Untitled Glee Fantasy Project - Character Sketches (0/?)
Title: Untitled Glee Fantasy Project - Character Sketches
Characters/Pairings: Quinn, Rachel, Santana, Brittany (Pairings for overall story: Faberry, Brittana, background others)
Rating: (15)/[Light-R] (For swearing and references to violence and sexual violence)
Length: 1,505
Spoilers: N/A - A/U
Summary: N/A (See below)
Author's Note(s): If you've read the prologue of this, you might remember I mentioned that I was originally going to post a set of character sketches with artwork by a friend of mine before posting any of the story itself, but changed my mind due to various reasons. Anyway, I haven't heard from my friend for about a month, so whilst I continue to procrastinate over Chapter 2: Bartender's Daughter (I really do suck at titles), and in a probably vain attempt to drum up more readers, feel free to read said sketches.
Prologue: Flight
Chapter 1: Adjustment
1. The Peasant (The Princess)
It is on days like these, with clear air, fine soil, just a touch of breeze, and no interruptions from doltish country-boy admirers, that I find it hard to feel sorry for what I have lost.
After my flight, flowing dresses became hair shirts, a quill pen a pitchfork, and I complained bitterly to Fr. Schuester, the priest who has hidden me. But all he did was repeat one word: “Disappear.”
And he was right, and I took to this life surprisingly quickly. Tending the land is hard, but rewarding, and leaves plenty of time for contemplation - in the civilised mind, at least; sometimes I wonder if the people here would know the meaning of the word ‘contemplation’ if it came up and whacked them on the head whilst they tried to decide which of the two ales the barkeep had spat in less that day - and I find myself hating the me that resided in the castle.
Cold, cruel, and infinitely rapacious. How many serving girls did I get through? How many did I make cry because they were saving themselves?
(Alright, so I can only think of one that cried - but surely the hideous monster that I was then would not have been satisfied with that?)
So maybe, if I could get within a hundred yards of her without being executed, I would shake the Abbess’ hand, rather than slit her throat for having my Father, the heir to this wretched little Kingdom of Lima, killed as he slept.
Except - whenever I see her, just passing in the street, listening to her sing for her supper in the tavern, but especially when she takes another leering creature up into her room with that horrific look of resignation on her face.
Then, I long to be a Princess again.
To build a concert hall for that voice.
To stand side by side in matching white dresses in the chapel my ancestors built.
To make sure that the only facial expression she ever needs again - for the rest of her life - is that magnificent smile.
To save her.
For her, I would raise an army and reclaim my birthright.
For her, I would gut the Abbess.
2. The Bard (The Whore)
I can’t remember when I sang for the first time. My Fathers tell me I started at five, but my memory is excellent, and I’m sure it must’ve been before then. Maybe I sang in my Mother’s womb. I hope I did, so that she would’ve had some comfort before she passed.
There is nothing better than the looks on the faces of the crowd in my Fathers’ tavern after I finish regaling them with the latest songs from the capital, or standards that make the old people smile. Sometimes we get as many as twenty patrons, just to hear me!
Admittedly, some of the people come for other things, but I’m sure that we’ll have enough money soon for the taxman and the Abbess and still keep afloat, then I won’t need to do it anymore.
I’m sure some people think my Fathers pushed me into it - the tavern has never done brilliantly well and an attractive daughter is quite the asset - but the truth is it was my idea.
It started with the lecherous old men when I was twelve. The looks and the comments when I was flushed from a particularly energetic solo. Of course, I was disgusted by it, but as the months drew on, my most ardent admirers would get more and more vocal about how much I would cost. At first I didn’t know what they meant, but it soon became clear with the cadence of their laughter.
One night, when I was fourteen, after a day when my Fathers had done nothing but argue and cry over finances, I approached the men and had them bid on my first time.
I raised a months takings at the bar for one hour of rough, initially quite painful, sex. I know I shall never raise that sum again, but I hold out hope that some Lord might see me and wish to keep me. I could accept that fate for my Fathers’ sake.
Sometimes, of course, it is not a man I take but a woman. These are the best times. I don’t know why, though - most of the women around here are burlier than the men, and my first time with one was a hundred times worse than the aforementioned incident, but it still felt - not better, obviously, but perhaps - more correct?
Once the Abbess visited us and she gave a sermon on the evils of men who sleep with other men, like my Fathers (she seemed obsessed with the apparent ‘sneakiness’ of appearing ‘normal’). Perhaps there are women who are the same. Perhaps I am one of them.
Certainly, the only person I can recall actually desiring the companionship of is a girl. She is so beautiful, and can only be about my own age (seventeen as I write). She is a farmer’s hand, working for Fr. Schuester at the Priory, but she can’t have done it long, for I actually shook her hand the other day - after she came up to me to say how good I was - and her hands are quite smooth. Maybe she is the daughter of a fallen Lord, forced to work to clear a debt to the church. Or, maybe she is an orphan.
I see her looking at me after I have finished my first stage for the night, the look on her face mirrors my Fathers’.
