Undead Seamstress: Talk

Talk options for Marielle, the undead seamstress.

Main pastebin: https://pastebin.com/R0y2xebF



Completing talk options consumes time. Accumulating 2 or more hours of talking or lewding on a single temple visit or talking past her usual bedtime (22:30) will boot you back to camp. Lewd scenes each have their own variations for sending you back to camp, but talk options have a pool of random scenes instead, if one of them pushes you over either threshold. Booting is done by way of giving a [Next] button instead of bringing you back to the usual menu at the end of talk options, i.e. where I put the time indicators in this paste. If possible, the same variation should be prevented from triggering twice in a row.

> Normal booting scenes, chosen at random:

   //Variant 1:
Bringing a palm up to the side of her neck, Marielle idly massages herself, something like a sigh eventually leaving her lips as she does so.

\"<i>Ah.</i>\" Her eyes, previously half-lidded, jump open when she realizes what she's doing. \"<i>Pray pardon me. But, well, uhm... may we perchance resume this another time? I am afeard I am grown rather aweary... Not of, uhm</i>\"—one hand gesticulates in a circle—\"<i>you. But of... discourse. 'Tis wont to make me want for rest,</i>\" she says.

By the looks of it, she'll need that rest indeed, so you get ready to let her have it. The seamstress nods and flashes you a grateful smile when you say goodbye, rising to send you off with a neat curtsy in return.

\"<i>Thank you. A day most pleasant, I bid you, [name].</i>\"

You're not sure if the outside bog can be described as 'pleasant', but you make the best of it as you trek through it on your way back to camp.
//Back to camp

   //Variant 2:
These past minutes, Marielle has been looking increasingly distracted—tired, even—[if (insultedfather) {and she hasn't exactly been trying|despite some obvious efforts}] to hide it. It seems your prolonged company is taking its toll on the pallid seamstress, so you bring up the possibility of you leaving her be for now.

\"<i>Hmm? Ah.</i>\" It takes her another moment to consider and reply. \"<i>...[if (insultedfather) {Yes. Yes|Aye. Aye}], I suppose 'twould be wisest... Thank you, [name],</i>\" she says, standing up with you to lower into a brief curtsy.

\"<i>I, ah, hope your journeys be joyous, hereupon. And pray return whensoever you should wish.</i>\"

You reciprocate the farewell and make your way out of the temple and through the humid, inhospitable bog, towards your camp.
//Back to camp

   //Variant 3:
You've been talking and keeping her company for quite some time now, and it's becoming more and more apparent just how much energy that's taking out of the soft-spoken girl, the longer you're going on.

\"<i>Hmm, [name]?</i>\" she eventually says after massaging her palms and fingers yet another time. \"<i>May we mayhap prorogue any further, ah, converse? I believe I shall require some... respite ere we speak on. Should you, uhm, ever wish to, that is...</i>\"

Agreeing to leave Marielle to herself for now, you gather your things and say your goodbyes, for which you get a thankful nod as you both rise.

\"<i>Pray fare you well,</i>\" is what she sends you off with, neatly curtsying before you make your exit.

You see her cleaning her pince-nez when you throw a glance back, her two unoccupied hands fluffing up what you think is a small pillow. Looks like she'll actually take a break instead of going right back to sewing. You take off towards your camp to let her have that rest.
//Back to camp

   //Variant 4:
You've been here for at least two hours already, you think, and by the way Marielle is starting to gaze into a deep, imaginary hole, you doubt she's going to be responsive for much longer. Trying to pull her out of there, you tell her you'll have to get going.

\"<i>Huh?</i>\" She jerks up, blinking and reflexively adjusting her pince-nez. \"<i>Oh. Ah, yes, of course,</i>\" she says, getting up to curtsy to you. \"<i>Safest journeys upon you, then.</i>\"

After giving her your own farewell, you set out to trek back to your campsite through blood-sucking insects, thick morass, and wild, twisted vegetation.
//Back to camp

   //Variant 5:
Marielle seems like someone with a natural inclination for daydreaming, though her staring off into absolutely nothing right now and not even bothering to get rid of the hair dangling in her face is likely more than just that.

\"<i>Oh,</i>\" she softly exclaims when she pulls herself out of it at last. \"<i>Hmm, pray grant me pardon, [name], but may we mayhap, ah... conclude our converse here? A small repose, I ween, shall, ah, do much to enquicken me...</i>\" There's little sense in doing anything else. You get up and offer your farewell, which is met with a quick curtsy and a, \"<i>Thank you, and [if (insultedfather) {fare you well|Graces walk with you}],</i>\" before you turn to the temple's exit.

The girl has her nose deep in embroidery again when you take a peek back on the threshold; you guess that's her idea of taking a rest. You leave her to it and march back through the gnat-ridden swamp towards your campsite.
//Back to camp


> If time is advanced onto or past 22:30, chosen at random and prioritised over normal booting:

   //Variant 1:
A hand rises to cover up Marielle's mouth as she quietly yawns behind it. It's gotten fairly late, and that's beginning to reflect in the girl's eyes and posture.

\"<i>Ah... [name]?</i>\" she asks, speaking up before you do. \"<i>Loath am I to cut short our discourse here, but I, ah... I ween I should to bed anon... May we resume this upon another occasion?</i>\" There probably isn't much of a point in talking to her half-asleep, so you acknowledge that and stand up to leave.

\"<i>Much obliged.</i>\" She gives you a small bow before combing back the wide veil of hair that has fallen over her face.

\"<i>I bid you good night, then, and... safe travels withal.</i>\"

After offering Marielle your own farewell, you make your way out of the temple, glancing back to see the girl shaking out a large blanket before you trudge towards your campsite.
//Back to camp

   //Variant 2:
Marielle nudges her glasses and closes her eyes, keeping them shut for an unusually long time while slowly listing to the side.

\"<i>Hmm...</i>\" the seamstress hums as she sluggishly opens them again and rights herself. \"<i>[name]? I believe 'tis, ah, growing overlate for me... Would you mind allowing me retire for today?{if (!insultedfather) { Liefer would I rest now than, ah... do you discourtesy by a mind too absent.}]</i>\" Tired as she looks, you do just that.

\"<i>Thank you,</i>\" she says, rising with you to drop into a short curtsy. \"<i>Prithee have a night most pleasant, then.</i>\"

You say your goodnight as well, leave her to prepare her bedroll, and exit the overgrown shrine. The shrouded bog presents an ominous scenery and plenty of opportunities to stumble head-first into one of its many puddles and ponds, but you manage to make it back to your camp relatively unsoiled.
//Back to camp

   //Variant 3:
The curtain of night is lowered in full, the only thing illuminating Marielle's half-tent being her oil lantern, and its warm, hypnotizing light shines on a face that's starting to display the effects of tiredness. You think it's time to go.

\"<i>Hmm?</i>\" The girl looks up as you make your intent known, blinks herself awake, and reaches for a strand of her hair. \"<i>Ah... hmm...</i>\" Lethargically, she twirls it for a bit, then nods. \"<i>Aye, let us... beguile this waning day with sleep... A restful night I bid you, [name],</i>\" she says, bowing to you before covering up a small yawn.

You say farewell to her and exit the quiet sanctuary of stone. The marshland outside submerges you in an atmosphere that's cooler, but no less humid than at daytime as you [walk] through mud and mire into the direction of your camp.
//Back to camp




> [Talk]

\"<i>You wish but [RANDOM {talk|converse|a change of words}]? Of course.</i>\" The seamstress smiles and motions for you to take a seat. She doesn't have a stool or chair besides the one she's sitting on, so you make yourself comfortable on a low pile of rubble.

 [Collapse] [Undeath] [Dressmaking] [Her Likes] [Cart] [Old World] [Family] [Loneliness] [Sex] [Commando] [Father]     [Back]

//[Collapse], [Undeath], [Dressmaking], [Cart], and [Old World] are available from the start

//[Her Likes] requires to have talked about [Dressmaking]
//[Family] requires to have talked about [Undeath] and [Dressmaking]
//[Loneliness] requires to have talked about [Family]
//[Sex] requires to have talked about [Her Likes] and [Family]
//[Commando] requires to have seen her naked, talked about [Sex], and should be invisible until seen naked
//[Father] requires to have talked about [Old World] and [Family]


> Menu brought up at the end of talk options:

Is there anything else you want to talk about?


> [Back]

You consider what else to do.

//Brings up the main menu


> [Collapse]
//Tooltip: "Ask why she had collapsed when you first found her."

When you first met her, she was lying unconscious in front of the temple. How did that happen?

\"<i>Ah.</i>\" Vexation flies over Marielle's expression as soon as you ask, making itself known in her tone even as she keeps the rest of her bearing and posture. \"<i>I, ah... weather heat not very well. Never have I. Ordinarily, I would allow such matter not to present itself an issue</i>\"—she glances towards the straw hat hanging to the side—\"<i>but greatly blundered I by misjudging the mire, and ventured hither ill-prepared. 'Tis much vaster than it appears, and the toil of haling a wain across such, ah, founderous terrain drained apace what flasks I carried.

</i>\"<i>Ere I knew, I was adrift, adawed, my thoughts were slipping unto faraway oblivion, as was my body. 'Twas well I found this fane and with it the sole unsullied wellspring amidst this, ah, accursed marish, but...</i>\" She gestures in an uncertain fashion, then lets her arms fall onto her lap. \"<i>But, well... the sun smote me upon the very threshold. I, ah... I swooned.</i>\" The sigh from her lips sounds defeated. Or maybe frustrated. \"<i>What veritably piteous quietus that should have been,</i>\" she goes on to murmur, \"<i>to perish a mere arrow's shot from salvation...

</i>\"<i>Shameful, yet undone can it not be made. I must thank you once more for what you so seasonably did, [name].</i>\" Marielle bows to you yet again; seems like she's beating herself up over that mistake. You ask if her sensitivity really is that bad.

\"<i>It may.</i>\" She's frowning when she straightens herself and adds, \"<i>'Tis of little concernancy as long as I am well-wetted, if perhaps, ah... unpleasant. But 'tis so that this body mine sweats not, yet still parches it as quick whiles the sun's scorching gaze hastes peril's stride. And what betides, be I left exposed and athirst overlong... Well, you witnessed that.</i>\"

Is that all because she's undead?

\"<i>A, ah, toll for what I am, yes. Or... ask you if all undead be as I?</i>\" That's part of the question. \"<i>Well... that, I know not.</i>\"

//20 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Undeath]
//Tooltip: "Ask about her experience with being undead."
//Second half varies depending on the rose
//Cut short if insulted her father

//If insulted her father:
You want to talk more about Marielle's state of undeath, but as soon as you start to formulate your question, the girl's forehead contorts into a field of wrinkles.

\"<i>Wish you forsooth to know, [name]?</i>\" she asks in challenge. \"<i>Or seek you once more but to calumniate mine—</i>\" the seamstress stops herself just as the sharp undertone of her voice threatens to become more than that. A moment passes in silence, and after she eases the visible tension in her face and clenched hands, her next words sound more civil again.

\"<i>Pardon me. Pardon me, but pray let us not.</i>\"

You suppose by insulting her father, you squandered her willingness to talk about this.

//10 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

You ask her what it's like to be undead, if it feels any different from her previous life.[if (isundead) { You can relate, but you suppose everyone has their own experiences with it.}]

She takes a moment to think, stroking lightly across a pair of knitting pins with one hand and running the fingers of another through her hair before answering, \"<i>Well, certainly has it changed me, 'twould be folly to think elsewise. But nowise... [i:feel] I different.</i>\" Marielle lifts and turns her hand like a rare artefact and continues, \"<i>Yes, this body mine hearkens not the lay of age, falls to no malady, dreads not the cold, recovers by unnatural swiftness, and requires no sustenance. No doubt am I... unalike a living, mortal being, but my mind is yet unaltered. I am myself, who I always had been whenas I... was alive.</i>\"

She doesn't seem like the kind of lumbering, mindless zombie from horror stories, you note. Her gaze grazes over the collection of colorful fabrics hanging lazily out of their boxes.

\"<i>I would most certainly hope I am not.</i>\" A contemplative hum follows.

\"<i>Well, mayhap it [i:is], ah, changing me. Covertly, as senescence stalks humankind... Oft have I pored and pondered on my nature and the, ah... and what it may beget, and still do I, but never am I arrived by a conclusion, nor do I think I ever shall.</i>\" Sounds like she'd need someone who has known her for a long time.

