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Iron Quill - Identity - Ageless Beauty


Bogo

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AGELESS BEAUTY

 

Over muffled music and laughter, she could barely make out the occasional slap of rigging cables from the nearby docks. Hugging her white cape around her arms, she glanced across the street at the tavern and waited for herself to emerge. A light fog had begun to form, swallowing the last remnants of warmth and washing the cobblestones in a penetrating cold.

It was nothing she couldn't bear.

Someone once said people don't remember pain. But she remembered.

Searing, soul-killing agony.

"Pain is absolutely essential to the process," the doctor had insisted with a wide-eyed grin. "In order to attach properly, each exposed nerve must be completely alive and on fire." He gently touched her forearm with his fingertips. "I'm afraid there's no other way."

Still, as clearly as she remembered the pain, she also remembered the joy. The smooth, glowing woman in the mirror had been more beautiful than she ever imagined.

How many months had it been?

How many murders?


In recent days, she had begun to feel her skin shift at the slightest touch. And, in the mirror that had once been her sanctuary, tell-tale shadows smiled mockingly from the corners of her eyes.

Her glow was fading.

The time had come again.

"I have my eye on someone special," the doctor purred. "A true beauty. And so, so young."

It sounded wonderful. And still . . . she remembered the pain.

An increase in the din from across the street drew her attention to an open door. Even as she stepped onto the sidewalk, her face had not yet turned from the tavern's interior. So many friends to wish good night. So many admirers. When she finally turned to show her face, it was everything the doctor had promised.

She watched herself draw in the damp morning air and felt it wash the tavern smoke from her lungs. In the future, she would be more careful to avoid such enemies of youth and beauty. But, for now, she remained content in her naivety.

A middle-aged man stepped from the tavern onto the sidewalk behind her, securing his coin purse before closing his long brown coat and offering her his arm. He was a merchant . . . or perhaps a harbor master, definitely someone of greater means than a typical dock worker. Still, the sight repelled her. How could she suffer such a man? Allow him to touch her? To pollute her with his geriatric filth?

"Excuse me, miss?"

There was another man behind her. How had she not heard him approach?

"Is everything alright?"

He was a young man, and reasonably handsome in his crisp Guild Guard uniform.

"I'm fine," she offered calmly. "I was just coming from the tavern."

The Guardsman's eyes darted across the street to the couple standing outside the tavern.  His eyes then returned to her, traveling from her face to her feet then back again. "You don't look like someone I would expect to find in the docks at this time of night," he observed. "Are you a . . . a nurse?"

"I work for the Governor's Secretary," she offered, nodding slowly. "The Coroner's office."

"And those?" he asked, pointing at the many brass syringes tucked neatly into her belt loops.

"Oh, these?" she asked. "These are just in case." She conjured a well-practiced smile. "You never know when someone might need to take his meds."

The Guardsman shrugged and nodded.

Turning from the young man, she watched herself take the older man's arm and begin walking down the opposite sidewalk.

"I have to go somewhere," she stated flatly.

The young man's voice suggested concern. "You know . . . it's really not safe around here. There are all sorts of . . ."

She bit her lip as she watched herself move further into the fog.

"Perhaps I could escort you somewhere?"

She turned back to the Guardsman. "Yes," she said. "That would be nice."

The young man nodded. "Where would you like to . . . ?"

"That way," she directed, pointing a gloved finger. "I'm walking that way."

"Uh . . . alright."

She took the Guardsman's arm. "Please. Let's hurry."

With Guild-issue boots clacking noisily on the cobblestones, the young man matched her brisk pace. Still, she applied a constant pressure to his arm.

"What do you think?" she asked, gesturing forward with her free hand.

"The girl?" he asked curiously.

"Hmm."

The Guardsman was silent for a few moments before answering. "A professional, I would guess."

She shook her head. "Aren't we all professionals?"

"Oh, uh, yes," the young man stuttered. "I only meant . . ."

She turned briefly to the Guardsman and couldn't resist a smirk.

"I meant to suggest she's a . . ."

She looked forward again, easing the pressure on the Guardsman's arm to slow their pace. "I mean, what do you think?"

"Oh," the young man acknowledged. "Well, it's hard to tell from behind." He was silent for a few steps. "Young," he observed. "Pretty hair."

"Oh, I'm glad you like it." She felt her cheeks warm suddenly.

"You have nice hair too," the Guardsman volunteered.