I like that she has never approached me for that other show, but it does not matter. She would not be at the Priory if she had the funds to rescue me.
She is not a Lord or a Lady. She cannot save me.
3. The Thief (The Victim)
I swear to you, one of these days I’m going to fucking kill her. From the first day I was handed over to Schuester for my labour and saw her there clear as day, sweating in the vegetable patch, I’ve lain awake at night, fantasizing about how I’d do it.
Maybe with the fork, through her guts...
Maybe decapitated with an edging spade...
Maybe cut her heart out with a trowel...
Or maybe, since I’m not allowed to use any of those fucking implements, I’ll just strangle her with my heavy, manacled, hands.
Like Schuester would ever let me get that close; compared to other dipshit fucking Priests, he’s almost intelligent.
Fuck it, maybe he’d even understand: “I’m sorry, Father, but I couldn’t see her as a Princess, deserving of my loyalty and devotion, I could only see her as my former Mistress, who held me down in the kitchens as she took my gift.”
“AS SHE RAPED ME!”
“So really, it’s not my fault that I caved her head in with a rock. No, Father, not my fault at all. Not when it’s her fault that she couldn’t stand the sight of me around the catsle any more. That it’s HER FUCKING FAULT that I was kicked out of the only home I’d ever known and left to find my own way with only the clothes on my back.”
“Her fault, Father. Not mine.”
Ha! Somehow I don’t think so, otherwise he wouldn’t be hiding her at all.
She couldn’t stand the sight of me. Now she doesn’t even seem to recognize me. Would that make it all better? If she acknowledged me? To her I’m just another thief, she probably thinks I do it for fun. Fuck her. Maybe I should tell her we grew up together. That my Mother served her Mother. Was the woman killed alongside her, trying to protect her from people like me, hired by the Abbess.
Or is that the route I should take? Shop her to the Abbess? The reward is supposed to be huge.
No. As much as I despise her, my Mother would never have stood for that. She’d’ve killed me herself.
So I’ll just sit here in my chains, and hope that the Abbess’s assassin’s find her before I finally snap.
After all, I would hate for my Mom to be mad at me.
4. The Dancer (The Assassin)
I always did love to dance.
When I was young, anyway. Nowadays, not so much.
When I was young, I danced to a different beat every second of every day!
Now the beat is always the same, and the people the Abbess sends me to dance with don’t like my moves.
(And have you ever tried to dance on blood-soaked marble?)
I just want to dance a proper dance again, with a partner who wants to, and wants to do it again (and again!, and again!).
Now the Abbess wants me to find the Princess and dance with her.
I used to dance the best with her, when we were growing up.
But now I really don’t want to.
Characters/Pairings: Quinn, Rachel, Santana, Brittany (Pairings for overall story: Faberry, Brittana, background others)
Rating: (15)/[Light-R] (For swearing and references to violence and sexual violence)
Length: 1,505
Spoilers: N/A - A/U
Summary: N/A (See below)
Author's Note(s): If you've read the prologue of this, you might remember I mentioned that I was originally going to post a set of character sketches with artwork by a friend of mine before posting any of the story itself, but changed my mind due to various reasons. Anyway, I haven't heard from my friend for about a month, so whilst I continue to procrastinate over Chapter 2: Bartender's Daughter (I really do suck at titles), and in a probably vain attempt to drum up more readers, feel free to read said sketches.
Prologue: Flight
Chapter 1: Adjustment
1. The Peasant (The Princess)
It is on days like these, with clear air, fine soil, just a touch of breeze, and no interruptions from doltish country-boy admirers, that I find it hard to feel sorry for what I have lost.
After my flight, flowing dresses became hair shirts, a quill pen a pitchfork, and I complained bitterly to Fr. Schuester, the priest who has hidden me. But all he did was repeat one word: “Disappear.”
And he was right, and I took to this life surprisingly quickly. Tending the land is hard, but rewarding, and leaves plenty of time for contemplation - in the civilised mind, at least; sometimes I wonder if the people here would know the meaning of the word ‘contemplation’ if it came up and whacked them on the head whilst they tried to decide which of the two ales the barkeep had spat in less that day - and I find myself hating the me that resided in the castle.
Cold, cruel, and infinitely rapacious. How many serving girls did I get through? How many did I make cry because they were saving themselves?
(Alright, so I can only think of one that cried - but surely the hideous monster that I was then would not have been satisfied with that?)
So maybe, if I could get within a hundred yards of her without being executed, I would shake the Abbess’ hand, rather than slit her throat for having my Father, the heir to this wretched little Kingdom of Lima, killed as he slept.
Except - whenever I see her, just passing in the street, listening to her sing for her supper in the tavern, but especially when she takes another leering creature up into her room with that horrific look of resignation on her face.
Then, I long to be a Princess again.
To build a concert hall for that voice.
To stand side by side in matching white dresses in the chapel my ancestors built.
To make sure that the only facial expression she ever needs again - for the rest of her life - is that magnificent smile.
To save her.
For her, I would raise an army and reclaim my birthright.
For her, I would gut the Abbess.
