C is for Cinders

There’s one too many Ariellas in our family estate, even if it’s the name my mother gave me. I’d rather be Cinders while sitting in those very cinders, leaving the drafty chateau to my angry, ambitious stepmother. She claims the only true Ariellas are herself and her daughter. Her daughter can have my name, along with anything else she wants of me. Ever since she stood up to her mother for my sake, I’ve been willing to give her anything. I live for the days I tickle her feet into their glass slippers, stroking her ankles.

How can my mistress, my Ariella think I’d prefer a prince to her? The prince is not my reason for wanting to go to his ball. If only I had an opportunity to show her my true motivation for wishing to attend. If only I could show her.

B is for Byron

All I can claim is the name of poet from a lost world outside Paradise, as does Shelley. Those names shape us, giving our voices strength. For we cannot keep ourselves or each other. Our songs belong to the grim city of Paradise. Our voices are but part of a heavenly choir, raised for the glory of Goddess.

We cannot help trying to claim our voices, allowing them to become one. The forbidding face of Paradise will not allow it.

We are cast out into the arms of Ruthvyn, one of the pale lords. In his labyrinth, his palace; we lose sight of each other. We lose ourselves again and again.

We may become nothing but dolls and toys, as his other songbirds and pets have.

I must reforge myself into something stronger, something I can use. I must become someone who find a way out of the maze of our lord’s estate, which is as much a part of our minds.

He’s already shaping us into what he wills. If he does, all we ever could have been will be his.

Paradise and Lord Ruthvyn have claimed so much of Shelley and I. I sense with all my being this claim is theft, no matter what powers sternly chastise me with the gospel that we belong to ourselves.

I will not let them steal the future, or our dream of freedom. I will cling onto them with every shred of the self I fight to maintain.

No matter what madness tries to warp me, I will hold on.

A is for Amberwyne

I used to know who I was. Beloved student of a powerful sorceress. Eager to serve. Eager to learn.

A taste of her jealousy and anger directed at an artist whom I did no more than smile at drew me away.

Her curses pursued me, lying in wait upon a journey I felt compelled to take.

I was compelled. Compelled by my creator. Compelled by the dice.

For my companions and I are nothing more than the creations in a game, an opportunity to roleplay and express the passions lurking in their hearts.

I’ve tasted the passion in my creatrix’s heart. I exist, because of her.

I want to help her express this passion. I want to help her live her dreams.

Perhaps I should resent being part of her game, as Fidessa does. She’s determined to strike out at these girls who created us, particularly the Game Master who designed her.

I feel that the players are the thing, what makes us important. I want to use my connection to my player, Rhane, to help her. To save her from the curse my sorceress has put upon her dice.

She’s not the only one who can use the dice’s rolls to their advantage in this game. She’s not the only one who can reach out of our imaginary world to touch our creators.

I just hope Rhane listens when I do.