\"<i>Yes. Yes, I suppose it so.</i>\" Marielle's face falls a little, and she adds something in a murmur that your ears can't quite pick up. You wait a while, not saying anything as you watch her sink deeper and deeper into her own mind.

//Variation for rose quest completion

//If rose has been given:
As your eyes follow hers and fall onto the Anastatica on her desk, another question comes to mind: you wonder if undeath has made her immortal.

\"<i>Huh?</i>\" The girl jerks up as your voice yanks her out of her daydream. \"<i>Oh, hmm...</i>\" Her mouth opens, but she hesitates, her fingers fiddling with each other before she wills them to hold still.

\"<i>I... No. No, I am not,</i>\" she finally says, quietly. \"<i>Ageless and resilient my flesh may be, but even I would, ah... meet with my demise if fortune forsook me or I acted too temerariously.</i>\" Slowly brushing over one of her elbows, she adds, \"<i>'Tis named 'undeath' for it unmade death but once, not overmastered it wholly.</i>\"

When she falls silent again, you follow up with a question about what would happen if she was exposed to extreme cold—she mentioned 'dreading' it not, so you ask how far that resistance goes. Marielle levels a frown at you.

\"<i>Why, your questions and curiosity are rather unwholesome, [name].</i>\" But still, she says, \"<i>I have not, ah, dared fate so brazenly, nor have I any want to find out. I, ah... I am however fared through frost that would verily have been a tomb for most, yet am I not once... 'glaciated', if you will.</i>\" She scoots up to adjust her skirt, frowning for a moment longer before relaxing with a slight shake of her head.


//Else:
Eventually, you try to revive the topic; how did she come to be undead in the first place, you wonder. Is she the result of some mad scientist's experiment, or was she cursed by an ancient, evil necromancer, or—

\"<i>[b:No!]</i>\" You're both surprised by her sudden outburst as she jolts out of her thoughts, her eyes a brief flash of icy ire. The girl quickly catches herself and settles down, massaging her palms while she continues in a much softer voice, \"<i>No. A malison 'tis not. A benison, much rather.</i>\" She stares at a spot on the wooden table's surface while organizing her mind.

\"<i>I was saved, that day. 'Twas my doom to die, and for a time, I did. My life was already well beyond the scope of, ah, orthodox forms of thaumaturgy and sanative wisdom, thus... this</i>\"—she spreads her fingers for emphasis—\"<i>was the one path to returning me. To wresting me from death's cold grasp. Well, demised am I still, technically,</i>\" she says with a wry smile, turning to you again, \"<i>but 'twas preferable to [i:dying] forsooth.

</i>\"<i>But be what may, what I am now was no deed of some, ah, facinorous fiend, even if they wanted it be so.</i>\" 'They'? Before you can ask, she hastily adds, \"<i>Well, ah, what is come is come, and I am glad of it.</i>\" You drop your question and instead ask if she died young, then. \"<i>Hmm, yes. Well afore my bloom, one may say. And now am I well past it,</i>\" the seamstress says half-jokingly. Just how old is she? \"<i>You should know to pry not for a lady's age... Older than a human has a right to be, but I could tell you not, for I have kept no count of the winters. Howbeit, at times it is as if not many are gone by at all...</i>\"

Marielle gazes wistfully into the distance, then shakes her head and brings back a smile. \"<i>Ah, but enough thereof for now.</i>\"

//45 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Dressmaking]
//Tooltip: "Ask how she came to be a dressmaker."

You ask her why dressmaking is her profession, of all things.

\"<i>Hmm?</i>\" She blinks. \"<i>Why, is't that strange?</i>\"

 [Yes] [No]
//Don't flush the previous text

> [Yes]

You tell her it is; you would think someone who is undead and has all the time in the world would choose to do something other than sew clothes for other people.

\"<i>Hmm...</i>\" Marielle reflects on your words, one hand pressed to her lips while the remaining three play with the tips of her long hair. She continues her absent-minded lock-twirling for a while before tilting her head back, eyes drawn to the temple's caved-in ceiling.

\"<i>Perhaps. Perhaps I ought turn unto something else. A vocation more grand and, ah, lucrative. But this is what I live for, what I love, and where I luster; I have not the skill for aught else, even had I the mind to venture.</i>\" Sounds like it's something like her personal calling. \"<i>Yes, verily, you may call it so...</i>\" Her face takes on a dreamy quality for a moment.

//Choices converge below

> [No]

You tell her it isn't, but you're still curious.

\"<i>Ah, well, 'tis what I love, and I am rather adept at it, if you allow me make small boast thereof.</i>\" Smiling, she adjusts her glasses and leans back a little. \"<i>I think it the, ah, office of my life... or unlife. I would know not what else to do with myself, speak I honest...</i>\" A frown passes over her face for just a moment.

//Choices converge here

\"<i>Long has it been my passion, too—ever sith I was a little girl.</i>\" Halting, she looks down at herself. \"<i>Well, a [i:young] girl. It has always been my passion.</i>\" You take her awkward pause to ask the seamstress how she got into tailoring.

\"<i>Hmm... It has been a good while indeed, has it not...</i>\" Marielle muses as she untwirls the golden strands she had wrapped around her finger.

\"<i>Father must have marked mine interest quite early in its budding. See you, I... ah... I was wont to play with dolls. Far more owed I than any other girl I knew; 'twould nigh portend an obsession.</i>\" She shies away from looking at you, her face betraying some hesitance, but you notice her mouth curl up into a soft smile as she goes on to reminisce.

\"<i>I would robe them in the finest garbs, feign to hold masques, weddings, stage plays, any showings of grandeur I could think of. But, well, little me would always sigh for more costumes to dight my dolls... so brought he me a, ah... sewing kit one day. A small one, for children to merely dally with, but natheless was I delighted, as you might imagine... Many a watchful night would I spend fabricating new and novel designs ere I sat afore the fabrics to fashion them into reality. Father then oft had to carry me to bed in person, for I was apt to, ah, pay little heed to our good servants' pleas.</i>\" There is a subtle undertone of amusement in her voice.

\"<i>Well, a, ah... an impertinent brat was I, I realize that now, and certainly must one not ensky or saint suchlike behavior, yet still was Father votarist to me and it.</i>\" Her gaze shifts. \"<i>He would gift me more and more, until I had truly want of naught... Everything for his princess,</i>\" she adds in a half-whisper. \"<i>Eftsoons, my, ah, chamber would appear more a back storage of a tailor's boutique, and ere I knew, I was drawing up and sewing mine [i:own] dresses.</i>\" She chuckles daintily—a bright and pleasant sound among the serene ruins of this temple.

\"<i>And that is the sum of it. Thereafter deemed I it only right to continue on that path once I was... on mine own,</i>\" Marielle finishes, meeting your eyes again.

That about answers your question.

//40 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Her Likes]
//Tooltip: "Make some small talk about what else she likes, besides dressmaking."

She's obviously passionate about her profession, but besides that, you're curious about what else she likes. [if (femininity >= 59) {You notice her briefly fiddling with the frills that lead down from her neckline|She regards you with raised eyebrows}] as you pose your question before she settles backwards to contemplate, moving to twirl her long hair in slow circles.

\"<i>I... Oft rued I my failure to rightly take up an instrument,</i>\" she says. That doesn't exactly answer your question, but you don't interrupt her. \"<i>The voices of strings have always, ah, resounded within me... yet never sought I proficiency with one whiles opportunity yet presented her face bare.</i>\" You ask if she has any favorites.

\"<i>Hmm... harps, I would say. Briefly coquetted I with them in youth, ere I, ah, trothed myself to dressmaking in full... There resides an ensorcelling, serene elegance in their tune and the manner they are plucked and thrummed so leisurely. Few are the instruments that exhibit suchlike, ah... ataraxy.</i>\" Marielle's lips curl into a relaxed, dulcet smile. You silently wonder where her mind is drifting off to.

But you also wonder why she didn't buy one again, if she likes them so much, and that, you ask aloud, breaking her out of her reverie.

\"<i>Oh, I, ah, speak not of one so small as fits the hedge-minstrel—as the lyre does—but of a large, unwieldy kind... Uhm, 'concert harps', I do believe, quite justly termed. Besides their price and upon their size</i>\"—her quartet of arms does its best to demonstrate the sheer bulk of such an instrument—\"<i>'twere double toil and trouble to me, as overladen as I then should be...</i>\" She glances over the many boxes and bolts of fabric that litter the inside of her half-tent. \"<i>If circumstance permitted, then peradventure I would... Yet whence should I, ah, procure one, or a tutor?</i>\" She sighs. \"<i>No, 'twill presently remain more dream than matter.</i>\"

Following up on that, you ask if there's anything more she likes, or would like to do. Her hands return to playing with her light-blonde strands as she says, \"<i>Well, ever sith I, ah... reconciled myself unto my new existence, I found my pleasure in whimsically wandering whithersoever... beholding sights novel and nascent, witnessing the, ah, wonders of nature... and now-waned, world-forgotten places as this very one.</i>\" She gestures into the temple. \"<i>Permanence begets homage to the impermanent, I ween.</i>\" That makes you curious about how long she can live for exactly, being undead. Marielle brushes a hair-wrapped finger against her thumb in thought.

\"<i>Like enough for aeons unending, but... but mine unlife's true drift, I wis not. To Father, too, 'twas right enigmatical. Though I suppose Lady Time shall try me, for I mean to meet not with fate untimely... even if my grains are all long since fallen.</i>\" She lets go of the tress. \"<i>But whatsoever the case, you asked for other things I do enjoy...</i>\" You let her get back on track; a smile does suit her much better than a frown.

\"<i>Hmm, I think not many more be there, I am afeard.</i>\" Well, so far it's all been what you would expect from a young lady: tailoring, music, travelling. So you ask for something unusual. \"<i>'Unusual', say you?</i>\" she repeats. \"<i>I, ah... Hmm...</i>\" Her eyes stuck on a pillar, she runs her fingers over the ribs of an intricate folding fan to the side before she picks it up and starts to gently ventilate herself from below.

Marielle gives this whole thing far more thought than you expected, and though the resulting awkwardness stretches, you suit yourself with simply watching the slow, wavelike motions and the shifting expressions on her face as she searches her mind for something that could fit your request. Her rumination does extend onwards for quite a long time, though.

 [Wait] [Wrap Up]

> [Wait]
//Tooltip: "You've got time."

You're in no hurry.

Marielle has now turned to scanning her surroundings, from the boxes of unused cloth on the ground, to the various utensils on her desk, to the broken statuettes inside the temple. It is when her eyes fall onto a crack between her half-tent and the outer wall, to the sky beyond, that the fanning stops and something lights up on her face.

\"<i>Snow,</i>\" she near-whispers. You look up, but there's nothing. \"<i>Oh! Ah, no, I mean... I, ah, liked frolicking in snow as child—erecting snow-soldiers, stalworth keeps of ice, walls as long and mountains as tall as I could create... Such times, in the midst of whitest ondings, were rife with merriment ever more grand-begot by every cadent flock.</i>\" That's not really anything unusual [if (ischild) {to do|for a kid}], and you tell the petite seamstress as much.

\"<i>'Tis not? Oh, hmm...</i>\" She droops a little at your words. \"<i>Mine handmaid ill-welcomed such, ah... exploits and would always plain and fret I distain the manor with sludge and snow-broth abundant, or I be taking ill with a cold come next morn. Therefore was I under the, ah, impression 'twas something... unusual.</i>\" Maybe it really wasn't viewed as proper for someone like her, you wouldn't know.

\"<i>Well, alas, I am afeard I cannot bid aught else to mind, then... I simply have not many, ah... disports.</i>\"

//50 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

> [Wrap Up]
//Tooltip: "Wrap this conversation up."

If she can't think of anything, it might be better to just wrap this conversation up, and so you do.

\"<i>Hmm. Well, my apologies... I am afeard I am not the most, ah, intriguing girl, alive or not,</i>\" she says, flicking her fan shut and looking genuinely troubled by being unable to come up with an answer. While she squeezes the folded piece of light wood and embroidered silk between her fingers, frowning, you are left wondering if there really is so little else she's interested in.

//35 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Cart]
//Tooltip: "Ask about her cart-turned-table."

That cart of hers is quite curious: it looks like she can convert it to a table and back in only a few steps.

\"<i>Why, quite commodious, is it not?</i>\" she says, lovingly running a hand over the matte, lacquered wood. \"<i>Some chapmen in mine home... world would employ these to array their merchandise upon the marketplaces. 'Tis quite manageable, and you need not a second pair of hands to, ah, operate it. Although, well</i>\"—she pianos her many fingers—\"<i>it does avail one.</i>\"

Did she make that herself, then?

