Fright, Fascination, and the First Time in the New World

The same image plays through my head as I—the housekeeper of Nethos estate, Morticia Todd, slumber:

~"Master no! Let us fight with you. We are your humble servants; it is our duty--our purpose!"~

And every time I call out, and every time the echoing of the lesser servants' pleas, he does not turn back to us with acceptance—but out of prideful care. I reach out my hand, as far as it can go; and I reach even further than that as my fingers pull forward, only for him to be gone. Gone and with nothing left but kind words that feel so out of character, despite hearing it at least a thousand times:

~"Sofia, while I may be a master of the dark arts, I cannot guarantee all of your safeties, so please... forgive..."~

And he would vanish as he always does; a flash of light followed by a painful darkness. And in that darkness, I sleep, along with what I assume the rest of the house. But that is not whatsoever guaranteed. Please, Master! Let there be some sign of a change of fates, let me wake up so I may once again serve you! I am one of your strongest eldritch creations! Let me make sure that the house is kept, the servants competent, and the world yours!...

But alas, I still slumber, still waiting within the catacombs of my mind. Oh, how it would be if this eternity in darkness would at least be occupied by dreams... How much sweeter would hell present itself if I was left prepared for such tasks. Master, I was not taught how to dream but only how to act, and so, through the eternal darkness, I beg that your task be done!...

Yes... let your task be done. If not for the war, if not for the pettiness of your peers we would all be awakened. If not for their desire to harm you would be here to lead your servants and further your ambitions, all whilst you let us bask in that light as your benevolence would entail! If not for your kindness, I would not see you this cruel... How you shame me by keeping me prisoner and not by your side...

And so my thoughts would continue to wander in this routine; dancing around the master's existence as I wait for his return. Counting the seconds, but at the same time not knowing if even one has passed. But at least there has been enough for an eternity to...

And so I wait...

And wait...

And wait...

And wait...

And in my mental silence, disrupting my eternity of darkness lays a simple crack in this dark box. My eyelids open slowly, taking in the light of reality, of my next beginning of consciousness. I feel tired and sore; like waking up from a long nap—which arguably happened—but could that darkness really be called sleep?

I attempt to move, seeing as I am most likely alive and awake; nothing happens in the first moments—I just lay there, staring at whatever it is that covers me, as well as the light of freedom. But this idleness feels like nothing; no wait can feel as long as then. And with eager but respectable desire, I once again wait, smiling in my mind as change has fallen upon me.

...

That wasn't that long... Maybe only a few minutes, but I could feel my mental grin begin to manifest and react on my face. I then feel a twiddling in fingers, feeling the surfaces of my containment; cold but soft fabrics and cushioning lay beneath me. Next, the lower muscles within my feet persuade the toes and heels to feel around; I appear to not be wearing my shoes, but the stretchy material that contains them reveals to me that I am at least wearing socks.

I continue to test the further reaches of my body until the limbs and other parts regain their function. I flex my calves and bend my feet, pointing them sharp to their normal flexibility—it so far seems my range of flexibility has not been negatively impacted. I likely just need to wait and warm up; born again and testing my new wings as they dry like a caterpillar transmigrated into that of a butterfly. I begin to move my arm, raising it above my face and then feeling whatever it is that covers me.

I touch it, it does not feel like life but it is not cold like stone; the naturalistic lines that flow and wave through the material make me believe it to be that of polished woods. With the fabrics I lay upon, and the familiar presence I have identified my place of capture; my old box.

How many years has it been? I believe at least a century or two passed without my need to be placed in here—I believe I stopped sleeping in here once Master Nethos gifted me my own room, bed, and other comforts. But if I am back in my box, does that mean I am back within the storage room? Possibly, but at the same time, why would I be in my box anyway? Either way, I would proceed to entertain my curiosities and senses of duty as I pop off the lid of my box.

I gently place my hand upon the lid and push, at this moment completely unaware of how it would react. I expected a gentle entrance into the room that I would be welcoming myself into, but that expectation was not bounded in reality whatsoever apparently as the whole lid flew off of their hinges, hitting the ceiling and landing next to my box. The explosion in momentum would echo for an instant in the room, banging upon the ceiling as dust would rain upon me.

I closed my eyes before the incoming dust would infect them—soft little droplets landing on my face—and would begin to take in the situation once again. Calculating in my mind, I begin to think: "Oh my Master, did anyone see me do that; I know that if I was trying I can do amazing things with my magics and other skills, but that was so unlady-like. Did my limiter just go blank resulting in me using such brutal force? I really hope that no one saw this; they might be terrified seeing me reawaken this way."

Her face did not show the embarrassment as it remained in a still, cool, and beautifully stoic fashion. A few breaths are taken in to recollect her cool. And once that dignity is found again she finally raises herself from her box to see her surroundings.

It was not the storage compartment, but her room. The lid laid next to her on her bed, but Todd would hardly recognize it as her bed at first. It was covered in so much dust that she couldn't recognize it—never in all of her years of service has something under her watch been so unclean. It would take her exceptional levels of willpower to stop her from jumping out of her box and instantly cleaning everything before any sign of life can show itself. It was horribly unlady-like, and even less housekeeper-like. But cleaning wasn't her only skill, so she was aware that she had to first try to gain insight into the current situation.

