Ten minutes. That's all she gives herself. Ten minutes to flee to the first empty room she can find, shove her back against the door, breathe in deep through her nose, out from her mouth. Not going mad. Not going mad. Of course, when she checks it, her watch has stopped, because what good will a battery do in fairyland?
Irene scrabbles at her wrist with red talons, suddenly enraged, wanting to grab it and throw it down and stamp on it—then she sucks in her breath again, calms herself. That's Gucci, she reminds herself, and it's got diamonds in it, and the mechanism is very complex, and you're going to want to have someone take it apart carefully and hawk the individual bits for as much as possible.
She's just done talking herself down from childish destruction when the door shoves forwards and she has to hurry away from it, turning. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she purrs, instantly snapping back to collected charm.
2.
Irene is all the better for seeing that others are all the worse. It's not sadism; it just calms her to see how many of her fellow feast-goers seem to be looking around in confusion or dismay, or frozen uneasily at the edges of the festivities, because hell, at least she can hide her own panic and use it to fuel her, not paralyse her. A hidden engine, working and grinding hard behind her charm.
She wants to prove her mastery over the situation, and touches the upper-arm of the nearest feastgoer to her who seems troubled; "Come on, darling. Let me get you a drink; you look like you need one."
LOCKET | VIDEO | OPEN TO BOTH COURTS
[The woman broadcasting holds the locket like a compact, tilting her head this way and that, pink tongue lapping red lips. Not a nervous movement but nervy, certainly; her expression is full of excited energy, and when she realises the locket is connected she flashes a grin like she's unsheathing a knife.
Her accent is English, expensively schooled, polished and bright.]
Oh thank God. Electricity's out, but communication technology's tip-top. I thought we were all going to be sundered from one another and have to talk face to face. Terrible fate.
Speaking of technology. [She raises her wrist, shows off a flash watch, its hands stilled.] Doesn't work anymore, sadly, and I'm not really too interested in repairing it, even if it could be done—ah—magically, or something. I'm looking for someone who can help me take it apart. There are precious stones in the face. [Diamonds, actually.] I'd like to repurpose or sell them.
irene adler // bbc sherlock // unseelie
1.
Ten minutes. That's all she gives herself. Ten minutes to flee to the first empty room she can find, shove her back against the door, breathe in deep through her nose, out from her mouth. Not going mad. Not going mad. Of course, when she checks it, her watch has stopped, because what good will a battery do in fairyland?
Irene scrabbles at her wrist with red talons, suddenly enraged, wanting to grab it and throw it down and stamp on it—then she sucks in her breath again, calms herself. That's Gucci, she reminds herself, and it's got diamonds in it, and the mechanism is very complex, and you're going to want to have someone take it apart carefully and hawk the individual bits for as much as possible.
She's just done talking herself down from childish destruction when the door shoves forwards and she has to hurry away from it, turning. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she purrs, instantly snapping back to collected charm.
2.
Irene is all the better for seeing that others are all the worse. It's not sadism; it just calms her to see how many of her fellow feast-goers seem to be looking around in confusion or dismay, or frozen uneasily at the edges of the festivities, because hell, at least she can hide her own panic and use it to fuel her, not paralyse her. A hidden engine, working and grinding hard behind her charm.
She wants to prove her mastery over the situation, and touches the upper-arm of the nearest feastgoer to her who seems troubled; "Come on, darling. Let me get you a drink; you look like you need one."
LOCKET | VIDEO | OPEN TO BOTH COURTS
[The woman broadcasting holds the locket like a compact, tilting her head this way and that, pink tongue lapping red lips. Not a nervous movement but nervy, certainly; her expression is full of excited energy, and when she realises the locket is connected she flashes a grin like she's unsheathing a knife.
Her accent is English, expensively schooled, polished and bright.]
Oh thank God. Electricity's out, but communication technology's tip-top. I thought we were all going to be sundered from one another and have to talk face to face. Terrible fate.
Speaking of technology. [She raises her wrist, shows off a flash watch, its hands stilled.] Doesn't work anymore, sadly, and I'm not really too interested in repairing it, even if it could be done—ah—magically, or something. I'm looking for someone who can help me take it apart. There are precious stones in the face. [Diamonds, actually.] I'd like to repurpose or sell them.
Thank you.