Snippet #1929576

While a fine and decorated carriage paraded singly through the winding streets of the city, no doubt drawn by fine and decorated horses, a doll child stood in the desecrated memory of the keykeeper's shop. For a time, it had stood beneath the strange memo as if in a trance. After all, there was nowhere to be but here, and that appointment was obviously delayed. Nothing spurred her from that spot while she thought and pondered this situation, for her curvy and slightly bowed legs would not tire, and neither would her back. Internally, she was in a space of pensive puzzlement. After all, there were many options for an explanation as to what had happened, and yet none of them seemed to make sense. Luckily, confusion was not quite so discombobulating to most dolls, and Dove was no exception. In fact, she was a fine example.

Slow, light steps brought the child back across the sodden, ashen floor, chopines crushing and grinding bits of charred wood beneath the solid soles. It was the toppled furniture that drew her attention now, the table with broken legs and a top covered in black powder. With a neat, perfunctory manner, Dove tucked the folded bit of reddened paper into her velvet coat and surveyed the faint staining on her little fingers. Were she but porcelain, that never would have happened. But chamois took a bit more work to keep clean. Another smooth, eerily slow reach had her reaching into a different pocket and seeking a small kerchief, but she paused before buffing her hand clean. The powder. She bent sideways with a quiet twang from an internal wire, and dragged two ruddy fingertips through the stuff, bringing them under her full-spectrum gaze for inspection. There was something familiar about it, and yet it defied naming in her mind. With a thoughtful frown, she cleaned her hand, rubbing the thin, soft hide clean, and tucked the stained part of kerchief into itself before putting it away. Were it the way of Dolls, she would have sighed as she clasped her small hands behind her back, resting them above the split of her coattails. She waited patiently for the rumbling of the conveyance to cease and wondered, shortly, who may be entering.

It was in this still position, with her back turned and her head of grey curls facing the door, that Raine would find the lamb. It did not move at the sound of her accusatory voice, it did not turn to eye her resplendent dress and immaculate porcelain. Away from the other Doll's golden gaze, Dove just smiled while she went on in clear frustration. What a haughty thing, and so impatient. Though the raven-haired figure's voice was stilted, so too was Dove's slowed, and so she did not truly have time to interject for any of the answers demanded of her, given her penchant for thinking before speaking.

Only when Raine moved quickly and stiffly to the expansive chest-of-drawers that kept the many keys that belonged to the numerous Dolls of the land did Dove's head turn; further to the right than a human's ever could, and with a low, quiet hiss of the socket. Those resplendent eyes were owl-like and hooded, and rest upon the opened drawer Raine stared into, aghast. Anger was tossed at the child doll, but it did not respond immediately, save the lifting of a shushing hand. The palm faced her, the fingers curled, though the index and middle raised higher than the others, as if reminding her of divine providence. Dove's eyes glided in her still, cherubic face, moving quickly over the pristine Doll before it with little attention paid to te ruffles of that fine dress, or the beauty in the sculpted parts. She was not concerned in the least. Her lovely, upturned purse of a mouth curled faintly at the corners, as she was made, and there was little drastic enough to wipe the smile from it. In fact, it widened ever so as she felt a twinge of pity for this pretty thing, and she spoke. "It is not." Her voice was lower than one would expect from a child, doll or human, and had a feathery huskiness to it. Considering her 'age' and appearance, it did not help one decide whether the curly-headed doll was male or female in intention.

Turning her diminutive body in direction of her face, Dove reached out and pointed to the far wall upon which hung an ouroboros and a note. "Look there." Her arm stayed stiffly raised, and one corner of her mouth tugged in a gentle, chiding smile. "Mind your dress, love." Her voice was faint in this empty stillness, hanging strangely in the air with its unaffected tone. With that velvet sleeved arm still raised, the little one looked down at her rosary, and it was only when she decided to reach for it that her hand was lowered. She cradled the clock in her palm, and the beads rattled quietly. With her eyes set fondly on the antique locket, Dove raised her brows piteously in concern.

"I hope you have some time, early one." -The term here related to Raine obviously being jointed, and there for senior to the jointless, whom she called 'new ones'.

"...not quite sure what has happened." With that, the genderless Doll raised 'her' face to Raine, that peaceful smile indelible.