Fable - Ask What Lies Beneath

A roleplay which may be open to join but you must ask the creator first
Character Biography
"You're late."

Emelia winced at the tone in her father's voice as she slipped in the back door. The sun was already dipping below the horizon, sky painted in fire to the west and ashes to the east. She did not answer her father, either. He was not happy that she was late. Probably because it wasn't the first time this week, and definitely not the first time this month.

Anger smoldered deep within. She showed none of it on her face. She smiled brightly through a skillful painting, her appearance as true as the emotion displayed. She waved a hand haphazardly towards Papa as she headed to the closet where they kept the clean aprons. Papa went back to the current project - the drains again, always the drains - without a second glance at his daughter. He only looked at the outside, and never further.

She knew he loved her. He had to; she was all that he had left of mum. She couldn't understand why he couldn't see that she was suffering. She couldn't stand the fact that even if she could speak, she couldn't. Not really. Papa couldn't be brought into the nightmare that was her life and had been for years.

She just wished she had someone to turn to, to confide in. May as well wish for a prince or for a happily ever after while she was at it. She was as likely to get either.

Emelia swept into the common room with a slight limp. She wore a high-necked dress of plain linen with a white bodice and delicate embroidery round cuff and collar. Her layered skirts were black and grey. She was wholly unremarkable in the setting. Just another pretty lady in a dress serving tables. Only her eyes were truly remarkable, luminous and pale; different colors danced in the irises. They made a fine, round face into something more than it would have been otherwise.

It had been a bad morning when Reph had come home. It looked like this evening was going to be more of the same, the tables thronged. The Mistral Refuge was not a tavern, so to speak; it served mostly middling travelers and merchants. It was a place to stay that was clean and with decent food and beds, well away from the usual riff raff common in other parts of Alliria. It was more boisterous than usual this evening, a bard (or at least a musician) playing something upbeat and light on a dulcimer in the corner. The music didn't suit her mood, but it didn't matter. There were at least two dozen people out here. Most were engaged in animated conversation with one another either over meals or waiting for them.

"About time ye put in an appearance," one of the few other hired hands said wryly as she slipped past her toward the kitchen. Myra was much more what you would expect from a tavern wench; full curves and a mouth that pouted even when it didn't. Her lilting voice was just what Emelia didn't need to hear tonight. "I've got most of 'em sorted, but the tables at the door've jus' come in."

Emelia said nothing. She never said anything, or near enough never. It was a failing of hers, and a damned inconvenient one given what she did for a living.

Her eyes followed Myra for a moment, face soured by a scowl. With a wince for unseen bruises she went to her work for the night, the scowl replaced with something that almost looked like a smile.