ErosSense — Roleplayer Guild

It was a calm and tepid morning as the sun, little by little, dawned over the horizon. The warm, rouged skies bathed the town in a welcoming shower of warm sunlight, and the frenzy of the day had not necessarily gone into full effect. With this in mind, the door slowly opened itself to reveal an unseemly face within the bar. One recognizable, not by face, but by description and disposition. Surely this would not be the young lady, told within a story, of a previous encounter! 

It was a young lady with fair, pale skin, and a fine, diamond-shaped face with prominent cheekbones. Her nose was deeply freckled, cheeks colored with rouge. A head of fiery hair, long and thick, grew wildly from the top of her head, situated in a braid cascading down her back. A pair of heavy-looking horns, an impressive yellow, stood sturdily out of the zenith of her forehead. A button nose to accompany massively inquiring hazel eyes, round and pleading, curious and wandering. She was clad in a brown tunic and a ragged skirt that was perhaps a little too short (it ended at her knees) and a pair of shoes that needed replacing, all topped off with an ashy cloak of a tattered disposition.

"Excuse me," she said in a tongue layered heavily with the traces of a foreign land. "Are you the one who tells the tales?"

It was a simple, innocent request, with obvious earnestness behind it. Gingerly, she shut the door as she ventured further into the tavern, glancing every which way at the inside in quiet awe, holding the hem of her cloak closely to her chest. As her eyes found the Storyteller once more, she smiled meekly, looking at the man. She bobbed her head to the side.

Many things were immediately noticeable about the girl. The golden ring situated on her left hand of her second to last finger -- her long, talon-like fingernails -- the almost childlike abandon with which she perceived things.

“Those stories. Is that the word? I love to hear stories. My friend tells me stories all the time. Though today he has told me to listen to one of your own.”

She sat herself down on the ground, oddly enough, staring up at the cloaked figure with a smile on her face. With immense interest, she leaned in, as the old man made a point to tell the story with great characterization. Although she tried her absolute best to pay attention and remember, Ruby only remembered…

…That once there was a bride-to-be named Agatha who loved her soonly-wed husband dearly. The only issue was, Agatha had never met her husband.

See, for years, Agatha was something of a hopeless romantic. Searching for love -- and it never quite worked out. 

She searched the land hoping to find a suitable husband with desperation and whimsy, with the chimeric ideal that she would find another person to share her life with. In the end, all Agatha wanted was companionship.

Agatha eventually found her companionship, not in a man himself, but in the idea of one. She lived every day expecting to soon be married. She chased this dream like it was a carrot on a stick, groping for something she could not entirely have. One after another, the upstanding young ladies in her village found their special somebody -- and she was left all alone.

In her confusion, she sought to wed before she was an old maid. Hysterics will drive anybody mad. Even the lowliest men of the village were considered at one point or another. There came a point where Agatha was set to marry a homeless man (who she saw plenty good in - although the relationship would have been purely transactional.)

This frenzy lasted almost an entire month, until Agatha was approached by an upstanding family that would pay her family a small fortune for her hand in marriage to their son. The night of the arrangement came and she had never seen the man’s face, but was entirely hopeful.

However, when she walked down the aisle, feeling like pure royalty in her dress, Agatha stopped, horrified. 

The face of the man she was set to marry -- the man she didn’t know at all -- mortified her beyond belief! She paled, collapsed, and died later that night of what could have only been of shock.

It left many wondering what had happened at all.

Agatha -- the never-wed bride-to-be.

Ruby blinked, staring up at the man. It was clear she enjoyed the story, despite the grim turn it had taken. She was also visibly contemplating its meaning, although was struggling to grasp it as well. In contemplation, a small sum of smoke blew out of her nostrils as she pursed her lips.

“Was this all true?” She asked, before making a face. Ruby inhaled sharply, stood, covered her face -- then sneezed, sparks and embers shooting every which way out of her nose. She grimaced, and looked around, looking almost frightened for a moment.

Although her eyes shot up in surprise when she was instead asked if she would like a buttercup.
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Massively Angry Italian

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