\"<i>Oh, no, no, I have not the craft to confect aught as... extraordinary as this. I am a seamstress, not a carpentress; woodwork is beyond me, aside, ah, mere maintenance.</i>\" Marielle lets her sight roam over the desk.

\"<i>'Twas an acquisition made rather costful, for not many wainwrights built these, even fewer built them well, and I had need of some specific... necessities withal. But in the fullness of time, I found that which I sought.</i>\" She gently pats the surface.

\"<i>'Tis treated walnut, the wheels and axle are freely disjoinable, the sides may be, ah... flipped downwards or stripped off in entirety, and the roof's framework serves its twofold role as the table's legs. All suchlike was well-on the custom, yet the alteration—which would, ah, make its travelled course as light as wind—was a puzzle but most copious coin could solve... though one that would remunerate the investment well betimes, and now pays itself ten times treble... And it shall last me a long while, still.</i>\"

Its age is apparent, but it looks like Marielle is not someone who neglects her tools—the cart's still in good condition. That seems to have concluded her explanation, though.

//20 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Old World]
//Tooltip: "Ask what her home was like."

You're curious about dimensions other than Mareth and your own, so you ask Marielle what hers was like.

\"<i>Hmm...</i>\" is the only thing she utters as she picks up a thin spool of yarn and deftly spins it like a top over the smooth wood. All you hear is its soft scraping sound as you both watch it dance seemingly endlessly over the table, only helped occasionally by a swift flick of her fingers.

\"<i>Different,</i>\" she finally says, \"<i>quite different. The sky was an expanse rather beautiful, for one, and not this drear, tristful tinct. Eke rained it more oft, though frost would transform downpour to finest snow, without the few summer days... and the long autumns.</i>\" She gives the spool another flick. \"<i>Natheless, the grass was lusher, and so too were the trees and shrubs. 'Twas a more, ah, vibrant world, one could say. But parlous no less than Mareth.</i>\" On cue, you ask her why.

\"<i>Strife. No demon scourge or, ah, foreign invaders, but strife forged unending amongst the duchies and counties and lordlingships, some whereof would be settled by means of steel... Skirmishes as brief as poniards' thrusts, mostly, and just enough for one gasconader to further his prideful dominion without sowing ruin upon it.</i>\" A short pause. \"<i>'Twas a time of both prosperity and incertainty—a single quarrel overfar taken betwixt the higher nobles, a single fantasy or trick of fame spun in devil-whispered avarice, and levied a man could be, to be hied gravewards by one whose visage he never once beheld...</i>\" She taps the spinning top hard, sending it wobbling. \"<i>And, well, on such, ah, unrestful acres thrived banditry like weed that proved impossible to cull.</i>\" Another tap stabilizes it again.

\"<i>But powers true lay withinside the Sacred See.</i>\" As visible aversion clouds her face, you ask her what that is. \"<i>A band of villains and vipers behind vizards of virtue... Well, a religious body in name, their, ah, influence touched far beyond the matter of faith. Amongst the general, 'twas merely bruited about in hushed tones, but in more affluent circles, 'twas law unwrit to never delve too deep or—Graces forfend—challenge the words of our holy clerics... Iconoclasts seldom scaped the all-too-esurient pyre.</i>\" After staring on for a while, she finishes in a lighter tone. \"<i>Well, you had naught to fear if you, ah... painted not a target upon your back.</i>\"

Wanting to know more than just the politics of Marielle's old world, you ask about its citizens—were they as varied as the many races of Mareth?

\"<i>Ah, no. No, my world bore but humans, none of these... what call you them—demi-humans? Animal-kin?</i>\" She heaves a sigh and lets the spool finally teeter out, watching as it slows down and clatters onto the wood.

\"<i>'Twas quite, ah, bizarre at first, stumbling into this land and witnessing grimalkins, kine, and coneys not only tread on two legs, but speak with common tongues and be treated just as ordinary men.</i>\" Mareth is quite different from your own home as well, in that regard. You ask if she's grown used to it. \"<i>...I suppose I am. Not wholly, I confess, but I have found it not too, ah, difficult to come to acceptable terms with the oddities of this realm. Perhaps</i>\"—she glances down at her own scarred hands—\"<i>it avails that scarce am I human, myself, any longer.</i>\" She splays a few of her fingers out before relaxing them and giving the wood a pointed rap.

\"<i>Well, let us spare such joyless talk.</i>\"

//45 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Family]
//Tooltip: "Ask about her family."
//First half varies depending on the rose, but the following choice is given in both cases
//Cut short if insulted her father

//If insulted her father:
You try to bring up her family, but Marielle seems anything but keen on that topic, which she makes clear with a questioning frown before she even opens her mouth.

\"<i>I believe there is naught else to speak of, [name],</i>\" she says, folding her hands. \"<i>None I once knew remain today, and that is all there is to it.</i>\"

It's more than apparent that she doesn't want to talk about this with you.

//10 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

//If rose has been given:
You ask her a bit more about her family, about who else there was, besides her father.

\"<i>Hmm... Well...</i>\" Marielle interlaces her many fingers and keeps her eyes down on them, pondering.

\"<i>Mother dearest passed when I was yet young, and not much recall I of her. Her countenance was fair, and her hair and eyes much like mine own, but I retain no other memory... not even of her voice.</i>\" One hand breaks off from the ball of digits to absent-mindedly start braiding a solitary blonde lock.

\"<i>Siblings had I none, neither, and Father elected to remarry not. Cousins, aye, some, there were, yet not one close in years nor mind. 'Twas... a little solitary at times, even if I did much prefer it so,</i>\" Marielle says, her lips pursing faintly.

\"<i>Well, my grandparents I ought not forget. Seldom saw I my mother's side after her departure, but, ah, Father's would come visit once or twice a moon. They were... good people.</i>\" That sounds like a fairly bland thing to say. \"<i>I... Well, I never, ah... grew very attached to them. They assayed to sway youngling me with gifts and tales of yore and yonder... I think them to have forsooth adored their granddaughter, but still would I end up seeking refuge behind Father more oft than not, and would shy away from touch and talk. Bethinking it, I... wis not wherefore.</i>\" Halfway finished with the tiny braid, she twirls it around her fingers.

\"<i>Perchance 'twas but Father himself I ever conceived as 'family'... whereas them as mere strangers. Kindly strangers, yet strangers nonetheless.</i>\" It seems like she was pretty fixated on him.

\"<i>Aye, quite. The center of my life, he was—he raised me, taught me, tendered me, treasured me... And after all what betided, not once forsook he me. The noblest heart of all, he bore.</i>\" Marielle heaves a deep sigh and loosens the braid again. \"<i>And most dearly do I miss him...</i>\"


//Else:
You heard her mention her father before, yet is she entirely alone out here, so you try to string together a suitable way to ask about her family.

You are met with silence as you watch Marielle visibly deflate before your eyes, her shoulders and eyebrows sinking, mouth pressed a little thinner. She eventually lets go of a soft sigh and responds, \"<i>Well, my mother departed whenas I was not out three years old. The sole, ah, image that has kept with me is the brilliant azure of her eyes, and little more... And thenceafter, Father took my guardage upon him, alone. A few servants had we employed, but their duties to our house oft bade for more hands than they possessed... and ill could they replace true family.</i>\" There's a short pause while the seamstress's sight strays to a nearby column.

\"<i>Father was a busy man himself, yet always garnered he any whit of time he could for me.</i>\" You ask if she has any siblings. \"<i>No. No, I am his sole progeny. Father never remarried, neither, and thus remained it such.</i>\"

When she doesn't say anything more, you ask her where he is now.

\"<i>Gone,</i>\" she replies under her breath. \"<i>He... passed on a long time agone.</i>\" You ask whether that was before or after she became undead.

\"<i>Thereafter.</i>\" Silence again. Marielle seems to be reaching for something to say, so you let her.

\"<i>Father was... always warm-hearted. Never would he even think to forsake me, no matter what betided. Even undeath mine changed that not.</i>\" Sounds like the two were a loving family. \"<i>Yes. Yes, we were. Charily, I loved him... and miss him still by equal measure.</i>\"

//Both:

 [Continue] [Ingnam]

> [Continue]
//Tooltip: "Let her talk."

Marielle sighs again. \"<i>They call time all wounds' mender... when in sooth, 'tis but a beggar's physic. No, some cuts shall yawn as profound and purulent as first received, immedicable for evermore...</i>\" She stares down at the ground before sighing yet another time and shaking her head.

\"<i>Ah, my apologies, such melancholy was not meant to be... Good times forepassed should in remembrance and reverence be held.</i>\" As she raises her head, a smile comes to her lips, though an obviously forced one.

\"<i>At all events, he was a father most wonderful, more than terms could give him out, even if his leisure dwelled in limits.</i>\"

You ask why he didn't marry again.

\"<i>I know not. Thenadays, I thought 'twas cross to his affairs—that the weights and rites that appertain unto a, ah, nuptial were things... he had not the time for.</i>\" She prods a pincushion, running her fingertips over the needles like she's plucking an instrument. \"<i>And, ah... I contented myself therewith... To speak true, I was inly jealous of the prospect of anyone soever stepping betwixt Father and I, though I of course betrayed not as much.

</i>\"<i>Now, I learned not wherefore he sought no spouse anew, but lief would I believe that he, once wife-lorn, could, ah, uneath bestow twice such affiance unto a woman beyond my mother. Or mayhap knew he his daughter's heart, for I was ill-apt to enlock it,</i>\" she admits, \"<i>but now shall I never know, I suppose...</i>\"

She has pulled out one of the needles and is twirling it over the table's surface on an imaginary marathon course. Having finished talking, the seamstress realizes what she's unconsciously doing, picks it up, and pushes it back into the cushion.

//50 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

> [Ingnam]
//Tooltip: "Bring up your own family and friends back in Ingnam."

You bring up all the people you left behind in Ingnam, though their fates remain unknown to you. They may be alive and well, but even so, you might never see them again. You tell her about your own father, your mother, the rest of your family, everyone else you knew, how you grew up, and the memories you made with them.

By the time you finish, a smile is gracing her face, though it does not reach her eyes.

\"<i>I... see. I fear there be little... Ah, never mind... Thank you regardless, [name].</i>\" She sighs once more. \"<i>Well, I hope you may repair to them one day, lest should you be torn asunder most infinitely.</i>\"

Her smile has silently vanished again.

//60 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Loneliness]
//Tooltip: "Ask if she's lonely."

So she's been on her own ever since her father passed away—you're curious if she ever feels lonely.

\"<i>Lonely?</i>\" Marielle regards you with raised brows. \"<i>Why no, I would say not I am... lonely,</i>\" she says, lower hands rapping their fingertips against each other. \"<i>Verily, I favor solitude's quietude, with not one soul to disturb me. Ah, not that I, ah, object to your presence, [name]... yet to play my profession on public stage, may or may not the groundlings be but mere hasteful passers-by, I never have called a forte of mine.</i>\"

You point out that she seems pretty good at submerging herself in her own world and shutting out all else, though.

\"<i>Hmm...</i>\" A few wrinkles form on her forehead, and she pushes up her spectacles. \"<i>Aye... Aye, perchance I am at times a little... I apologize if that, ah, erroneously betoken discourteousness; I warrant I intend you none, [name],</i>\" she says with a small inclination of her head. [if (corruption < 50) {You assure her it's no issue.|Well, you usually do get her attention sooner or later, regardless.}] But you want to know, does she really dislike people that much?

\"<i>I... I disrelish them not, per se, but rather would I keep my... nature concealed, lest past misfare and mistake be repeated. But try as I might, people pry, willfully or not, and unkennel me by virtue of time alone—be it my pallor, my scars, my frigid skin, or my, ah... graveolent odor amidst torridity.</i>\" A faint, shameful flush travels over her face at that last admission. \"<i>Thus, well, find I it somedeal, ah, decom— I mean, discomposing—[i:perturbing], even—to be overlong by others' presence.</i>\"

She seems quite fine with[if (metdolores) { both Dolores and}] you, you remark.

\"<i>Well... I was... laid bare unto you, sans all volition, when first we met, and yet have you not [if (insultedfather) {struck me down|condemned me}] for what I am[if (metdolores) {, nor has your daughter}]. Thus need I not veil myself, for you already know me wholly.</i>\" But does she really need a disguise, you ask. You only have Ingnam to compare it with, but the people of Mareth seem a lot more accepting in general.

