Dramatic Monologue

“I heard what you said, fool. Wherever this assassin is, I want you and an army of twenty other guards to hunt him down. Do whatever you can.” Her voice was not delicate anymore, as anger rose from her.

Thank you for taking an interest in the role! I really appreciate it. — So I have some background for the Emilia role, but it's open to creative freedom. She, Brandon (me) and the Kit all grew up on the bad side of town (I haven't picked a location yet, as I wanted everyone's input once I got the group together) She and Brandon are very close, almost like siblings, and he's very protective of her; they have a relationship like Dom and Mia from Fast and the Furious.

The inn keeper's parlor was the best in town, they told her. His wife was wearing a heavy dress, adorned with lace and a massive broach that she raised a plump hand to touch, as if to be certain it was still there. They spoke of the massive rug, bought from Paris, and the finely crafted furniture they all sat upon. The preacher listened quietly, smiling as though their vanity wasn't a sin, while Mrs. Hartford eyed the dress with longing. Della thought that the dress was tasteless. The lace was poorly made, and the line of the bodice wasn't flattering. The fabric was an odd shade between blue and green, and the woman inside it was far less appealing. She didn't bother to mention that her own parlor had been filled with crystal, and priceless art her father had collected around the world. She didn't mention that her toys had cost more than Mrs. Johnson's gowns, or that she was mispronouncing the tea they'd been served. Not to be kind, not to be deceptive, but because did not matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She'd given up that life to marry Ben, given up her family, given up her home and her gowns and her education.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Times are changing, the people will change with them and not everyone can be expected to follow noble old traditions. Especially not when your target is the queens eye."

I awoke to beams of a dozen spotlights, my vision gradually adjusted to the brilliant white light which illuminated everything around me. The realization that I had fallen asleep during rehearsal caused my eyes to widen in utter shock and confusion.

The air reeked of alcohol, the intoxicated breaths of young people colliding together over drunken slurs to create one distinct scent. She kept her head low as she made her way through the maze made by the seemingly endless crowd. Full of regrets, she was doing all she could to get out of there, the distraction turning out to be nothing more than a few drinks with people who didn't even know when her birthday was. The song finished abruptly, followed by simultaneous cheering. She kept moving, weaving in and out of people with fierce determination until she walked right into him. She murmured a quick apology and went to continue when the familiarity of the figure in front of her hit. She hesitantly looked up, heart dropping into her stomach at the mere sight of him.

“Yes, but thats not the point. You’ve made yourself noticed twice today. Thats not good.”

Nothing was heard, only the water droplets that drops from the crack ceiling. Making a small puddle on the ground, having mice roaming around the place.

“You sound like you were expecting to have me killed,” Chandler the Fair muttered in a sarcastic tone.

“Concentrate, Aiden!” He clapped his hands. “Please you really need to focus. This is important. Children have to be careful when they venture into the forest. There’s a pack of wild, voracious wolves with gaping mouths reeling with fangs and forked tongues each as thick as my wrist. They roam the woods, ten feet or more, and then hung in the trees, breathing raggedly tasting your scent, considering how best to devour you. As a matter of fact only, the other day several of them snatched a baby elf out of its sleeping mother’s arms and thrashed the poor little dear to pieces.

"I'm a mage, did you actually think I wouldn't notice?" Allison chuckled, shaking her head at Braeden who blushed.

When I returned to the “Petit Salon”, the atmosphere was more collected. Dame Chaboix had convinced Henri de Valfort to accept to be “the 4th hand”, and they were now, playing bridge with Santéglise and Saturnin Valloix. The Baron was watching them with a detached interest. Holding a glass of cognac in his hand, he stood in front of the table, on the Dummy’s side. When he saw me enter, he put down the glass on the nearby pedestal table which occupied a corner of the room, then, he looked at his watch (mine indicated 11:30 PM), and he came over to speak to me.

I felt the sticky, sweet summer air plaster my clothes to my perspiring body, the wood of my violin getting dangerously damp as I cranked out note after note; a mechanical doll spinning slowly around my room as I performed to nobody but myself and the smell of mochi rising from the kitchen.

"Deadly enough?" She taunted. She backed off and said, "The names Natasha, what's the job?"

Xina turned back and studied the room behind her mask. Her fingers prickled for action as she licked her lips like a lioness stalking it’s pray. Her hawk eyes assessed the noble men that strode with purpose, and couples that danced a slow allemande. Women in vibrant gowns floated past her, whispering under their fans. For they, as everyone else, believed that Xina was a just blind maiden.