005 [Four and Twenty Blackbirds]

[a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com]

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye...

[Drusilla is lying on her back, and, although she is gazing up at the 'ceiling', she doesn't seem to be looking at it.]

I don't have any rye in my pockets. I gave it to little Anne, so she could sow it in the garden. Stitching the soil until we had a full crop. I can't eat it. It sticks in my throat, stealing all my words.

They're all I have left now. Words and words. They chase me around, and I try to catch them. I can't remember which ones belong to me.

You can't bake blackbirds into pies. It's wicked. You'd have to clip their wings first, and isn't fair to stop people from flying.

[She spreads out her arms.]

I used to fly. I've lost all my pinfeathers, and my tummy is rumbling. There's nothing left to fill it.

OOC: Drusilla is hungry. Unfortunately, her experiment is still underway, so she is finding it rather hard to feed.

Comments

[a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com]

I think I'd have to find you a beautiful present when I'm better.

[madamemoiselle]

{That makes her laugh a little, but she nods her head before she drops off the plane. It's a minute or so before she returns, but she returns with a pair of elegant wine glasses, filled with blood instead of a red wine like they're suited for}

Hopefully this will be fine.

[a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com]

[Drusilla doesn't move until she returns, but sits up slowly when she sees the glass.]

Is it real? Or is this dream? Will is vanish when I take a sip?