\"<i>Hmmn... I would 'twere true,</i>\" she murmurs, though her cold, doubtful eyes tell you she has no mind to elaborate right now.

 [Move On] [Bazaar] [Camp Invite]
//[Bazaar] needs the Bizarre Bazaar to have been encountered and entered


> [Move On]
//Tooltip: "Just wrap this conversation up."

If that is what she wants, you're not going to try and change her. She nods and lifts her head a little higher, combing her fingers through her lengthy hair.

\"<i>Well, I... I appreciate your visitations, as well as our converses. Not having duly talked to anyone for so long has made me realize I had cast neglect upon my devoir.</i>\" You tilt your head, a motion that doesn't go unnoticed. Marielle adjusts her glasses again, straightens her back, and states, \"<i>A proper lady shall be graceful master of the fine art of, ah... colloquy</i>\"—her shoulders drop—\"<i>yet here be I, stumbling over mine own words like a beef-witted, death-struck fool.</i>\" She then sighs, defeated, but puts on a smile nonetheless.

\"<i>Well, there shall be no life in fretting over milk long-spilt.</i>\"

//40 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu


> [Bazaar]
//Tooltip: "She's a lone, travelling merchant—ask if she knows about the Bizarre Bazaar."

You've been to the Bizarre Bazaar, the strange motley caravan of merchants and enterprisers that travels through the plains, so you ask Marielle if she has ever encountered it, too. Her blue eyes light up, but she quickly returns to a frown and folds her many hands beneath her chin.

\"<i>I... have indeed, yes,</i>\" she murmurs. \"<i>Not long after I, ah, arrived in this realm, I chanced upon their wagon fort... Still persist they today, I assume?</i>\" You confirm that. \"<i>I see.</i>\" Not exactly sounding happy, the seamstress turns to brooding, covering her jaw and mouth and staring into the void. As the long, silent moments pass, you try to pick up the topic again and ask why she isn't travelling with them.

\"<i>I left.</i>\"

Perhaps realizing you had hoped to hear more than that, she sighs and continues, \"<i>I could not stay long. As I said afore—suchlike company I find rather uncomfortable... 'Twas a testing time, residing amidst demons, larceners, drunkards, and... men and women of ill repute, at times all four or even five at once.</i>\" Her face hardens. \"<i>Many a night spent I in want of sleep, and not merely by the hotness and the ceaseless pandemonium alone. The stench, too, was pestiferous.</i>\" She shudders. \"<i>This entire land reeks of death and debauchery, yet there, 'twas truly the nadir... And then, their eyes. If 'twas not lechery, 'twas mistrust, or loathing, or far darker sentiments still.</i>\" One of her lower hands breaks off from her chin and grasps a strand of blonde hair to press it tightly around its fingers.

\"<i>Nay, I dared not stay, even for the coin it brought,</i>\" she finishes. Seems her experience with the Bazaar was a pretty unpleasant one, so you ask her if everything really was that terrible for her. Marielle quickly mouths the beginnings of a 'Yes', but stops herself.

\"<i>...Well, the boutique was thriving,</i>\" she says tentatively. \"<i>By no means was't lively, but, ah, by that brief time, I fashioned and traded dresses greater in number than I had the years prior. Although most were... well, rather indecent.</i>\" Another sigh leaves her, though this one doesn't sound as grave any more.

\"<i>And... I suppose at least one other merchant was kind enough to neither ogle nor glare at me, though belike was but his blindness to laud, rather than goodness true... Ill-mannered like the rest he was, yet still found I myself in pleasant talk upon occasions. A solitaire, amongst these lands.</i>\" Her arms and features finally relax as a slight smile returns.

//If Benoit has been met:
//Marielle calling Benoite a "he" is on purpose
That does sound like it could be Benoit. You ask if it's him.

\"<i>Benoit?</i>\" she repeats. \"<i>Yes... I ween 'twas his name. A, ah... lizard? A 'basilisk', he called himself, I believe... A fez crowning his pate, a large hound to his feet.</i>\" And he has a strange accent, you add. \"<i>Yes. Yes, 'twas faintly reminiscent of my grandmother...</i>\" For a second, you think something like a smirk crosses her features. \"<i>Howbeit, I am certain he would not quite appreciate such likeness. So...</i>\" Marielle tilts her head sideways ever so slightly. \"<i>You have met with him, then?</i>\"

You tell her you have, and say he's doing fine. He's still with the Bazaar, tending to his salvage shop together with his Alsation dog." + (flags[kFLAGS.BENOIT_STATUS] ? " Though you inform her the basilisk has fulfilled something of a dream of his, with your help, and has turned female now, going by the name of 'Benoite'.

Surprise flashes over her face. \"<i>Has he?</i>\" she half-mumbles, evidently not sure what to make of that and losing herself in the distance for a bit before snapping back." : "")

\"<i>Well, it gladdens to know he fares well.</i>\" The girl finally lets go of her hair, only to run her fingers over it in slow, gentle strokes. \"<i>He may have been not the zenith of gentlemanly company, yet still was he just that—company... in despite of being fooled by neither maquillage nor perfume.</i>\" You ask if [benoit name] knew about her being undead. \"<i>I...</i>\" Marielle glances to the side. \"<i>Unbated were his wit and senses, and his tongue ever so quick to comment most uncouthly unto any, ah, quiddities of my person... I believe he was aware indeed, but would give no name to it.</i>\" A long, soft exhale.

\"<i>Well, 'tis all one to me now. I intend to never return.</i>\"

//Else if Benoit not met:
\"<i>I hope and wonder if yet he be... alive.</i>\" She finally lets go of her hair, straightening it out again. \"<i>But I suppose 'tis no matter now, for I intend not to ever return.</i>\"

//60 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu


> [Camp Invite]
//Tooltip: "Invite her to your camp."

You ask if she would then want to come to your camp and live there—surely, you can find some calm space for her cart and herself.

\"<i>Oh!</i>\" She immediately lights up, looking [if (femininity >= 59) {taken by surprise, her snow-white face suffusing with a certain shyness as your invitation sinks in|surprised by your invitation, blinking at you more than just a few times}]. \"<i>I, ah... I know not if— I mean, ah, I thank you for the offer, but I fear I must decline it.</i>\" Now it's your turn to be surprised.[if (silly) { Have your infallible charms forsaken you?}]

\"<i>I am... sure you have a most charming encampment, [name], yet do prefer I the quiet solitude of this [if (silly) {fane|sanctuary}]; much fainer would I remain here. And I fare not very well in... camps.</i>\" Raising her hands defensively, she hurriedly adds, \"<i>Not that I— I mean, I cherish the sentiment, truly, but...</i>\" She fiddles with her hair, still [if (femininity) >= 59) {a little timid|somewhat confounded}], but apparently finding nothing more to say and slowly drifting off.

It doesn't sound like there's any convincing her.

//40 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Sex]
//Tooltip: "Bring up the topic of sex and sexuality."

//When asking for the first time:

So far, Marielle hasn't exactly shown interest in sex at all,[if (femininity >= 59) { despite the occasional awkwardness around you,}] which is somewhat strange here in the often hyper-sexualized world of Mareth. You doubt there's nothing that could light her fire, but getting her to open up about it could be a challenge, considering her personality.

 [Tactful] [Direct] [Nevermind]

> [Nevermind]
//Tooltip: "You want to talk about something else."

Actually, never mind that, this is perhaps a conversation for another time. The seamstress seems utterly oblivious of what went through your mind just now, idly brushing a stray strand of hair between her fingers.

//Brings up her talk menu
//Does not advance anything; either of the other options need to be picked for that

> [Tactful]
//Tooltip: "Get her talking first, then try to naturally steer the topic to where you want it."

You suspect a gentle approach should be the most fruitful one, here. Trying to brush against the topic, you ask her what she likes in people.

\"<i>Hmm?</i>\" She cocks a brow. \"<i>In... general, mean you?</i>\" In a friend or a partner, you clarify. \"<i>Ah. Hmm...</i>\" She gives you an odd look, but a hand then rises to idly play with her hair while she humors you.

\"<i>Well, honesty and courteousness oft war one another, although of great import they both be... and eke may one never bear oneself too self-possessed. Such individuals this realm appears to utterly lack...</i>\" You ignore any insinuations in that and ask Marielle if one's background matters, like wealth or education. Again, she carefully mulls over your question.

\"<i>Being well-schooled—whether per book or adventure—certainly is desirable, aye, though affluence... well, I believe that matters not overmuch. Howbeit, a life in, ah, penury is a thing I would scarce wish back. Nor upon anyone.</i>\" If riches aren't too important, you ask if looks are, then. Her eyebrow rises again. \"<i>Looks? Well... I suppose any a one yearns for the most comely of lineaments.</i>\" You take her slanted[if (intelligence < 90) {-sounding}] choice of words and follow up with the question of whether 'handsome' won't do, instead.

Marielle quickly waves your suggestion off. \"<i>Ah, no, no, I have no fondness for the—</i>\" She halts, the hand she had been gesturing with frozen in mid-motion. \"<i>I, ah... What I mean is... ah...</i>\" She seems to be trying hard to avoid your gaze, the paleness of her face wrestling with a distinct cinnabar tone as her fingers unconsciously squeeze the air as if the solution to her sudden distress could be plucked from it. Her expression then takes a rapid nosedive, and she looks outright panicked for a second, but before you can [if (corruption < 50) {start to be worried|wonder if she's going to overreact}], she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets go of it. You hear her mutter something to herself. It's too soft to make out, but she repeats it once more before finally turning to you, regarding you with less horror, but still a good amount of anxiety.

\"<i>Well, I,</i>\" she says, a little raspy before hemming lightly. \"<i>My... apologies. Far overmuch have I said already, it seems... though perchance such remissness matters naught, nowadays.</i>\" A hand rakes back a few golden hairs that landed on her face before nervously grasping her wrist.

\"<i>I, ah... prefer the intimacy of... of other women, if that be indeed what you aimed to implore of me.</i>\" [if (femininity >= 59) {Her eyes shy away from you as her blush deepens.|The discomfort is plain in her evasive eyes.}] \"<i>Vastly so.</i>\" Other women? You ask if she's a lesbian, then. A glimpse of her earlier panic resurfaces, but she quickly banishes it. \"<i>If... If you must call me such, yes.</i>\" Another sigh as she tries to relax.

\"<i>I quite adore the... feminal form—her curves, her warmth, her tenderness. Quite unlike the rough and rash masculinity I am... was supposed to be smitten with...</i>\" [if (femininity >= 59) {As she says all that, Marielle's gaze still seems indecisive about where to rest, jumping between you and the tools on her table before she settles on the latter and slumps|Having said all that, Marielle stares at the tools on her table, letting her gaze slowly wander over the assortment of scissors, pins, and needles before slumping}] a little more. Yet another sigh.

//Converges below

> [Direct]
//Tooltip: "Give her no chance to weasel herself out, you'll have to be blunt to make her talk."

You suspect you might have to be a bit more forceful here, so, trying to pry her open, you ask her if she has any sexual interest at all. Your gaze trained on her, you gauge her reaction. It seems the topic is indeed quite a sensitive one, as after a second of a visible lack of comprehension, the girl's eyes grow wide, arms suddenly as stiff as the rest of her posture.

\"<i>I... I... I am... not... not [i:frigid]. Not, ah... figuratively,</i>\" she stammers, [if (femininity >= 59) {her face growing comparable to an overripe tomato|unsure where to look}]. She seems to immediately curse her choice of words and clenches her mouth shut, but you dig further, much to her mortification. You want to know what she likes, if she has any preferences, experiences—whatever you can get her to share. Marielle, meanwhile, eyes the temple's exit. Are you making her that uncomfortable? You consider stopping[if (corruption < 50) { and apologizing}], but when you press her one more time, she sighs in defeat and slumps like a house of cards, burying her face in her many hands while massaging her temples.

\"<i>Haaah, very well, just please... I... I...</i>\" She scrambles for words, raking her hair back and staring intently at a pair of scissors. \"<i>I prefer the intimate company of... of other women. Quite a bit. Yes.</i>\" Something between a sigh and a grumble escapes her, you're not sure. \"<i>Vastly so.</i>\" So she's a lesbian? You notice her flinch at that word, and wonder why, but decide not to ask. \"<i>If you... wish to call me such. I adore the feminal form, and men, ah... delight me not.</i>\" You're sure she would love to disappear into the ground right now, if she could. Yet another sigh.

