The little duck is supposed to be stricken and demoralized, weeping at the emotional blow. She's supposed to go into battle tragically alone, to make Princess Tutu's coming tragedy even more beautifully painful. That's Drosselmeyer's story; that's the script. Those are her orders.
Edel doesn't have lines for this. And for a moment, she doesn't know what to say.
Then her gesturing hand drops, and turns, and cups Duck's chin for a moment. She strokes the duck-girl's cheek, looking at that young earnest face turned up to hers with love shining out for even a puppet to see.
"Such a warm face," she says softly. "Such soft skin."
Duck's not made of wood at all. And maybe -- maybe that can mean --
Okay, let's try that again.authorsbypassJanuary 29 2010, 09:07:17 UTC
This isn't in the script.
The little duck is supposed to be stricken and demoralized, weeping at the emotional blow. She's supposed to go into battle tragically alone, to make Princess Tutu's coming tragedy even more beautifully painful. That's Drosselmeyer's story; that's the script. Those are her orders.
Edel doesn't have lines for this. And for a moment, she doesn't know what to say.
Then her gesturing hand drops, and turns, and cups Duck's chin for a moment. She strokes the duck-girl's cheek, looking at that young earnest face turned up to hers with love shining out for even a puppet to see.
"Such a warm face," she says softly. "Such soft skin."
Duck's not made of wood at all. And maybe -- maybe that can mean --
"Um, Miss Edel?" Duck looks equal parts apologetic and bewildered. "Are you supposed to be hitting on me too?"
The little duck is supposed to be stricken and demoralized, weeping at the emotional blow. She's supposed to go into battle tragically alone, to make Princess Tutu's coming tragedy even more beautifully painful. That's Drosselmeyer's story; that's the script. Those are her orders.
Edel doesn't have lines for this. And for a moment, she doesn't know what to say.
Then her gesturing hand drops, and turns, and cups Duck's chin for a moment. She strokes the duck-girl's cheek, looking at that young earnest face turned up to hers with love shining out for even a puppet to see.
"Such a warm face," she says softly. "Such soft skin."
Duck's not made of wood at all. And maybe -- maybe that can mean --
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But wait, if she weighs the same as a duck...
Burn her!
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The little duck is supposed to be stricken and demoralized, weeping at the emotional blow. She's supposed to go into battle tragically alone, to make Princess Tutu's coming tragedy even more beautifully painful. That's Drosselmeyer's story; that's the script. Those are her orders.
Edel doesn't have lines for this. And for a moment, she doesn't know what to say.
Then her gesturing hand drops, and turns, and cups Duck's chin for a moment. She strokes the duck-girl's cheek, looking at that young earnest face turned up to hers with love shining out for even a puppet to see.
"Such a warm face," she says softly. "Such soft skin."
Duck's not made of wood at all. And maybe -- maybe that can mean --
"Um, Miss Edel?" Duck looks equal parts apologetic and bewildered. "Are you supposed to be hitting on me too?"
Reply
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