Vertigo [Forum Challenge: Quess]

"Quess?" A fuming Rachelle Esdale was stomping through the uppermost floor hall of the Esdale manor. "Quess!" the more demanding tone echoed through the nearly empty house, flinging open the doors to the music study where a young girl of ten was dressed in a flamboyant and colorful dancer's garb that mimicked something far more harem than courtly. Hardly suitable for a woman of age, let alone a child of highborn society. "I thought I told you t-- What the hell is this?"

The girl seem unperturbed, spinning gracefully on the balls of her feet to model her cherished new gift, "Is it not gorgeous? Adyana made it for me." Quess were anything but contrary. She was quiet and understated, everyone adored her. She was often brought about to parties as a little showpiece of talent and adorableness that her father's acquaintances and their wives just ate up. A point that didn't annoy her elder sisters as it might have most siblings. The eldest, Sorynn, was easily the favorite; Rachelle absolutely adoring her and Raegnold openly having high hopes and expectations of a proud father for her. While Lark was the anarchist tomboy who didn't rightly care what the family nor society thought of her, and thus was in trouble the most. Yet... when it came to mother, Quess was the quickest to bring Rachelle to anger. As such, an event like this brought out the absolute worst out of her.

The anger steamed through Rachelle's every pore. Her thoughts telegraphed to the world by the fury in her eyes: That damnable half-gypsy her husband was screwing, brought in under the guise of teaching Quess some courtly dance steps was apparently taking many other liberties as well. "I want it destroyed! Get that filth off immediately!"

The young one could hardly understand, "But father sa--"

The woman's shriek filled the upper floor with her fury, "Get it off before I burn it off, you little whore!" A violently trembling hand reached for a candlestick from an end table, proving she weren't simply being colorful.

The girl's face contorted to pouted rebellious indignation, stomping toward the door to head for her room to change. "Fine." Unwise challenge spewed forth a second later out on the landing of the third floor balcony, "This is why father does not let you raise us. You have no appreciation for anything but yourself." She rarely spoke up against her mother's anger, but this time she was tired of it. She saw no reason for all the anger, she saw nothing wrong with her gift nor had she done anything to warrant such outbursts yet again.

All at once, Rachelle cleared the space between them and slapped across the girl's cheek hard enough to spin her sideways, the subsequent yelp echoing to the floors below. From there, a fist gathered into the back of the decadent excuse of clothing to hold her tightly, shoving her forward toward the stairwell to dangle Quess at a precarious angle so that at the slightest misstep of stretched toes grasping for footing or release of elder's fingers would cause her to plummet into a lengthy roll down marble steps. "You will not be disrespectful to me, you wretch. You owe me your very life."

Nothing else was heard after that, though the frenzied screams continued to chastise her. Muddied darkness surrounded every sound, all the further compressed under a searing whine that made her head throb in time with her ever quickening heart. It wasn't the first time such an experience had taken her, nor would it be the last. She didn't blink, staring down at swirling staircase that began to take on a life of its own, the resemblance to gnashing teeth was uncanny. Her lips moved in chant but not even a whisper of sound came out. I am sorry, mother. I am sorry, mother. I am sorry, mother.

Time felt like it had stood still for her, refusing a reprieve, until thick broad arms suddenly snatched her into security from behind, her shock too deep to realize she'd been saved. The brawny young commander Jakob Vanderveldt secured her against his chest, scowling at the woman who nearly tried to kill her as said Rachelle stared right back at him in startled horror. Raegnold Esdale and several other of his knights were just behind as new yelling began between two voices. She screaming in rage about the half-gypsy whore he were letting stay in the castle and teach their daughter such awful things. He berating her about her non-stop onslaughts of hate and contempt, particularly about Quess.

None of this 'conversation' registered with Quess. The poor girl stared blankly at the wall while Jakob vigilantly carried her to her room, away from the chaos, while whispering words of protection into her ear. It wasn't his voice she heard, however; it was the often spoken words of her father, generally accompanied by a finger under her chin. Smile, Quess. Perhaps it went without saying that the young commander was unsettled by the contrasting peaceful draw of her lips and dimples, all while the far-gone stare into nothingness remained. Smile.