//Options converge here
//Four different PC reactions depending on genitalia, each having two Marielle reactions for high and low femininity

//If has vagina and no dick:
What about you, then, " + (player.isFeminine() && player.femininity > 50 ? "you're certainly a [if (ischild) {girl|woman}]" : "you certainly have the right parts") + ".

//If vagina, no dick, femininity >= 59:
She looks up at you, lighting up in a glimmering question that goes unspoken as the implication of your words registers with her. \"<i>W-Well... Ah... You are quite... goodly, [name]. Verily.</i>\" A full twenty digits tangle with each other nervously. \"<i>I-I would not... If— If you, ah, be so... like inclined, I would... uhm...</i>\" She stops herself, clenching her fists and taking a steadying breath.

\"<i>Yes. Yes, I think you passing pulchrous. And I believe I would very much delight in, ah...</i>\" That gust of confidence doesn't last long, and her sails deflate once more as she finishes, \"<i>...Lying together with you.</i>\" Marielle's cheeks couldn't burn any brighter after that, and she only tentatively skirts your eyes, but the cat's out of the bag now. And you find yourself smiling like one.

 [Next] [Kiss]
//Only this single variation presents this choice
//[Next] simply leads to the convergence point below

//If vagina, no dick, lower femininity:
Your words make her halt and frown, directing her eyes to you. \"<i>Well... Ah... You are...</i>\" She looks you up and down. [if (femininity < 45) {A barely concealed look of surprise crosses her features. Well, you know you're not exactly the girliest lass in town|You think you can pinpoint the exact moment of realization on her face. Did she think you were packing more? Well, you can never be too sure here in Mareth}], so you let it slide.

\"<i>Interesting. I-I mean— ah... I would be interested. Certainly. Yes. If you... be so like inclined, that is.</i>\" The general [if (femininity < 45) {confusion|surprise}] doesn't disappear from Marielle's face while she is evidently torn between keeping up a modicum of politeness and unabashedly staring at your body, though it does gradually yield to a hint of gladness.


//Else if has vagina and dick:
Well, you're packing both, so what does she make of that?

//If vagina, dick, femininity >= 59:
Her eyes shoot up, studying your face before escaping to the side. \"<i>O-Oh. Ahh... Is that so?</i>\" Her disappointment briefly shows itself before she can push it back. \"<i>Well, I... You are... quite beautiful. Yes.</i>\" A short, nervous peek at your crotch. \"<i>Yet must I admit I am not fond of, ah... phalli,</i>\" she says like the word could sting her. \"<i>Howsoever.</i>\" Silence, for a moment.

\"<i>Well, if you...</i>\" she starts up again, her voice low and hesitant, \"<i>if you would ask not for overmuch, I might perhaps... perhaps... I mean... I mean, you do still possess a...</i>\" Marielle lets that sentence hang unfinished, gesturing vaguely towards your lower body, her face gradually betraying her obvious dismay, but she adds nothing further.

//If vagina, dick, lower femininity:
\"<i>Ah, hmm... So you do.</i>\" Somehow, she doesn't look terribly surprised. You had expected a bit more of a reaction, but since herms aren't much of a rarity here in Mareth, you're probably not the first she's seen. But still, she seems internally conflicted about something, since her face is scrunching up.

\"<i>Well, I am certainly not fond of... phalli. Howsoever.</i>\" She stops.

\"<i>Ah, but... hmm...</i>\" She tries to start up again, hesitantly. \"<i>Perhaps if you... were to ask not for overmuch, I could... Hmmn... no, that... Uhm... Well, I do suppose you still possess a...</i>\" Marielle gestures vaguely at your crotch, her distaste becoming painfully obvious, but she adds nothing further.


//Else if has dick and no vagina:
So... girls, it is. You suppose she wouldn't be interested in getting frisky with you, then.

//If dick, no vagina, femininity >= 59:
\"<i>Huh?</i>\" Her eyes shoot up, suddenly transfixed by your face. \"<i>But you... you... Ah, you... ah. You are not— I thought— Oh!</i>\" She seems quite astonished, looking you up and down, eyebrows raised high as she forgets her manners. You are pretty girly, but you inform her that you're lacking the main parts. \"<i>I... see. Oh.</i>\" Her surprise quickly turns into unhidden disappointment, and you can almost see the gears in her head working while she broods over that information, a hand covering her mouth in thought.

\"<i>Whiles I... am certainly not fond of phalli</i>\"—she says the word like it could hurt her—\"<i>if truly you wished to... I think I could... ah, no...</i>\" Marielle's face scrunches up further and further in dismay as she steals glances towards you crotch. \"<i>Perhaps if you... wished not for the impossible, some exceptions could still be... made.</i>\" She sounds anything but sure of herself.

//If dick, no vagina, lower femininity:
For a while, you think she's completely ignoring your question, but then she murmurs, \"<i>Hmm... I am afeard I— ah. Hmm...</i>\" What seemed like disregard turns out to be deep thought, so you ask if something is wrong. \"<i>No, no, I— I mean, yes— I mean, perhaps. Yes.</i>\" She doesn't make much sense. Marielle breathes out, organizing her mind.

\"<i>Well, I enjoy your visits indeed, [name], and whiles I am certainly not fond of... phalli, if you... I mean, if truly you wished to... I might be able to, ah, make a few exceptions, I believe. Possibly. Perhaps. Some.</i>\" Her hand hovers in place, unsure of what to do. \"<i>Perhaps if you were to— No, never mind. Just... pray ask not the impossible of me.</i>\" The expression that has taken over her face leads you to silently wonder why she's offering at all.


//Else if is genderless:
Well, you got nothing. Literally.

//If genderless, femininity >= 59:
\"<i>Pardon me?</i>\" Marielle stares at you, clearly confused by your comment. You elaborate that you have no genitalia. \"<i>Oh! Oh. I... see. That is... Well... if you— I mean... Hmm. Well, we could still do... something, correct? I-If you would like, that is. I would be not indisposed.</i>\"

//If genderless, lower femininity:
\"<i>Huh? Oh... I see.</i>\" She seems surprisingly indifferent. \"<i>Well, I— I mean... I do enjoy your visits indeed. But you, well... I would know not what to do, even if you... even if I wanted to.</i>\" A pause. \"<i>Though, if truly you wished to...</i>\" She lets that hang, not saying anything further.


//From here, it's the same again, regardless of genitalia/femininity, unless [Kiss]ed

Continuing on, you ask her if she has any experience, in response to which her many fingers start to fiddle with and turn about a piece of white lace they found on the table at some point.

\"<i>I, ah... I do.</i>\" Her eyes shift away. \"<i>Although what with my, ah, features... Well, 'tis wont to... be a burthen upon, ah, such pursuits.</i>\" She turns the strip in her hands, stretching and releasing it periodically as she says, \"<i>Though well, the... Whiles this realm's demons may natheless display little constraint, concern, nor continence, I... Well, 'tis wise to, ah, eschew their allure. " + (player.demonScore() >= 4 ? "Oh! I, ah, I mean no offence, of course." : "As you, ah, well know belike.") + "</i>\" After stumbling through that, Marielle somehow seems even more on edge now than at the start of this conversation.

\"<i>May we... cease this talk, now? Please.</i>\"

//40 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu
//Unlocks options to have sex with her, as well as the [Lewd] menu

> [Kiss]
//Tooltip: "Make sure she knows the desire is mutual."

She's cute when she's all flustered like this, but here and now, you don't want to leave anything ambiguous. Marielle raises her head as you stand and [if (singleleg) {[walk]|step}] towards her, shifting backwards on her stool.

\"<i>...[name]?</i>\" she asks, her anxiousness clear even in her voice, and flinches when you touch her shoulder. Whatever is going through her mind, you're about to put that unease to rest. You run your finger upwards over the girl's throat to guide her towards you before leaning in and taking her lips for yourself.

She's cold, stiff, and evidently not prepared for your bold advance as her eyes open wide and her mouth tenses shut. A few moments pass in awkward abeyance like this while you gently caress her arm and neck until she remembers to blink and breathe. Finally relaxing, she lets you press on and ensnare her in a more thorough, deeper, lustful kiss that you nonetheless keep short and sweet enough to be a mere teaser for what might be to come.

Her face is flushed with more than just embarrassment when you draw away, her exhales coming out notably shallower. With one hand, she reaches for her lips, a soft \"<i>Oh</i>\" escaping them while her gaze vacantly follows you. You yourself are feeling a bit warmer now, and it looks like you've found this undead girl's weakness on your very first try.

\"<i>I, ah...</i>\" Tapering off, Marielle doesn't actually seem to have anything to say, which leaves you to ask if she's ever had experience with anyone before.

\"<i>...Huh?</i>\" Pulled back towards reality by your question, the seamstress is rather slow in making sense of it.

\"<i>Oh, ah, uhm... a-aye. Aye, I... have,</i>\" she answers, still nowhere near with her mind. \"<i>Though 'tis, ah... well... not oft that I... I mean, my deathly features, uhm... and demons ought be, ah, eschewed and... uhm...</i>\" With her head this much in a jumble, she won't be forming full sentences any time soon.

\"<i>...Ah, never mind.</i>\" And after all that fumbling and fidgeting, she seems to concede to herself as much, though the smile that has taken shape on her face is all you need, anyway. You let her float in her own world for a little while.

//Lust +5
//50 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu
//Unlocks options to have sex with her, as well as the [Lewd] menu


//Asking her on subsequent times:

\"<i>Could we, uhm... not talk of this again?</i>\" Marielle pleads, tensing up and [if (femininity >= 59) {shuffling about|knitting her brows}]. \"<i>Once was already abashing aplenty...</i>\"

 [Insist] [Relent]

> [Insist]
//Tooltip: "You want some more information."

You push the topic, quickly making the seamstress resign herself to you.

//First time:
\"<i>Haah... Very well, then, what wish you I tell you: that I favor women? That I had not many partners throughout my years? That I would we talk of this no further?</i>\"

The embarrassment of saying that much out loud is showing on her face, but you sense a not-so-subtle undertone of antagonism in her words. She seems to realize that herself and exhales, mumbling something that sounds like an 'Apologies', but she still looks less than pleased.

//Subsequent times:
An exhale meets your persistence, seeming to be more of a vent for her displeasure than anything else, but Marielle abstains from making any cross retort until she says, \"<i>Well, [name]?</i>\" in a tone that still evinces a fair bit of it.

 [Preference] [Partners] [Pregnancy] [Relent]

> [Relent]
//Tooltip: "Don't embarrass her further."
//Both [Relent] options lead here

You let go of the topic, causing Marielle to visibly relax again.

\"<i>Thank you,</i>\" she half-sighs.

//10 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu


> [Preference]
//Tooltip: "Ask about her preference."

You press her about her preference for women.

The girl looks at you[if (femininity >= 59) {, her blush rapidly expanding to full bloom,| bewildered}] and opens her mouth, but quickly shuts it again and stares at a wood knot on her table, apparently deciding to give your question due thought.

\"<i>I...</i>\" she finally says, \"<i>I fathomed not what divine whim brought this upon me. Wherefore desire [i:you] who you do? Wherefore does anyone?</i>\" That sounded rhetorical, so you stay silent as she absent-mindedly starts wrapping a length of red yarn around one of her ring fingers.

\"<i>I know 'tis unproper and, ah, unnatural for a woman to affect another... Mayhap the habitants of Mareth judge that no sinful proclivity, yet whence I came, 'twas violence to most sacred law.</i>\" A sigh. \"<i>But... law holds no mastery over one's heart, and ere I was of a pretty age, I knew mine was set not upon men.</i>\" There's a brief pause, which you use to ask Marielle how she found that out. The silence stretches while she thinks of her next words.

\"<i>Well, I... From childhood, Father retained a, ah, handmaid for me. To prepare meals, as well as assist me clothe and bathe—an abigail's tasks.</i>\" Your family didn't exactly have servants, much less a personal one for you, but you still[if (silly) { suppress a single poor peasant's tear welling up in your eyes and}] nod.

\"<i>She was a blossomed, comely woman. Quiet, quick of wit, kind... and, well... quite comely I thought her indeed, as was given countenance when she, ah... appeared one night in a dream of mine. 'Twas, uhm... most illuminating.</i>\" Illuminating enough to faintly light up her pale complexion even now, it seems. You ask her how she dealt with that, and if she ever came out and told anyone.

