor in hiring Nanny (Not that Ammonia was distraughtly anxious and didn’t understand a single second of it).

Ammonia noticed that Nanny favored her brothers, and then noticed that her brothers were not werecats. Her eldest brother was a Da Vinci, practicing telekinesis when he could, and as they aged, the other two would show such traits as well - but they did not pounce, or hiss, or scratch furniture (Othering her within her own home.)

She didn’t like Nanny. She would growl and claw and cry and beg for her mother, but Mama ‘wasn’t to be bothered’ and Nanny did not have the patience or compassion Ammonia needed. When attacking did not work, Ammonia would be left sobbing on the floor, deliberately ignored, accused of exaggerating for attention - or simply locked in her bedroom (Nanny said that she was a feral animal and was too unsafe for the baby).

Nanny did not know that a growing werecat needs certain proteins and vitamins and exercise. Ammonia’s mother didn’t care enough to mention it, perhaps. Her scratching post shedded rope fibers, so Nanny got rid of it. Her brothers liked macaroni and cheese from a box, so that is what Nanny made for lunch - and when Ammonia would gag over the artificial scent, and mention that she needed proper protein, Nanny would tell her not to be so spoiled, dramatic and difficult. It was that, or buttered toast (Ammonia learned that she was inherently wrong).

Nanny made her learn to be independent because Nanny did not properly take care of her. She babied her (two younger) brothers, because they appeared normal - and when their telekinesis showed, it was a ‘minor inconvenience’ compared to Ammonia’s feral intensity. Nanny didn’t let her play with the other children after dance class (‘you’ll only anger their parents when your claws come out, Ammonia’). Nanny hated what she read and what she drew and what she painted (a Disney coloring book was favored over mimicking postmortem photography). Nanny was Ammonia’s first understanding of indifference, discrimination, and occasionally, downright cruelty.

I hope this is close to what you were hoping for! It was very fun for me to plan out and write ^^ if anyone ever has any more questions, my inbox is always open!

[rasskaz4ik]

I think this qualifies as elder abuse or something @millicentclyde

[scyftan]

    After a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing, Larissa at last settles on a bottle of Clos Rougeard that the so-called expert at the store assures her will pair with nearly anything, and describes the wine's taste with words like raspberry, cherry, hints of violet, which make Larissa touch her mouth thinking of @millicentclyde, so, really, it's less of a settling, more of a hungry choosing that leads her to that particular vintage.

    Her clothes are another matter. She's going to be in Millicent's home and hopes to reciprocate the intimacy of the offer, but privately concedes to a touch of nervousness. Going sleeveless feels too forward, so she settles on a belted dress with sleeves that only come to her elbows, and a pair of short, lightweight gloves that button at the wrist. Her hair is another thing to fret about. With a degree of trepidation, she puts it into a doubled Gibson tuck, a style that allows her to free a single lock of white hair and curl it slightly to fall against her cheek. She then spends the remaining hour before her visit to 9 Birdcage Walk thinking about Millicent Clyde's own curls.

    Maybe it's been too long since she's been on a date, which would account for the schoolgirl nerves. She's back to anxious giddiness walking up to the imposing, nearly Gothic (she notes with approval) doorway with the bottle of wine cradled in her gloved hands, and seeing Millicent's face peer out at her from the dark interior, causing Larissa's heart to do an eager backflip.

    "Hello," she says with unwarranted breathlessness. "It's wonderful to see you." Before she can think to stop herself, she leans in to kiss Millicent's cheek.

[scyftan]

    Obsession. She lives in a fog. Too many times, now, she's nearly been caught in the sun, chasing some fragment: a rare mounted butterfly, a manuscript with valuable annotations... A scrap of paper left behind in a library carrel with the idly-etched writing of a young woman's hand. This last she placed with reverence on the altar with the lares and penates and found herself whispering a thank-you to their mute shapes in the dark. What is she doing? Why Millicent Clyde?

    Isolation has been her peace and sanctuary. She has lived on stolen mouthfuls from men who disgust her, professors and chancellors who operate the school. She has decorated the ancient cistern where she lives with items stolen from the vaunted halls of the university and its city. And although there is constant talk of a ghost (they say she's Elizabeth Woodville), no one knows she is here. Happiness is too far, past imagining. Contentment, too. But to be without disturbance, to be untroubled except by her own mind: that has been possible. Been achieved.

    Until now.

