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Emitter: Myrtle Snow
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Myrtle Snow experiences a chilling vision of fairy tale monsters.
February 13, 2017
Rowanwood
Another fine evening at Rowanwood, with particularly wretched weather beyond its bounds, finds the Witches' Council plus one, all assembled in the warm, comfortable drawing room: Fiona sits practically flung across one of the chairs, near Nessa in another by the fire, gazing into its dancing flames. Quentin, in a rare sociable mood it seems, sits on the couch, reading. That leaves Myrtle, to stand behind her theremin, gesturing with almost inhuman grace, to coax out its own strange and haunting song.
Fiona looks at the martini glass in her hand with an appraising sort of gaze, then takes it to her lips, carefully tipping it to drink a mouthful. "Nessa, stop her before she launches into her Grand Funk medley," the Supreme quips, though she at least mostly doesn't mean it. It's become something of an obligatory protest for Fiona. Somebody help her, she's learning to appreciate the theremin.
Maybe because of the weather, maybe from the night, a mild malaise, or other matters weighing heavily upon her mind, the comment only produces a faint, almost distant smile at the corners of Nessa's mouth. She looks up to Fiona, to acknowledge that she's spoken and Nessa heard, before her eyes return to the fire.
And a short distance away, Myrtle sways in place, hands gliding through the air, a wave and a flourish and a twirl of the fingers. She is in a place, practically a trance, or what creative types might call a "flow": the music comes easily, effortlessly, without need for thought. She feels it, she moves it, and she brings it forth.
That may be why it's so subtle when it gradually eases into a decidedly minor key. Myrtle's humming, normally faint, finds itself decidedly harmonized by the retreating ripples of the theremin's hum.
And then her entire mien changes too, and her voice is easy to hear, even though she's barely murmuring the words. In her typical way, she enunciates exactly, clearly, singing along in a sort of counterpoint to the accompaniment.
"Can't even shout, can't even cry."
Nessa, still gazing dreamily into the fire, only seems to hear the words belatedly, as if they were delayed in reaching her. Her eyes refocus in a snap.
"The Gentlemen are coming by."
Fiona pauses, with a speared pearl onion barely inches away from being devoured. She slowly turns her head to look back into the room, then over to Nessa.
"Looking in windows, knocking on doors. They need to take seven, and they might take yours."
And at that, Nessa pushes to her feet with a tempestuous mixture of emotion churning visibly through her mind and expressed on her face. Gaze steeled, she steps just to in front of the theremin, watching as Myrtle moves almost automatically. She doesn't say anything, not yet.
Quentin's eyes widen, lifting his head and very nearly fumbling the book in his hands. Once he catches it, careful not to slam it shut, he quietly sets it aside on the empty cushion next to him.
"Can't call for mother. Can't say a word. You're going to die screaming, but you won't be heard."
The last few notes hum forth from the theremin, drifting to hang in the air and then fading slowly. Myrtle stands stock-still in place, utterly silent.
"Your lyrics really need work." Fiona shatters the tense silence between them all, finally sliding up to walk over and join Nessa. "Cut an album, call it avant-garde. What the hell was that about?"
Nessa shakes her head, still not having found the words yet. As if the topic alone had stunned her to silence.
Cautiously remaining a few steps away, just in front of the couch, Quentin all but hovers behind Nessa. There's concern on his face for his Aunt Myrtle, but he doesn't say a word either. He doesn't dare, in case it's part of something greater, something he must not disrupt.
Myrtle finally, thankfully, seems to come out of it when Fiona breaks the lingering ambiance, almost as if waking from a dream. "Oh. Je t'en prie, I do believe I had a moment."
Nessa suddenly reaches out to take Myrtle's hand in her own, rubbing the back of it and giving her an encouraging smile. "I think...you could use a good drink. Why don't I put on some spiced wine? That'll help you sleep."
There's something nagging at the back of Fiona's mind. She's sure this means something, which will probably make it necessary for her to actually do something about it at some point. But for now, she just shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and walks back to sit in her chair again.
Myrtle offers an almost apologetic smile as she goes, but when Nessa moves off too, the redhead frowns in a way so unlike her. She can't recall the entire thing, but snatches of it, little wisps, cling to her memory. She almost never regrets having a free creative wellspring, but this time it meant she wasn't really paying attention to something that might have been very important. Something that clearly affected Nessa -- who for whatever reason isn't explaining -- something that alarmed the others, maybe even frightened them. But one question remains in her mind, as she switches the theremin off with a sharp click.
Who the devil are the Gentlemen?