\"<i>No. No, never did I.</i>\" Her fingers stop. \"<i>The Sacred See gazed not kindly upon sinners, be they child or not, thus silence held I.</i>\" Before you can say anything, she continues, \"<i>But Father knew. He knew to inquire, and I... I unbosomed myself to him, no more but twice besought. Little was that which I would ever, ah, keep from him, and less that which I wanted to... no matter what way his mind may sway.</i>\" She spreads her fingers, only to be stopped by the net of yarn she has woven through them, and looks down.

\"<i>Yet still, for faith, 'twas timorous dread judgement. The nunnery, to be espoused perforce, or to mount the pyre should have been my doom divine-decreed... but Father thereupon dispensed with all canon and statute, and never discovered he me unto the clergy, nor any man else,</i>\" she says, spinning the thread back onto its spool and putting it down.

\"<i>If ever he was the scantest scruple crest- or chapfallen his daughter... would belike bear him no, ah, grandchildren, he made no display of it. Seldom spoke we thereof again, of course, but not a moment was he less than, ah, supportive of me, his beloved princess. Howbeit, there were lets to what even he could effect, and perchance betrayed his silvering curls not solely his age, thenceforth...</i>\" Marielle breathes out slowly—her face a ruminating frown—and adjusts her glasses as she peers into the oil lantern's steady flame.

\"<i>I shudder to think what should have been, had I lived and grown to ripeness. A lady of my station, remaining unwed? 'Tis all-certain to... well, 'raise eyebrows', if you will, and I am lost as to what other path I would have trodden.</i>\" After lingering on her lamp for a few seconds longer, the seamstress leans back and looks to you again.

\"<i>Ah... I am divagated into tristesse, am I not?</i>\" she asks, her initial irritation with your insistence seemingly all but forgotten. \"<i>My apologies.</i>\"

//40 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu


> [Partners]
//Tooltip: "Try to find out more about who she has slept with in the past."

You ask for more information about these 'partners' she mentioned. Her eyes grow wider as her frown deepens.

\"<i>Th-That is not something you—!</i>\" The girl reins herself and fumbles for words, coming up empty. You watch her rack her brain for what feels like a good minute while you contemplate whether to say something or not, until she speaks up again.

\"<i>I cannot believe I shall be having such converse...</i>\" Marielle mumbles, fidgeting on her seat. \"<i>Well, never am I stayed long nigh any civilization, and seeking to hoodwink my nature's truth needs makes one blind upon many a, ah... suitor. And here, too, upon the lands of Mareth, in fewness borne are the desires for a, ah, body such as mine.</i>\" She pinches the meat—or rather the lack thereof—on one of her arms in demonstration while another hand gestures roughly up and down her torso.

\"<i>Thus, well... if there be creatures that have in them an interest mutual, 'twould be... demons of salacity. Succubi.</i>\" She looks nervously to the side, evading your eyes wile addressing the unspoken question. \"<i>Seldomtimes have I done so, for certainly I am not wont to be... I mean, ah, I, ah... I...</i>\" Apparently already having hit a dead end, she retries.

\"<i>I, ah, I mean, whether or not their, ah, perception doffs me of the... veils of maquillage wherewith I bepaint my scars matters naught. They seem, ah, unattainted in regards to... my predilections</i>\"—she briefly falters at that—\"<i>and... uhm... me being undead. And they are rather... bewitching. Verily so.</i>\" " + (player.isFemale() && player.femininity >= 50 && player.demonScore() >= 4 ? "She keeps anxiously glancing at you, suddenly well-aware of what you nearly are." : "She seems lost in something for a bit after saying that.") + " Still, succubi? You thought she said she avoided demons.

\"<i>Oh, uhm, yes, I suppose I did.</i>\" Her head cocks to the side a little. \"<i>That which I meant was their more, ah, unsavory ilk: imps, devils, and the reaving bands of barbarians and slavemongers—the beasts that are forsooth succumbed to corruption's canker and do naught to temper their flagitious urges.</i>\" You hear a barely restrained amount of distaste in Marielle's words. \"<i>Well, but there may hap to be a half-good number of, ah, adequately ruly demons. Provided they be heedful unto the principles of civility, I shall withhold not any soul my services, and succubi have scarce made themselves a menace to me, in these years past. Wherefore, I cannot say, yet do they appear more... amicable than most others. Though perhaps 'tis but another facet of their wileful cautel...

</i>\"<i>Well, eke enjoy I tailoring their exotic requests, even if the wished-for garments be more oft than not rather... immodest. And they do imburse me quite well. F-For the garbs, I mean. With gems.</i>\" Her face reddens. \"<i>I am no woman of such métier!</i>\" she hastily adds. Likely deciding not to wade any further into the gutter, she returns to silence.

 [Drop It] [Corruption]

> [Drop It]
//Tooltip: "Don't say anything."

You let the bespectacled seamstress gather herself again.

//30 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

> [Corruption]
//Tooltip: "Demons are corruptive by nature, does she know that?"

You wonder if she realizes that the demons of Mareth have a tendency to corrupt everything they touch, by choice or without.

\"<i>Oh, ah, why yes, I have... marked as much.</i>\" Marielle perks up at your warning, hands reaching for a few strands of her hair, but falling short and grasping each other instead. \"<i>'Tis a rather strange blastment to suffer, akin to...</i>\" She peters off into a thoughtful quiet.

\"<i>To speak sooth, I am incertain. Perchance is't reminiscent of a, ah, sweet yet seething ichor assaying to assail one's inmost bosom? Hmm, well, be what be may, little have I been besieged therewith, myself. I know not the cause</i>\"—she unclasps two of her hands and stretches them out in front of her, scrutinizing her palms—\"<i>but mayhap it, ah... ails less the dead than things yet quick. And, still, I am no heedless maid, unbruised; to be thrust into the yoke of such vulgar debauchery is naught I intend to ever permit befall me.</i>\"

 [Finish] [Warn]

> [Finish]
//Tooltip: "Leave it at that."

Sounds like she's cautious enough. She should be all right, as she evidently has been, so far.

//45 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

> [Warn]
//Tooltip: "Warn her that she might be underestimating things."

You point out that it takes more than just a firm credo to resist corruption. There are reasons why it has spread so far and wide, conquering almost everyone and everything that stood in its way. [if (corruption > 75) {You, too, were that naive and ignorant once. She looks at you, her steel-blue eyes a lot colder than you remembered them.|She lets your words run their course through her head while she circles a finger over her desk.}]

\"<i>Perhaps,</i>\" she finally says. \"<i>Your words do ring true, [name], yet mistake you what I am. But a seamstress, am I—no knight, no hero, no self-proclaimed paragon of justice marching for any one host, and neither am I sprung into this world but ereyesterday.</i>\" A sigh relieves any rigidity in her posture. \"<i>My limits know I well, and to their knell I hearken ere I fell awry... and though hid from common sense the fiends' bane may be, I would sit not here today, were I so, ah... callow and remiss of mind.</i>\"

The following silence is broken when she exhales again and sinks a little, propping her head up on one arm.

\"<i>But of course you are right, for one may never keep too keen a vigil... Not whiles demons are yet sovereign of this realm.</i>\" Marielle [if (corruption > 75) {eyes you with what might be wariness—or uncertainty—for an instance before forcing a slight smile.|forces an unfitting smile, staring at a long-bladed pair of scissors, gradually lost in thought.}]

//60 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu


> [Pregnancy]
//Tooltip: "Question whether the girl can become pregnant."

You wonder if she can get pregnant; she looks to be old enough for it, if she were still alive. As you voice that question, Marielle's expression courses from surprise, to distaste, to plain unease.

\"<i>I, ah...</i>\" She studies your face, pushing up her glasses and crossing her lower arms. \"<i>No. No, I cannot.</i>\" When you ask why, she continues, \"<i>Undeath has rendered conception an impossibility, for it has, ah... laid barren the facilities for such. Well, I mean, uhm...</i>\" She taps the knuckle of her index finger below her lips in thought. Trying to not let her slip into her own world, you ask her how she knows that.

\"<i>Ah. As Father would say... 'guiding those we have lost back hither through the gates of oblivion' merely calls upon their mind—their, ah, spirit. But the flesh, the body... Well, once perished, 'twill remain forever so. 'Tis a life-lorn vessel, naught more, though by thaumaturgy's hest, it shall maintain all functions that are most vital: the heart, the brains, nerves, thews, sinews... In essence, I am but a soul at the helm of a corse elsewise long-deceased.</i>\"

[if (has Shouldra) {That sounds a little familiar to you, but interestingly, your spectral companion adds nothing. Regardless of Shouldra's absence in this conversation, you|You}] ask the seamstress if she's anything like a ghost, then.

\"<i>A ghost?</i>\" Marielle echoes. \"<i>No, no, naught suchlike—still am I enchained within my body, much as a, ah, living being is, and my body in turn is fettered unto me, if that, ah, make good sense.</i>\" [if (intelligence < 20) {It doesn't.|You're not sure what she means.}] \"<i>Hmm... Ah!</i>\" Suddenly, but with due care, the seamstress grabs one of her lower arms to pry it out of its socket, wipes the stump of any blood, and holds it out in front of her. [if (corruption < 50) {Still a fairly odd and macabre sight.|You marvel at how handy it would be if you could do that at will.}] \"<i>'Tis rather... demanding, but...</i>\"

She brings the severed arm up to her eyes, a strenuous look in them. Slowly, its fingers then close around the bridge of her glasses, gingerly picking them right off her nose before turning them to you. Is... that what she meant?

\"<i>Indeed,</i>\" she confirms, now squinting slightly. \"<i>I yet wield some, ah, command over limbs that are dissevered, if they be, ah... attuned? Hmm, I suppose. If they be attuned to this body.</i>\" Seems like a powerful ability to have" + (flags[kFLAGS.DULLAHAN_MET] ? ", and reminiscent of what the Dullahan can do with her head" : "") + ". \"<i>Perhaps,</i>\" she says with slight doubt, \"<i>but 'tis unpleasant to perform and requires the better parts of wit and will, for I retain very little sensation therein. Mayhap come time and study, I may master it one day</i>\"—she puts the pince-nez back on and blinks—\"<i>yet at present, 'tis a but, ah, paltry puppeteer's trick.</i>\" After popping her arm back into place, Marielle gives her shoulder a light twirl and stretches, murmuring, \"<i>Quite unpleasant, indeed.</i>\"

She then seems to remember something. \"<i>Ah... We are strayed off-track far, are we not?</i>\" Right. You haven't asked her yet if she ever wanted to have any children. Maybe a bit too quickly, she answers, \"<i>No,</i>\" before one hand grasps a bundle of blonde hair and rubs the strands between her fingertips while she peers down at them.

\"<i>I, ah... would a liar be, said I 'never dwelled I on it', but besides the plain futility thereof and the, ah, undesirable necessity to... be with a man, I would be unmeet to bear offspring.</i>\" Why does she think that, you wonder.

\"<i>Hmm... Erenow and through all my life roosted I either under Father's pinion or am journeyed in solitude[if (ischild) {; |—}]neither am I in it rehearsed, nor is this a, ah, proper place for a child[if (ischild) {—your, ah, very own self exempt, of course—|, }]and nor wish I 'twere otherwise...

</i>\"<i>The obligations wherewith it comes, the toll, the toil, the turmoil... the continuate clamor...</i>\" Marielle lets that dangle, dropping the lock she had by now curled around her fingers. \"<i>Why no, forsaking the soft, self-governed life I lead for such travails appears ill-worth the candle.</i>\"

The seamstress then eyes you up and down, as if appraising you. \"<i>Hmm... Pray tell, wherefore ask you me all this?</i>\"

 [Curious] [Know All] [Knock Up]

> [Curious]
//Tooltip: "You were just curious about it."

You were just curious about it, that's all.

\"<i>I see. Well, I mind not our causeries, howbeit I would they were... less catechismal.</i>\"

//50 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

> [Know All]
//Tooltip: "You want to know absolutely everything about her."

You want to know all there is to her, including her most intimate secrets. She stares at you, disconcerted, " + (player.isFemale() || (player.femininity >= 59 && !player.hasCock()) ? "though also does a growing blush then conquer her face. The girl hurriedly clears her throat and looks away" : "then faintly scoots away from you, folding her arms again") + ".

\"<i>I, ah... I see.</i>\"

//50 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

> [Knock Up]
//Tooltip: "You wanted to knock her up, if you could."

[if (hascock) {You wanted to know if you could pump her full of spunk, knock her up, put some life into that cold belly of hers.|You don't have a dick yourself, but if you did, you'd definitely want to put a child or two into her, possible or not.}]

\"<i>I see,</i>\" she says, unconsciously folding all four arms over her middle.

