Chapter Text
Milla had never seen a dead body before, much less one that she had drained the life from - honestly, she didn’t even remember killing the frail girl, all she really knew from the night before was she had gone to a tavern on the western side of town and heard a sickly, mousy girl wailing on and on and on about democracy to a group of dopey onlookers as she delt out poorly constructed flyers – pathetic really – then she remembered the putrid girl mosey on over to a group of greasy men as puny as she was, then she had the audacity to spurt her democracy nonsense to them. Then she briefly recalled drinking some mead- quite strong, very delicious- and, well she didn’t necessarily remember anything else from that night until now when the sun had rudely awoken her in a shallow ditch, next to the puny girls dead carcass with a dagger lodged in her mutilated throat.
Honestly, served her right.-Democracy? What a joke. Who did this disgusting serf think she was?
Well, it didn’t really mean much now anyway. The problem was fixed and her future was saved. Though, this problem did pose one question- if the serfs knew of democracy who else did? And what would its supporters do in search of the foolishness?
Milla dusted off her crimson petticoats and plucked the small strands of grass from her horribly deshevilled hair, she wrenched the dagger from the girls throat and begun her walk back home.
The walk was not particularly interesting or too far from the local tavern she had been in the previous night. Though there was undoubtably one highlight to her walk home, Milla was able to see, just beyond the golden horizon was an impressively constructed castle of stone and embraced within ivy. It was and always had been the highlight of her day, to even gaze upon the castles unmatched beauty was powerful.
Milla's chambers were a relitively small affair, fitted with mahogany flooring and a four poster bed- it was okay but lacked any real personality. That was until Milla had lined the walls in newspaper clippings and connecting red thread, not only was it a touch of decoration, the manic ravings were also practical. You see, Milla was in search of something, something which only existed in the corners of reality, sewn into the seams of one's perception- at least those were the ravings of the lowly local serfs- and Milla. She could feel it, she was so close to figuring the beast out, to asking for its help- so close to her inevitable future. The answers lay just before her, all she had to do was reach out and seize her destiny.