Man-Eater
She enters the Mansion as if she owns it. Her head is held high and her eyes are focused upon her destination. She is a lady, born and bred, but she is not quite human. She is merely a tool of vengeance. Or, at least, that was what she had been. It was hard to say just what she was now.
Her hair is dark and swept up, her skin pale and smooth, and her eyes bright. Love her. She commands it. Love her.
Grace is in her step, and a cruel sort of propriety in her eyes. Intention. She's left a trail of broken hearts with her on her way to this strange place. She doesn't seem to mind it, perhaps she is a bit perturbed, but she is heartless. She does not care. She enters the Mansion every bit a lady, clasping a bag and setting it carefully beside her.
"A queer sort of place, isn't it?"
Typist: Oh yes, this is Estella. Havisham. Or at least that's what Jaggers says. You can't ever trust a lawyer though. She's from Dickens' Great Expectations. Please to be throwing pretty men at her.
Her hair is dark and swept up, her skin pale and smooth, and her eyes bright. Love her. She commands it. Love her.
Grace is in her step, and a cruel sort of propriety in her eyes. Intention. She's left a trail of broken hearts with her on her way to this strange place. She doesn't seem to mind it, perhaps she is a bit perturbed, but she is heartless. She does not care. She enters the Mansion every bit a lady, clasping a bag and setting it carefully beside her.
"A queer sort of place, isn't it?"
Typist: Oh yes, this is Estella. Havisham. Or at least that's what Jaggers says. You can't ever trust a lawyer though. She's from Dickens' Great Expectations. Please to be throwing pretty men at her.