//50 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Commando]
//Tooltip: "Ask why she's not wearing any panties."

You've never seen Marielle wear panties, or any underwear at all, even though the girl is a seamstress by trade and could make herself as many pairs as she wants. You wonder aloud why she doesn't.

\"<i>Ah. Hmm, well...</i>\" One hand's fingers unconsciously weave through the tips of her hair, but she seems far less bothered than you would have imagined, for a question this intimate. Perhaps it's not the first time she's heard it. Though still, she ponders it for a while before answering.

\"<i>Well, 'tis but another layer of cloth I doff to allay the cumbers of mine, ah, enfeebled and... heat-prone nature... Every one piece I may forgo avails me, howsoever little that may be.</i>\" That might explain why she's wearing a summer gown in the middle of a swamp.

\"<i>Quite, yes. A lightsome, airy garment of tasteful elegance that yet bescreens enough to beseem nigh-any occasion, outside courts and ballrooms.</i>\" That sentence sounded practised. Considering her livelihood, it likely was. \"<i>And withal, never have I quite, ah... had a need for brassieres, even afore my death, and I am somedeal certain that shall change not oversoon,</i>\" she says, briefly peeking down at her own diminutive chest.

So a bra might not be strictly necessary, but you ask Marielle if she realizes that panties aren't just for covering up, but also serve a practical, hygienic purpose.

\"<i>What mean you... Ah.</i>\" Wavering, she sways to the side. \"<i>Well, I, uhm... consume no food, so... well...</i>\" Her awkwardly meandering gestures aren't telling you anything, but it's clear enough what it is that she doesn't want to say out loud. \"<i>...And most liquid is required otherwhere.</i>\"

With those explanations though, she makes it sound like she [i:could ]wear panties if she really wanted to, and you comment as much. Still not meeting your eyes, Marielle shuffles her thighs on her seat.

\"<i>I, ah... I suppose 'twould be well-possible, yes,</i>\" she says, her voice cautious. \"<i>...Perchance it is with time become something of an immedicable habitude of mine.</i>\" You ask the seamstress if that makes her some sort of exhibitionist. \"<i>Pardon me? Oh! Oh, no, no, no. Goodness, no,</i>\" she's quick to deny. \"<i>No such unproper intent or... propensity is therebehind, I warrant you.</i>\"

As the figurative warmth induced by that question slowly fades from her cheeks, the girl is being distracted by her own subsequent thoughts, folding her lower hands while the upper ones lightly toy with any hair they get near. Apparently, there is nothing else she has to add.

//30 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu



> [Father]
//Tooltip: "Find out more about her father."
//Two versions depending on whether you've given her the Desert Rose or not
//Cut short if has insulted her father

//If insulted her father:
You start to ask about her father again, but you can't get out much at all before she cuts you off.

\"<i>[name].</i>\" The girl's voice is soft as ever, yet stern enough to make your name sound like a command. Her fingers curl up to slowly scrape their nails back and forth over her palms as she then pauses to find the right approach. \"<i>...We both have made ourselves quite understood, have we not? So prithee tread no further, lest what is mended now be imperilled anew.</i>\"

There's evidently not going to be any more discussion in this vein.

//10 minutes
//Brings up her talk menu

>Before giving the rose:

For how highly she speaks of her father, you notice she hasn't really told you all that much about him. Maybe bringing him up directly will get her talking more, so you try.

\"<i>Father?</i>\" Marielle asks. \"<i>Well... so much and yet so little is there to say of him...</i>\" With one finger, she starts running small circles over the table while her eyes follow its course. It doesn't look like she's going to say anything else, but you could try and be more specific.

>After giving the rose:

You want to know more about Marielle's father, so you broach the subject again. At your words, her shoulders slump a little and her eyes descend towards her desk, coming to rest there on the blooming Anastatica.

\"<i>Father, hmm...</i>\" the seamstress murmurs, distantly studying the plant with an ambiguous lack of focus until you make out another quiet hum from her.

\"<i>Well, pray ask on, then, [name].</i>\"

 [Background] [Work] [Fondness] [Her Death] [His Death] [Necromancy]     [That's All]

//[Background] needs to be read to unlock everything but [Necromancy], which has more specific requirements
//After giving the rose, [His Death] will be greyed-out, and will need to be unlocked with [Her Death] again, which will then also unveil [Necromancy]
//[Necromancy] should be invisible until the rose has been given AND you've read the new version of [Her Death]


> [Background]
//Tooltip: "Ask who he was, generally."
//Always the same

You want to know about her father's general background, who he was, and what he did.

\"<i>Hmm...</i>\" The girl idly taps the desk as she reclines her side against it.

\"<i>A simple man was he. Though of somedeal humble birth, seldom had he want of aught, for his father—my grandfather—was a, ah, clockmaker of good renown.</i>\" The tapping stops, and she tilts her head in thought. \"<i>As the, uhm... third son of four, I believe, 'twas not on him to hone the family craft, so to the duke's banner he trothed himself once he was of age. What followed were some years of soldiery and a life within cold holds and fusty keeps ere he turned unto a path less perilous.</i>\" You ask the seamstress what changed his mind. \"<i>Withal a gift of greatness predestinate to betake him beyond mere drudges' work, 'twas my mother. She, ah...</i>\" She stops, searching for words.

\"<i>Well, uhm, he and his, ah, compeers were oft wont to... tope after battles well-fought, and on one such night he happed upon her in, ah...</i>\" Marielle halts again, hesitating and seeming unsure if she should go on or not, but eventually finishes, \"<i>...Within the establishment's lavatory, rather crapulous and in a man's guise.</i>\" You raise a brow. \"<i>He always, ah, delightedly spun that tale in jestful fashion, thus would I never know sooth from fable... And I am afeard I am the far lesser, ah, story-weaver, in despite of my profession.

</i>\"<i>But, well, as it goes, 'twas gracious fate that delivered them thither—he, a man merry, she, a woman nigh-married... married unto some lord unbeknown and undesired, for she was first daughter to a house right noble. But liefest had she none of such designs. And thus, becloaked with darkness and doublet, stole she away to, well...</i>\" Marielle's voice tapers off, a far-off bird song bridging the gap. \"<i>...Make merry.</i>\"

The tapping restarts softly before she goes on. \"<i>Father was rather shaken come dawn to discover the man so woebegone he assayed to inspirit with quaff and quip to be a, ah, maiden high-born... Yet fast bonds were woven apace, in furtivity met they again, and ere the fortnight passed and 'twas overlate to cast his lot, he ventured bold afore her sire in seeking of my mother's hand,</i>\" she says with a brief smile on her lips. \"<i>After much hotness and dispute, the erstwhile espousal came undone, annulled... and what to that was sequent, well, 'tis writ and bound.</i>\"

Sounds like everything went well, then. That whole story told you perhaps more about her mother than her father, though.

//30 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again


> [Work]
//Tooltip: "Ask what he did for a living."
//Always the same

You ask her what he worked as after his military career—how he earned the money to provide for them both.

\"<i>A thaumaturge, he did become, a, ah... an instructor at the academy.</i>\" A magician, then; you ask what kind of magic he taught. \"<i>Enchantment, chiefly. The creation and application of objects magical: staves, periapts, wards, bijoux... 'Twas his, ah, foremost field, but eke taught he basal biothaumaturgy besides.</i>\" That's a term you haven't heard before. \"<i>Oh, ah, hmm...</i>\" Marielle taps her chin.

\"<i>I suppose 'twould be a, ah, progeniture of 'healing' magic. It, ah, permits one perform precise alterations of living flesh and organs without need for a physical scalpel. 'Twas the preferred practise of our realm's healers, most of all upon the fields of battle.</i>\" Something about your face seems to compel her to add, \"<i>That is where he learned it. In service, I mean. And wherethrough he realized his, ah, aptitude for the mystic art.</i>\"

Since you apparently have the daughter of a magic tutor in front of you, you wonder how much she herself knows, and if she can teach you anything.

Marielle's many fingers awkwardly piano against each other before she forces them to hold still and says, \"<i>Alas, I am afeard I must disappoint you, [name]...</i>\" She swipes a single strand of hair away. \"<i>Still do I recall most of his teaching words, yes, but ah... Well, magic can I not wield, myself, thus any endeavor to bestow suchlike knowledge upon you would be rather... fruitless.</i>\" Her brow briefly furrows. \"<i>I would be as a sight- and armless man painting the firmament's glory and glister.</i>\"

If she thinks that won't work, then that is indeed somewhat disappointing.

\"<i>Hmm, my apologies.</i>\"

//20 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again


> [Fondness]
//Tooltip: "Ask what he was particularly fond of."
//Second half varies if you've given her the rose

You pose the question of whether he had any particular fondness.

\"<i>Fondness, hmm... Besides for my mother and I, mean you?</i>\" she asks, not waiting for an answer. \"<i>Well, he was an avid reader, though 'avid' scarce did his love for literature justice... 'Twas veritable bewitchment, rather.[if (metdolores) { Your daughter's alacrity much reminds me of him...}]</i>\" A smile graces Marielle's lips. \"<i>Well, and resultant thereof, our, ah, bibliotheca rivalled the town library in vast- and profoundness, though its volumes pertained to topics much-lost upon the common man, whether he be, ah, lettered or not: thaumaturgy, mathematica, astronomy... and poesy. Quite a wealth of poesy.</i>\" One corner of her mouth momentarily curls a bit further upwards in her pause.

\"<i>...Father must have been rather disheartened when most precious his daughter would partake not in such passion.</i>\" She didn't? \"<i>No, in young years of yore I did not. Ah, of course was I taught it all, Father spared no expense in mine education, but apart of the few books instructing knitting or lace-making he procured for me, most uncommon would I, ah, find my nose ensconced within pages. Velure proved to be far more enticing than paper and ink in that regard...</i>\" She demonstratively glimpses over the many chests and boxes filled with fabrics and sewing utensils.

\"<i>Though little did that to, ah, dehort him from reading to me every night he could at bedside. A custom that far outlived its need.</i>\" Marielle strokes through and pinches the ruffles below her neckline, appearing slightly abashed for having said that. \"<i>And... uhm, grand tales of pernicious misknowledge, star-crossed love, and dolorous self-slaying made for rather ill-befitting bedtime stories... Ever fumbled he to compass what was meet for his young daughter, yet when all comes to all, 'tis all one to a child...</i>\" [if (ischild) {She glances at you strangely, but decides not to let out whatever was on the tip of her tongue|There's some wistfulness in her chuckle}]. \"<i>I joyed in mere listening to his voice's easeful timbre.</i>\"

The seamstress sits up a little straighter, letting go of her gown's flounces and combing some hair out of her face. While she seems to delve into a thought you don't disturb, she picks the pince-nez off her small, white nose, and two other hands get a piece of cloth to go about wiping the lenses. Now less focussed, she gazes into the temple, a soft \"<i>Hmm</i>\" reaching your ears.

\"<i>Besides books,</i>\" the undead girl eventually says, \"<i>he was quite taken with, ah... horticulture.</i>\" Like flowers, you wonder? \"<i>Aye, verily. Where we lived, 'twas alas a little too, ah, frigid, most notably throughout the winters... but natheless gathered and collected he ones hardy enough to outbrave such distemperature.</i>\" Marielle puts her glasses back on, blinking.

//If rose has not been given:
\"<i>One in particular he was right passing fond of—a flower of stone.</i>\" You try to imagine a plant like that. \"<i>Ah! Uhm... not of true stone, mind you, 'tis but a name. 'Anastatica' would be the proper, ah... genus, I believe.</i>\" When you ask her more about it, she takes a breath as if to answer, but then lets it trickle out in another \"<i>Hmm</i>\" instead. The expression on her stitched face turns into a complex, hard to discern one.

\"<i>'Tis...</i>\" she starts. \"<i>'Tis a somedeal miraculous herb. Growing in deserts, inured are they to inhospitable climates, and under frost or drought prolonged, they curl into an orb and, ah, 'hibernate', so to speak. The plant in sooth perishes, Father told me, yet if one were to bewet the carcass, its leaves and twigs would burgeon and reclaim their verdant luster once more in opulent, wondrous bloom... 'Resurrection plants' is what such flowers be therefore known as.</i>\" It's [if (intelligence < 11) {somewhat|not}] difficult to connect the dots between that and her own condition, so you voice the question of whether there's a link.

It draws out a stifled chuckle that brightens her features. \"<i>Oh, no, no. My... What betided me held no scepter over Father's infatuation with that flower, although I do suppose we both came to, ah, appreciate it all the more thereafter. A curious coincidence, yet no more but that.</i>\" She then heaves a sigh, her smile taking on a rueful touch.