First left, and then right—scanning meticulously, looking for anything off with her room other than the obvious mess. No movement, no noise—silence. It seems that there was nothing off about her room, except one thing.

She would double-back and go from left to right again to see if she was seeing things properly, and what would you have it—her eyes were right. Her room was practically empty. Where were the paintings? The mirrors? Her closet? "Do I have to actually find my other sets of uniforms and clothes?" All of it—nothing but her bed and her box were in her room; nothing that should be there that is.

Todd would step out of her box with cautious hesitation. The bed was rather tough under her feet, and as she lifted them she left dust footprints. They were probably one of the few signs of life that the manor has seen in a long time.

Unbeknownst to her at first, and luckily, it seems that her shoes were on the floor at the foot of her bed—strangely without dust. The floor, thankfully, had not gathered as much dust and so she would pat her socks clean and then slip them daintily into her shoes. They slipped in perfectly—made just for her. And with a buckle to hold them tight, she was ready to go.

Todd would then begin to head towards the door and peek outside to see the halls.

Around the corner, she'd look, and be met only by darkness there and nothing more…

At least the shadows were not much an issue for Todd; while the darkness of the mind blinds all, the innate magical properties of Morticia Todd allows her to see in the dark in a grayscale. It seems though that even before the discoloration of these once busy halls that they are currently lifeless. No movement to be seen, no sounds to be heard but the echoing of the door that has squeaked upon recent movement.

It has been so long since she has walked these halls, while she was ready to work at any instant, for the time interval that she was rendered pacified, all she could do was worry about things other than housework. But that is what she needed to do now; housework. It was far too dark to work properly and therefore she ought to get something done within these halls.

"So first I better get the lights going; as I can already see well enough to move, I ought not use magics to light anything else. But what else ought I need to do as I head to the furnace...While I know my pride I know when to be humble as well—I was rather panicked to some extent when awoken so I am sure that my lessers are as well. If any of them have awakened, I ought to keep account of them, as well as make sure that they are safe. Anything else?... Seems that's it."

Recalling positions and the mapping out of the manor, under the assumption that maze mechanics were not on; she ought to take a left towards the stairs, find the next few sets until the first floor is found, and then find her way into the basement. And obviously, she takes action.

Todd begins to walk towards her left, looking around to make sure and verify whether or not that she is not the only one who is currently conscious. 10 feet, 20, 40,80,160… No signs of life, other than herself. And specifically, herself as she catches her reflection.

Around a quarter's way into the top floor is a mirror that stands high at around 10 feet tall. It always was a bit intimidating for those who are of more modest sizes, but it was necessary for some of the taller guests. But before it is thought to be too excessively large; it does fit within the halls—while abnormal to many, unless the adaptive transmutative magics are on, the ceiling is many times 2 stories up for each floor.

But the transmutative fields can wait for now—right now the mistress takes a good long look at herself for the first time in a long time, and while no one is around to notice her procrastinations, she evocates a small light in order to admire her features:

As she meets her sharp blood-red eyes in the mirror, she sees that mastery of Nethos' creation. A braid on the sideline pulling into a ringed braid that holds her bun gently but firmly—all while flared with coal-black hairs that are sparkled and inspired by a few distinct white silver strands and locks that are mixed in. In contrast to the silver, a few golden clips add character, the most notable one being claw-like and holding on to the ring of braids. With her hair pulled up, her face and neck become visible. Her eyes are rather large, but they fit her features. A soft red covers her tender lips, pulling in the average admirer. Her nose has definition while not being too large or small, all while acting as the marking line of symmetry for the rest of her face's features. The beauty seen in her face is similar to that of a doll that would form scorn in vane women.

She touches her lips for a second, dragging her fingers down and across them as she slowly pulls it down to her neck. Fair as her face, and slender, it stems out from shoulders with a defined, though partly hidden, collarbone. But past there she shows no real skin on her upper body. But no skin is needed for her to be attractive.

She wears her usual daily attire. The top is a white blouse that hides her bust, home to little frills at the breast, some of which are hidden by a small black cape that rests on her shoulders and is closed near her heart. Slightly lower lays a black corset piece of her dress that is lined as well with bits of silver and gold—noticeably though the corset isn't that tight despite her shapeliness.

The bottom bits are that of a long skirt that hangs just above her ankles. Long white socks escape under her skirt and into her shoes—of which are delicate and polished black leather, defined with a buckle to tighten and for looks as well as a subtle heel.

Her hands themselves are dainty but visibly worn—minor calyces providing evidence—and upon them lay a few rings of gold each singly flavored with a single red, black, or white jewel. And as she looks at those fingers that have so much power at their tips, she snaps them as the light that was manifest goes out, returning to the realm of a gray world.

But the world would not be so dead for long, as suddenly, she hears a scream in the distance. While she would prefer to not be brutish on the off chance that important guests have made themselves known, it would be worst to not get her job done. But no matter what path she will take it will be perfect because anything less than perfect would hardly be that of the Mistress Morticia Todd.