骨の禍機 「Skullyton｜closed」

When she had put forth the notion to apply makeup on a skeleton, an absurd notion in its own right, she hadn't been quite sure what sort of reaction to anticipate. Perhaps he would clap his hands--can she even call those things hands?--together and giggle like a grandma who has smoked for her entire life with his childish voice, or maybe that she would have shush him to make him maintain his composure as to not alert the guests in any way or form of this, mildly put, unusual creature spelunking through the building.

But as she gazes into the vacant pits burrowed into the marble surface, gradually growing more accustomed to not looking for eyes to analyze and understand, the abyss seems to gaze back at her. There is something churning in there, in the darkness. Thoughts perhaps.

As she ponders and stares, the madam takes notice that the creature's jaw just starts to drop. No, drop is perhaps the most human way to refer to the freakish process; it flat out unhinges, descending to inhuman and frankly, ridiculous levels, craning beyond the sternum.

In the ensuing chaos, she is almost positive the world shakes and that the hooded figure is the epicenter. The sensation of the incessant clamoring in her ears can only be likened to what she imagines someone jammed a needle into the canals and pierced the drum, only to rummage around there for good measure, feels like. As to block out the sound, she tries to cover the sides of her head with her palms, and squeezes her eyes nearly shut. Why does it also seem like the area around her is shaking? Will it end? With a groan, she hunches her body instinctively to escape the situation.

However, as soon as the screaming does stop and ringing takes its place, cold enamel is upon her, wrapping around her, misshapen human silhouette clanking its forehead against her face. A muffled raspy voice voices its delight into her mouth. Among the words is profanity, foul language that causes her to flinch slightly where she's kneeling. In the distance, perhaps closer than she anticipates--the ringing is making it hard to make out sounds--she hears rustling and muffled voices. Drat, someone will be coming to see what's going on.

Eyes frantically search beyond the skeleton and around her. Someone seems to be approaching one of the doors nearby. What can she do? There is nowhere to hide and just trying to conceal the frame behind her would be nothing short of fishy. Her personal quarters is not far away, however.

So she does the thing she views as the most viable: she wraps her arms around the creature's slender frame, sinking deep into the robe as it tangles around the bare bones, and rises from her hunched position, causing the rattling bones to leave solid ground. He is as light as she had anticipated; he is only skin and bones after all. Uh, well, just bones. As fast as her footwear allows her, she ambles down the hallway towards her room, wood against wood creating chattering protests.

Judging by her current speed, she won't make it in time before someone sees them. So she employs a last ditch effort, something she would otherwise be hesitant to do near the presence of regular people. But today the rules are thrown out the window: she has received a visit from a skeleton of all things and she cannot let the denizens of the night palace know. With wind underneath her heel and in her back, the witch propels herself and her guest through the rest of the road, turning in the corners with blitzing speed and a seasoned equestrian's accuracy, the two zoom through the entry chamber, past his stick on the counter, and into her room, door slamming shut behind them, sheets spraying throughout the room.

She has time to clean up those later.

"Apologies for the ruckus, Mr. Red," she huffs, plopping his body down on a pillow while simultaneously pulling back his hood, which had slid all the way over his eyes during their flight, and rummages through a box underneath the window surrounded by scrolls and pieces of jewelry. "Regular people," the words are spat out with disdain. "Don't take kindly to people like you and me. People who don't conform to their normalcy."

An arm extends, pointing towards a row of candles. Sparks fly and light the wicks in consecutive order, from closest to farthest. The other still rummages, grabbing brushes and boxes, keeping the metal and wood afloat with her powers. "Magic is far from commonplace among the general population." Tomie closes the box, then heads over towards her guest, trinkets following her.

"Now then," she mutters, grabbing a plump kabuki brush before dabbing it into a bowl of white powder. "Sit still." With this instruction, she leans in, caressing the surface of his ski- Bone, bones, with the soft bristles. She knows putting this sort of powder on material that's already milky white is rather pointless, but she won't deprive Red of the full experience. Some of the excess makeup seems to make its way into his nostrils and eye holes. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Red. I don't think I can ask you to close your eyes."

With a last stroke across his forehead, she examines his visage from various angles. Well, he is certainly more chalky than before, that's for sure. Brushing out the remainder of the powder on her arm, Tomie then dips the same brush into a vibrant red mineral, rotating to cover the tips in the warm tones before taking aim on the skeleton's cheeks. "This will give your face some color." Pitterpattering along the clear contours of his face, the red streaks leave a healthy blush in its wake. She mirrors the same movements on the other side, placid smile still present.

"There we go," the whisper is mostly to herself, as she examines her work of art. He already looks more like a demure flower. What else, what else? Her eyes trail from the variety of makeup hovering in the air to the canvas she's working. Back and forth, eliminating various tools he would have no use for, sending them back to the box with mental commands.

She picks up a thin brush, dips it into a basin of dark brown liquid and inches closer to him, painting arches above his sockets. Once she leans back to properly assess her work, the madam lowers her brows slightly. This certainly doesn't look right. She has painted the eyebrows quite a bit above the sockets to not make them seem like they are hanging, but this just makes him look perpetually surprised, as if someone told him "Red, you're a skeleton". Well, she can't really wipe it off, nor does she need to; he won't be able to tell if he looks goofy.

And for the finishing touches, she dips a brush with bigger bristles into a fat saturated with vivid red and starts painting his mouth. Red doesn't exactly have lips, so lipstick is naturally going to look absolutely ridiculous on him and therefore there's no real point in trying to make it passable. The skilled fingers paint as if his teeth and the area above his mouth would have been flesh, traversing the bumpy surface while occasionally dipping the tool into the red ink when the color grows thin. The upper 'lip' becomes plump and thick, while the lower becomes more sullen, but still maintaining a good size.

It doesn't look half-bad from the front, as long as she pretends the teeth aren't there, but from the side, everything just looks like a crazy paint. The perpetual smile it gives him certainly does not help the eerie impression he gives off. Nonetheless, Tomie settles on this, knowing that her guest is likely starting to grow impatient.

"There we are," she smiles, commanding the remaining makeup back into the box; she can clean the brushes later. "All done. Don't touch anything, as it will smear. I'll get you a mirror." Turning her head towards the general vicinity of her makeup box, she scans the area for the metallic handle of her bronze mirror.

There. Unmistakable verdigris pokes through the layers of white sheets, prompting her to command it to come to her with a flick of her wrist, which it complies. It lands neatly in her hand and she examines herself in the reflection briefly, notes that her bangs are a bit out of place, before handing it over to Red.