2. The Bard (The Whore)
I can’t remember when I sang for the first time. My Fathers tell me I started at five, but my memory is excellent, and I’m sure it must’ve been before then. Maybe I sang in my Mother’s womb. I hope I did, so that she would’ve had some comfort before she passed.
There is nothing better than the looks on the faces of the crowd in my Fathers’ tavern after I finish regaling them with the latest songs from the capital, or standards that make the old people smile. Sometimes we get as many as twenty patrons, just to hear me!
Admittedly, some of the people come for other things, but I’m sure that we’ll have enough money soon for the taxman and the Abbess and still keep afloat, then I won’t need to do it anymore.
I’m sure some people think my Fathers pushed me into it - the tavern has never done brilliantly well and an attractive daughter is quite the asset - but the truth is it was my idea.
It started with the lecherous old men when I was twelve. The looks and the comments when I was flushed from a particularly energetic solo. Of course, I was disgusted by it, but as the months drew on, my most ardent admirers would get more and more vocal about how much I would cost. At first I didn’t know what they meant, but it soon became clear with the cadence of their laughter.
One night, when I was fourteen, after a day when my Fathers had done nothing but argue and cry over finances, I approached the men and had them bid on my first time.
I raised a months takings at the bar for one hour of rough, initially quite painful, sex. I know I shall never raise that sum again, but I hold out hope that some Lord might see me and wish to keep me. I could accept that fate for my Fathers’ sake.
Sometimes, of course, it is not a man I take but a woman. These are the best times. I don’t know why, though - most of the women around here are burlier than the men, and my first time with one was a hundred times worse than the aforementioned incident, but it still felt - not better, obviously, but perhaps - more correct?
Once the Abbess visited us and she gave a sermon on the evils of men who sleep with other men, like my Fathers (she seemed obsessed with the apparent ‘sneakiness’ of appearing ‘normal’). Perhaps there are women who are the same. Perhaps I am one of them.
Certainly, the only person I can recall actually desiring the companionship of is a girl. She is so beautiful, and can only be about my own age (seventeen as I write). She is a farmer’s hand, working for Fr. Schuester at the Priory, but she can’t have done it long, for I actually shook her hand the other day - after she came up to me to say how good I was - and her hands are quite smooth. Maybe she is the daughter of a fallen Lord, forced to work to clear a debt to the church. Or, maybe she is an orphan.
I see her looking at me after I have finished my first stage for the night, the look on her face mirrors my Fathers’.
I like that she has never approached me for that other show, but it does not matter. She would not be at the Priory if she had the funds to rescue me.
She is not a Lord or a Lady. She cannot save me.
3. The Thief (The Victim)
I swear to you, one of these days I’m going to fucking kill her. From the first day I was handed over to Schuester for my labour and saw her there clear as day, sweating in the vegetable patch, I’ve lain awake at night, fantasizing about how I’d do it.
Maybe with the fork, through her guts...
Maybe decapitated with an edging spade...
Maybe cut her heart out with a trowel...
Or maybe, since I’m not allowed to use any of those fucking implements, I’ll just strangle her with my heavy, manacled, hands.
Like Schuester would ever let me get that close; compared to other dipshit fucking Priests, he’s almost intelligent.
Fuck it, maybe he’d even understand: “I’m sorry, Father, but I couldn’t see her as a Princess, deserving of my loyalty and devotion, I could only see her as my former Mistress, who held me down in the kitchens as she took my gift.”
“AS SHE RAPED ME!”
“So really, it’s not my fault that I caved her head in with a rock. No, Father, not my fault at all. Not when it’s her fault that she couldn’t stand the sight of me around the catsle any more. That it’s HER FUCKING FAULT that I was kicked out of the only home I’d ever known and left to find my own way with only the clothes on my back.”
“Her fault, Father. Not mine.”
Ha! Somehow I don’t think so, otherwise he wouldn’t be hiding her at all.
She couldn’t stand the sight of me. Now she doesn’t even seem to recognize me. Would that make it all better? If she acknowledged me? To her I’m just another thief, she probably thinks I do it for fun. Fuck her. Maybe I should tell her we grew up together. That my Mother served her Mother. Was the woman killed alongside her, trying to protect her from people like me, hired by the Abbess.
Or is that the route I should take? Shop her to the Abbess? The reward is supposed to be huge.
No. As much as I despise her, my Mother would never have stood for that. She’d’ve killed me herself.
So I’ll just sit here in my chains, and hope that the Abbess’s assassin’s find her before I finally snap.
After all, I would hate for my Mom to be mad at me.
4. The Dancer (The Assassin)
I always did love to dance.
When I was young, anyway. Nowadays, not so much.
When I was young, I danced to a different beat every second of every day!
Now the beat is always the same, and the people the Abbess sends me to dance with don’t like my moves.
(And have you ever tried to dance on blood-soaked marble?)
I just want to dance a proper dance again, with a partner who wants to, and wants to do it again (and again!, and again!).
Now the Abbess wants me to find the Princess and dance with her.
I used to dance the best with her, when we were growing up.
But now I really don’t want to.