    No more isolation. Instead, when she wakes, she passes silently through the labyrinthine tunnels and ways of the school and comes to the mirror and finds @millicentclyde waiting for her: waiting with a breathlessness and eagerness that makes Larissa want to howl with despair, her beautiful, dark eyes upturned, waiting for her angel with stories of her day, of professors who were cruel, of fellow-students who tormented her; of the research she's desperate to pursue, of the glimmering fact she learned that shed a light she needed, of the laboratory where the tools felt so right in her hands. Larissa advises her gently, suggests manipulations on the basis of secrets only she knows, offers her gifts which she must wake to bring in the daylight hours, while Millicent is out, stealing into the dangerous brightness of the indoor afternoon to hide a book, a specimen, or simply something beautiful for Millicent to find.

    Tonight is different. There's been a brilliant presentation. Even the selfsame professor that has been sneering at Millicent all year was quieted. Stunned, as they all should be, by her genius. The story spilled out as many of Millicent's others have, disjointed with emotion, but this time full of pleasure, laughter, and true joy in her science. She prepared for so long for this, and it's finally, finally just what she's earned, what she deserves for the work she's done, a thousand times more and a thousand times harder than the other students at the school.

    "I am so very proud, Millicent. What can I give you in honor of your triumph?" Larissa asks it in the voice she always uses to speak to Millicent, the voice of infinite patience and kindness, untroubled by anything so vicious, so demeaning, as fear. As desire.

    The words burst out of Millicent as though they have their own life, demanding to be uttered: "I want to see you!" As if punctured, she shrinks back. She doesn't know where to look for Larissa, but the look she gives every corner of the room--fearful, even timid, almost cringing--is rending to the heart that has only just, only for her, come alive in Larissa's chest. "I want to see you," she repeats more softly, "if that's alr--if I can..." The child who sees something delightful, reaches out, and then falters; the child who knows that when they want, when they wish for anything, all they can expect to receive is a blow.

    Larissa's lips are numb. Her fangs are aching. Her nails scratch the walls of the narrow hallway behind the mirror. "Yes," she says.

    She sees it as Millicent hears, understands. As it dawns on her face, widening her eyes, flushing her cheeks.

    "Yes," she says again. She touches the precise point of the counterweight at the corner of the mirror. The glass turns on a delicate axis, opening a yawning, black mouth behind the frame. Inside the mouth of that darkness is Larissa. She holds out one white hand. "Come to me."

[scyftan]

    "Wednesday and I are so glad we came for our little visit," Morticia says as the black hearse makes its slow progress along London's streets.

    "Speak for yourself, Mother," says the teenager crammed into the far corner of the car, arms folded. "London is a dying city. But I prefer human carcasses."

    "Well," Larissa says, clearing her throat and trying not to look at either of them. "It was quite a nice surprise. There's no need to--that is, you know you don't have to chauffeur me anywhere."

    The hearse rolls to a stop. Lurch grunts something from the front seat, which Larissa takes to mean they've arrived, thank god. One more minute in the car full of Morticia and she... She unbuckles her seatbelt, bids them both goodbye, assures them that she's a text away for whatever they'd like to see in London, and...

    Morticia gets out of the car with her. Larissa glances nervously into the front windows of the bistro, but doesn't see a distinctive hat or head of curls right away--not that she has much time to look, as Morticia has stopped her on the sidewalk and is taking both of her hands in her own, smooth, cool, soft hands, with a fresh billow of her incenselike perfume.

    "Ma chérie," she says, making Larissa blush instantly. "I am so worried about you so far away. I'm so proud you're starting this new life for yourself..." When Larissa tries to look away, Morticia insinuates herself back into her field of vision--one of those wrenchingly elegant movements she makes, like a beautiful snake insistent on hypnotising its prey. "But your letters have gotten so short, and you never answer the crystal ball when we call. Is something happening?"

    "No," Larissa says, "no, not at all," trying not to tell her that the something happening is waiting inside the bistro for her now, that her life has been, unfortunately, to her great degradation, consumed by the demands and dire stratagems of @millicentclyde.

    "You know that you can tell me anything. Don't you?" Morticia's searching her face with those dark eyes. "Have you..." Her voice slows, grows more delicate. "Met someone?"

    "No."

    "Well... Alright." Morticia releases a hand so that she can gently, mortifyingly, pet Larissa's cheek, then go onto her tiptoes to place a soft kiss where she's just touched; she mirrors it on the other cheek. "We'll be here until the end of the week, then we're going to Paris. Please, think about coming with us."

    When Larissa has finally shaken her off, waved to the black car, and gotten inside, she's managed, too, to shake off the trembling that the contact of Morticia's soft lips produced in her. She weaves her way through the tables, untying the scarf over her hair, rearranging her face, coming to the table, saying, "I hope I haven't kept you waiting," and finding herself stopping as if struck when she sees the look on Millicent's face, familiar from one night, not too long ago, with a crossbow: pure murder.

    Larissa can't think of what else to say but, "What on earth is wrong?"