How mysterious.

Those poor little children.

They're probably crying, positively weeping, for their anxious mothers: poor things, poor things.
Oh, if only I had children. Little darling angels.

And wouldn't they be pretty.
And wouldn't they be sweet.

Where have all my loved ones gone?

And I wonder. What does blood mean to you?
Emotions, sentiments, small and cruel fondness?

No cure for curiosity. Come on, children, I value your opinion.

Naughty, naughty, that jaunty jester.
I think he's handsome, though.

This city becomes more stunning everyday. I don't quite understand the accusations of it being a dirty, corrupt, three-layered disaster. 

As if I would allow such qualities in my home.
Just stunning. Wonder how one could possibly be able to go about any improvement. 

Suggestions?

Oh, dear.
There go my bluebirds.


And I spent such time on them, too.




{ooc: bellatrix, being a very bored housewife with not much to do, has her experiments and pets. one, a cellar full of pretty birds she's idly gathered to resurrect for her own amusement. but a spell shook up the windows of the cellar she kept them in, and they've all flown out. feel free to have your pup notice half-decayed or otherwise creepy birds flying about the city.}

This is all very boring. And the ballerinas are dead.
The ballerinas. Are dead.

Best be something preoccupying soon, or they'll be blood and rhetoric.
Blood is compulsory -- they're both blood, you see.

Did you know that the House of Black is wicked and ancient, pruning up and down the past and cutting itself one by one and one? It's true! We need filth to preoccupy ourselves, I need something to wipe clean and cool. Who wants to be pure? I'm the most noble, most pure, we'll play apprentice. Hm?

Oh. The people have lost their homes.
So sad.

Scavenging wreckage, perhaps, tonight. There are only so many entrails one can see expelled from ancient bodies on paper before apathy sets in. But Terra's a bit broken, yes? Not all magic is natural - there's plenty of cracked photos, lost beloved pets, home-souls to collect down in Terra. Could sell some for any trinket, I suppose.

Your Countess; she hides her ignoble pursuits well.

Oh, if only the Hatter was a pure as a sacrifice and I was a widow. Only one of these things can be arranged.

Too many suicide bhūts up here in the sky. I just dispose of them. It's wrong to rid the world of a ghost, but they're so irritating, so pale and lost, sad eyes. Stop mourning. Dead things pretending. Disgust me.

And I have a life to occupy. What to do, what to do this weekend, these little days? How about a ball, lovely scum? Would you like a ball, some masks? Pretend to be Venetian.

Yes. I'll throw a ball. A dance for the masses.
A holy thing.




[In Indian belief, bhūt is the general term for a malignant ghost, specifically the spirit of a man who has died by accident, suicide, or capital punishment. It has no shadow, speaks with a nasal twang, and is afraid of burning turmeric. yeah, bellatrix tortures & rids the world of ghosts. she's a bit excessive with her hatred like that.]