There among the crowd, a young ebony woman could be found waiting to be called at center stage. Dressed in an elegant attire, she seemed less than thrilled to be on this side of London. Which is not a farce.
Although Amelia would like to think of herself as a wise investor, she had begun to trap herself in a vicious cycle of sorts. She started fighting in the Black Ribbon circle but some fighters are not keen to a wounded battler. So in between training she downs vigor like a new ale and seeks medical attention when it’s serious. But both drain a lot of echoes.
Stealing though profitable had started to become tiring and with new faces she found it harder for people to seek her services. An odd thing to behold. She thought her notoriety would gain her more attention. But perhaps her keen skills in keeping to the shadows had hid her name as well. (Even if she claims to have broken far more legs to her spot as Master Thief.)
That left her with a few options. She could continue to aid zailors on their passage, whether it be guarding the docks or taking to zee. Although she had been doing such before, she began to feel weary and anxious over constantly seeing no action. (Or rather action that thrilled her.) This left her with her other option: Seeking payment through writing and the arts.
This option had been a tricky problem. Although she had been using an alias in her writings, she never went beyond that. Her research in the Brass Embassy was helpful and she had written a few Penny Dreadfuls before. Some of which she used her own experiences to pen. But if she ever wanted to push her work to a selling point, she would need to have her voice her and grip at the minds of the sophisticated. A seed of wonderment to be planted so her sales could skyrocket and hopefully make more than a scrap’s worth to manage by.
This is why she’s here. Annoyed in a dress but willing to give it a chance.
“And let us hear from our esteemed and upcoming writer, Lady Victoria!”
She jolts up before taking the stage, her hands gripped tight into a vice in front of her. But she keeps still. Her mind drifts as she looks outward at the stage, a vision of long ago flits by. She inhales deeply before starting her prose.
“O err doth man speak
In darkest points o Neath
A name that many seek
Damned and buried beneath
Through different veils and time
How many crawl about
Cornered by their crime
Filled with such doubt
What truth comes in form
When so many become lost
Speaks of hungers torn
Insanity the ultimate cost
O foolish men why continue on
There be so many pulled under
Why be the next one gone
Before the break o dawn”
Her voice carries a song like quality throughout. Once she finishes, she looks out to the crowd feeling a sense of dread but inquiry to what she may know. She simply bows and leaves the stage, adjoining the rest of the crowd as someone new takes the stage.
[ A dabble in which I introduce one of the other masks Amelia tends to don for profit. Anyone can feel free to comment about it OoC or even write an IC response to her interesting prose. ]