She turned to the young man again and looked into his eyes. He seemed so genuine. So innocent.

"I hope I'm not being too forward."

She shook her head, slightly. "No. It's just . . ." She turned to look forward again. "Youth is beauty."

"You're wrong," the Guardsman corrected, stopping suddenly and pulling her to a halt. "Beauty is ageless." He looked into her eyes and smiled. "Back in Virginia, my grandmother is almost seventy. And, every day, when my grandfather looks at her, he still sees the beautiful woman he fell in love with." He sighed. "The most beautiful woman in the world."

His expression was so confident. So honest. She struggled to picture the Guardsman's grandmother, but saw only herself, mirrored in the young man's eyes.

"That's beauty," he added.

She moved her gaze downward and focused upon the braided fasteners across his chest. "I'm already old," she breathed.

"That's nonsense," the young man asserted, lifting her chin with a gentle finger until she was, once again, looking into his eyes. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but . . ."

She felt her heart pound.

The young man sighed again. "You may be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

For several seconds, she studied the young man's face. "It won't last long," she confessed softly.

The Guardsman smiled more broadly and his eyes sparkled. "Then let's make every moment count." He looked up at the sky, then back at her. "My patrol ends at sunrise . . . but it's close enough. Why don't we head back to that tavern of yours? I'll buy you a drink and you can tell me what it's like to be a nurse in Malifaux."

She turned to look for herself down the street--but saw only fog. She turned back to the Guardsman and felt herself smiling. "I'd like that," she breathed.

Once again, she took the young man's arm. This time, their pace was slower.

It won't last.

She hugged the Guardsman's arm with both of hers and imagined his grandparents in Virginia.

It doesn't matter.
 

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I'm impressed with this - I felt like I was being set up to read a 'typical' Malifaux story where bad things happen, and was surprised by the twist when bad things didn't happen. Simple, but effective.
 
I feel like some of the dialogue could be tightened up. It seems like half the Guardsman's lines end in "..." which gives him a flustered, hopeless vibe, at odds with the confidence displayed in chatting up an impossibly beautiful, mysterious woman he's only just met (a challenge at the best of times, but also a pretty dangerous prospect in Malifaux).
 
These two bits also seemed a bit off, somehow:
 

She watched herself draw in the damp morning air and felt it wash the tavern smoke from her lungs. In the future, she would be more careful to avoid such enemies of youth and beauty. But, for now, she remained content in her ignorance.


I'm not sure 'ignorance' is the right word - she seems perfectly aware of the negative health effects. She also watches herself a lot, and I think this is the first mention of it, but I wasn't clear on whether it was introspection, personal detachment, psychosis, or something else entirely.
 

A middle-aged man stepped from the tavern onto the sidewalk behind her, securing his coin purse before closing his long brown coat. He was a merchant . . . or perhaps a harbor master, definitely someone of greater means than a typical dock worker. Still, the sight repelled her. How could she suffer such a man? Allow him to touch her? To pollute her with his geriatric filth?


She's clearly pretty crazy, but even in that context this seems like a huge overreaction. By the narration, the man hasn't even noticed her let alone approached or propositioned her - there's nothing to suggest that she has to 'suffer' this person in any way other than sharing a street. If his manner is supposed to be overtly predatory (or even merely interested), it could do with more narrative reinforcement.

Aside from those - and they're pretty minor quibbles - this is a great job.

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Wow, Kadeton!  Thank you for such a thoughtful critique.  Your points are excellent and are well-taken.

 

For clarification (which I'm sure you got), whenever she is "watching herself," she is actually watching the young woman whose skin she will soon be wearing.  I.e., when she sees the young woman, she imagines she is watching herself do dumb things (like sit in a smokey tavern or go home with some old merchant).

 

I hadn't thought about the lack of relationship clues between the girl and the merchant.  I suppose I thought, since they were leaving the tavern at the same time, the presumption  was that they were leaving together.  I may be able to fix that with a little tweak.

 

Thanks again.

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This was really solid!  I absolutely love the concept  - I wish I'd thought of it first!  I thought you did a really nice job morphing from the dark and macabre to the romantic.  As a McMourning player the protagonist totally resonates for me.  I appreciated the blend of crazy and vulnerable - sure she's stalking her next victim to peel the skin off of to preserve her own faded beauty, but she's not so far gone as to be immune to a little genuine good will and earnest flirtation.  Great job Bogo.

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