Index Entry: The Beauty

Dorothy sighed; not exactly excited about the prospect of seeing a certain someone the next day. One day short of a week had passed since those goons had attacked, and the damages they had left behind were already under scrutiny by the local Constable. Given who's fields those were, the possible ramifications of a full investigation by the McDonalds would likely result in at least a Squire being sent from Roundtable... likely Dorothy's sister. Dorothy would have to talk to Bellodor by the next day, at latest.

"The McDonalds are quite the family, I must say. A linchpin of Grimmarchen like them are not to be underestimated; simply because their power comes from grains and cattle." The Hood spoke in her mind; as if she didn't know this already.

"I'm not Cuu, Miss Margo. I know of strengths beside muscle." She huffed, flicking through the pages of her Index.

There she found a page, stylized as per usual, with a finely dressed woman looking over a rose; held in glass.

The Beauty.

Stories: Beauty and the Beast.

Allies: The Beast. Furnishings.

Enemies: The Charming.

Banes: Fate-Bound. Romance. The Cursed Rose.

Boons: Fate-Bound. Supporting Cast. Odd-Lovers.

Details: The Beauty is notably the weakest of all Heroic Tales; being Fate-Bound with a Tragic Tale known as The Beast, they are often killed long before any sort of notable accomplishments or crimes. If The Beast has not been created as The Beauty is alive, their power is further diminished. The Cursed Rose that creates this other Tale is likely to appear before them at some point in their lives; a Object-Based Tale that is required for The Beast to come into being. Should The Beauty be pierced by one of it's thorns, they will more than likely die immedietly, as one cannot carry two Tales at once.

The Beauty has the power to animate inanimate objects; which can speak, think, fly, and even possess something akin to a soul. Should The Beauty's power be diminished by The Beast's lack of existance, however, they will be little more than shambling furnishings that can follow basic verbal commands.

The Beauty is prone to quickly developing romantic feelings; causing them to often spur other lovers the second another, stranger possible partner appears. This mental oddity can only be quelled by genuine, mutual love with another person; something that takes far too long to develop for most who carry the Tale of The Beauty.

"What's this?" Dorothy asked, looking at where "Origins" would sometimes appear at the bottom of the description text.

Notification by the Narritive. The location of The Cursed Rose is currently unknown, but was last spotted by scouts in the possession of the terrorist organization known as Ever-After. If any currently active Watchers locate one of these individuals carrying the tale of The Beast; notify Roundtable as soon as possible.

"The Narrative; they are the organization that write and control the contents of the Indexs within Grimmarchen." The Hood closes the Index. "I can alter our own Index somewhat, but not to the same extent; hence why some information is... hidden."

"I see." Dorothy sighs, putting away the Index into The Hood's folds. "So the information in this thing may not even be accurate?"

"Indeed. That is what makes Tales so dangerous. Even Storytellers may never know what they are truly capable of."

...

Bellodor topped off another glass; looking over at the ruined painting that had been returned the other night, as if by magic. Each second he spent even moderately sober felt like agony as of now, first with the theft, now with the fields... and this. The blasted thief had returned his property, but in this state? He might as well burn the damned thing.

"What am I going to do..." He whispered under his breath, his chocolate brown hair no longer tied back as it usually was; now covering his face. "Mother will disown me at this rate; I can't find a wife like she wants, I can't bring in a harvest without it being ransacked, I can't even... think!"

He was half tempted to toss the glass across the room after downing it's contents; but his senses returned to him as his grip tightened. The small life he had granted it belonged to it now, not him. He felt ashamed of even thinking of harming the poor thing.

"Glass, go wash yourself and be with your friends." He wheezed; his eyes burning as he tried to get a grip on his flailing emotions.

The little thing scooted across the counter, and down the little ramp Bellodor had purchased for the sink. The sink, knowing what to do when a glass came it's way, poured forth some steaming water, as the dish-rag pulled itself over to get ready to dry one of it's many friends. Bellodor watched this, and his his heart steadied. He may have hated himself; but never could bring himself to hate these little lives he could make.

Unlike his Mother...

He could still heart the sounds of cracking wood, cut strings, or shattering glass whenever he was being punished; be it as a child, or as a young man. Another little life, snuffed out; all because hadn't made his bed properly, or because he hadn't used the proper fork to eat his loveless meal. The whole reason he jumped at the opportunity to come to this little, sleepy town was to get away from that horrid woman... but now she had even more control over him. She was the one funding every aspect of his life; and now he had expectations well beyond what these fields were likely to provide.

It was a trap, of course; he knew that. She had sent him out here to fail, for an excuse to cut her failed firstborn out of her will; out of her family. He'd be on the streets, in the middle of nowhere; no skills or value beyond meager party tricks. The only chance he had was to find a wife, but in that he had sorely failed. Dorothy Oswald, the Doctor in town, was the only woman his age; but there was no love there. He had tried to **** himself to like her, but it was as if Fate itself denied his usually fickle heart. Then, that woman with the cat ears dropped by; his heart fluttered as it used to, back at the balls and dances he was **** to attend in her earlier youth. He just couldn't...

No. He could have resisted. He failed to resist any temptation. He looked over at the bottle of wine he had been sipping a few small glasses from; tapping it, and granting it life.

"Bottle, come with me."