\"<i>One, he held entreasured atop his desk; said it sprouted whenas I was born...</i>\" Marielle's eyes sink towards her own table. \"<i>How I wish I had thought to take it with me... but alack, I did not. And never was I to descry such a plant again, neither in another trader's inventory, nor budding amidst the wayside wilderness—a hap already most fantastic, on accompt of their arid habitat...</i>\" Her gaze loses itself on a certain spot until she sighs yet another time, re-straightens herself, and puts her hands on the wood, fingertips playing over it in a despondent manner.

\"<i>Well, little is there to be done, now.</i>\"

//Else if rose has been given:
\"<i>These in particular,</i>\" she says, nodding towards the desert rose on her desk, \"<i>were amongst his most adored. Such intriguing flowers, standing in illusive armor against the most terrible of frosts and draughts, abiding and awaiting to bloom anew when wetted... even if in sooth the noble plant be long sith perished.</i>\" She gives it a light poke, making it wobble on the water. \"<i>Feats as these are a marvel true of nature.</i>\"

Marielle continues to admire it, seemingly getting lost in those many tiny white blossoms it has sprouted. \"<i>'Tis a bonny thing, is it not?</i>\" she says before she glances at you, a sincere smile adorning her features. \"<i>I thought never would I behold one again... yet here it is, and you I have to thank for it, [name].</i>\" Her grey-blue eyes wander back to the flower, her head leaning on her many arms as she studies it with a look of mellow nostalgia.

//40 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again


> [Her Death]
//Tooltip: "Ask about her death, and how he dealt with it."
//Two versions depending on whether you've given her the Desert Rose or not

>Before giving the rose:

You ask Marielle how she died, and how her father reacted to that.

\"<i>Well...</i>\" She glances aside, scanning her wares for nothing in particular as she takes her time to answer.

\"<i>He did as any loving father would, I assume,</i>\" the girl says after some thought, her face remaining disquietingly neutral. \"<i>'Twas slaughter, see you. A lone lunatic's list that wholly unseasonable and unforeboded surceased my life whiles I was wandering through our town at, ah, eve and ease...</i>\" A pause. Sitting still as she is, only the rise and fall of her chest attests she's still alive, or whatever equivalent applies to her, until the reflex to blink brings her back.

\"<i>I recall but little thereof—a tall, reedy man, a waxen scent, his hushing hand pressed to my mouth, a bodkin bared by the other... and then, darkness. A yawning darkness.</i>\" She still doesn't look at you.

\"<i>...Say, [name], fear you death?</i>\"

 [Yes] [No] [Don't Know]

> [Yes]
//Tooltip: "You do."

You do—you don't want to die. She vaguely nods at your words.

//Converges below

> [No]
//Tooltip: "You don't."

You don't—death is not something that scares you. Her eyes briefly flit to you, and she stays silent for a while.

//Converges below

> [Don't Know]
//Tooltip: "You don't know."

You don't know—you've never given it enough thought. She simply stays silent for a moment.

//Options converge here

\"<i>I see.</i>\"

But instead of going further into that, she says, \"<i>When I, ah... awoke again, that which I first beheld was Father himself, his countenance a cast as alone a parent well-nigh bereft of their sole child may soever mold... 'Twas the one and only hour I saw him weep.</i>\" A warm but brittle smile settles onto Marielle's lips. \"<i>His, ah, 'little princess' was hence pale and cold as fresh early morn's hoar, yet was I still his, still drawing breath, and he had heed and hymn for naught but that...</i>\" She brushes a tress of hair back over her shoulder and leans onto her lower arms.

\"<i>...Maugre it all.</i>\"

//30 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again


>After giving the rose:

[if (seen the no-rose version of this) {She was somewhat vague last time, so you bring up Marielle's death again, hoping to hear more about its circumstances and what it spelled for her and her father.|You ask Marielle how she died, and how her father reacted to that.}]

She crosses her lower arms, though more so in unspoken unease than resentment. A long time of her staring at nothing and knitting her brows passes until you hear her speak.

\"<i>I was... slaughtered, [if (seen the no-rose version of this) {as you well know|see you}]. 'Twas eventide, past sundown, and on homeward trek was I from a visit unto the market stalls that day, when through an, ah, alley unlit by paven-lanes' lanterns I passed. He... awaited me, the man, tall and thin as reed... His scent that of candles whenas he seized and stifled me perforce, his blade a naked quill to the moon's so spectral light... and to my life, a fell quell in greatest gleam.</i>\" Marielle is looking increasingly uncomfortable, tensing her many arms and hands.

\"<i>And the rest was darkness. Upon the world, silence. No pain to feel, no air to breathe, no words to speak... Naught but most profoundest darkness.</i>\"

The hushed atmosphere of the shrine hangs between you before she eventually inhales and continues, \"<i>I was alone. None of our, ah, maids had I becked with me, and as so oft, Father arrived late anight to a hall now nigh-empty. He knew whitherto I went, for always would I pen a note</i>\"—a fleeting smile flits over her lips—\"<i>but 'twas well beyond my promised time, thus out in search he hied. And, well... eftsoons came he upon me. Or rather, what remained.</i>\" She pauses again, glancing at you, probably in tacit question.

 [Continue] [No Specifics]

> [Continue]
//Tooltip: "Let her continue."

You nod to the seamstress to continue, causing her to shuffle on her seat.

\"<i>I... My body had been... disrobed entirely and... and ere he fled, he...</i>\" Marielle trails off, undoubtedly struggling to find the right words. One hand rises up to caress the protruding stitches that encircle her neck, tentatively and unconsciously at first, but then with more deliberation as she draws along their length and says, \"<i>Well, 'tis the very misuse by which I bear these cicatrices.</i>\" The scars around her joints, as well as in some other areas, she must mean. \"<i>Marks betokening a murder most sanguinary, each and all... or nighly all.</i>\" The hand joins the others again to trace over her knuckles and fingers, her voice gradually lowering towards a murmur.

\"<i>In his, ah, brutest act of lunacy, mere embowelment had been not enough to... slake the butcher's bloodthirst... and so cleft and carved he me, the carnal man, till earth alow ran envermeiled and skies aloft dared not weep a drop to wash it clean, lest one fall upon the pitch-souled, blood-handed caitiff.</i>\" Her eyes have travelled somewhere far off, to a scene only they can see. \"<i>...A grisly sight, a wretched sight, a sight no parent should ever need behold, yet therein beteemed fate to Father no blessing of choice nor mercy.</i>\"

The girl's face sinks deeper. \"<i>Graces alone may wit what wrought his mind, by that very moment.</i>\" She breathes deep, and another long sullenness ensues until she clears her throat.

//Converges below

> [No Specifics]
//Tooltip: "You don't need to hear the probably gruesome specifics."

Whatever happened, it must have been a gruesome scene, and you don't really need her to tell you about it, so you ask her to skip that part.

She nods, staring at a tiny box full of buttons, murmuring, \"<i>Yes, let us.</i>\" Clearing her throat, she then gets back on track.

//Converges with [Continue] here

\"<i>Well, Father then returned my— me unto the manor beneath night's enshadowing mantle. Not overlong had it been, and... gravesome though it was, all was yet in wholeness, for my, ah, murderer had purloined not any one thing of essence. Thus Father, with haste of much purport and purpose, did, uhm... sew skin and flesh and inwards, and indited the needed spell.</i>\" What spell does she mean, you ask.

\"<i>Well, he...</i>\" Marielle dithers, her hands nervously grasping for anything in reach, mostly her gown and the ends of her own hair. \"<i>'Twas... Father, my very father, who, ah... bore me back to life by... powers forbidden and recondite.</i>\" Tense as a bowstring, she scans your face for a reaction.

//First time: [Fascination] [Surprise] [Confirmation] [Indifference] [Disgust] [Revulsion]
//Subsequent: [Next]

> [Fascination]
//Tooltip: "That's fascinating, you have quite an interest in necromancy."

You're interested in, or perhaps even fascinated with necromancy, and the one to revive her having been her own father could present a valuable opportunity. You'll have to find out everything you can about it, later.

Marielle looks at you, perplexed, all tension fading to nothing. \"<i>Pardon me?</i>\" Before you can elaborate, she shakes her head, blinks, and adds, \"<i>Nay, I, ah, I mean... Never mind. I suppose if you be... interested</i>\"—by her intonation, she doesn't quite believe you—\"<i>I could impart unto you what parcels of knowledge I owe... although 'twould be but few, for never shared he much, and I... Hm.</i>\" That sounds good enough for now, so you let her find the thread again.

//Converges below

> [Surprise]
//Tooltip: "You're surprised, that's not something you saw coming."

You're surprised, honestly. There had to be someone who revived her, of course, but you wouldn't have thought it was her own father, of all people. It does explain a lot, though.

When it becomes clear that this is the extent of your reaction, Marielle's anxiousness soon changes to relief, and she lets go of a long-held breath. \"<i>Well, I—</i>\" she starts and stops. \"<i>No, never mind.</i>\" Her expression then takes on a more contemplative quality as she silently ponders.

//Converges below

> [Confirmation]
//Tooltip: "You had a good feeling that was the case."

You had a pretty good idea it was him, and it does explain a lot, so you're not exactly surprised by her confirmation of your hunch.

All that anxiousness quickly fades in favor of confusion, leaving Marielle's ice-blue eyes wide open before she catches herself again. \"<i>Is... Is that so?</i>\" You reaffirm it. \"<i>Huh, hmm... Well, I... I must confess, to hear you proclaim thus is rather....</i>\" She looks concerned all of a sudden, furrowing her forehead and murmuring, \"<i>Betrayed, by such extents?</i>\" The rest of that she only mouths, but as she rubs her left temple and pushes up her glasses, her expression does steadily change back to a more neutral, contemplative one.

//Converges below

> [Indifference]
//Tooltip: "It was within the realm of possibility. No strong feelings here."

Someone had to have revived her, and that someone having been her father was a possibility. In any case, you don't have much to say about it.

\"<i>Hmm.</i>\" Marielle's anxiousness slowly fades, replaced by something like relief as she absent-mindedly keeps nodding to the empty air. You then notice her features take on a contemplative look as she considers whatever it is she's considering.

//Converges below

> [Disgust]
//Tooltip: "You'll keep it to yourself, but her father having been a necromancer disgusts you."

Necromancers are vile, disgusting creatures, not worthy of being left alive, but you won't tell her that. Keeping your expression neutral, you simply motion her to continue.

Marielle looks quite surprised by your outward lack of a reaction, eyeing you with what you think is a sliver of doubt, but it soon changes to relief, and she lets go of a held breath. \"<i>Well, I—</i>\" she starts. \"<i>Ah, no, never mind.</i>\" Giving you another sideways glance, she turns to contemplation.

//Converges below

> [Next]

[if (silly) {Well, you've already heard this one; you tell her you're just here for a quick reminder|You have nothing else to add to last time, so you simply tell her to go on}], which is met with a near-silent hum as she relaxes and turns onto contemplation.

//Everything but [Revulsion] converges here

\"<i>Hmm... Well, uhm... Thus, Father was dolven into the, ah, anathematized art of necromancy, I learned that ill-starred night. And were he not, my sepulture he would have needs dug instead,</i>\" she says, her tone hinting at regret. You ask her about that.

\"<i>Ah, no, never meant I to—</i>\" the seamstress answers in a rush, but cuts herself off. \"<i>'Tis well he did, but... well, what I... what I mean is, necromancy was decried, interdicted, and condemned by the Sacred See, and a practitioner's doom was to be a most dreadful one, if ever he be discovered...</i>\" You can imagine what that would entail. \"<i>Thus I feared. I feared what should betide us.

</i>\"<i>Safest discretion thenceforth was paramount. The, ah, mansion I could leave not, nor was I permitted visitors, not even my duteous abigail... To the general had I fallen gravely ill with an infective ague, and Father took it upon himself to, ah, tend to his ailing daughter in such dire hours. And dire indeed they were...</i>\" Marielle spreads two of her hands out in front of her, turning them around. \"<i>The whips and scorns of death had branded me apace for what I am, and far more... harrowingly so than what you lay eye upon now.</i>\" Done showing them off to you, she interlaces her many fingers on her lap.

\"<i>'Twould beg sennights to amend the spell and restore some semblance of vitality unto my person, and still more to, ah, procure the means of, ah... obscuring my perfidious features—chary time we knew we might be granted not... Misfortune is a mistress unmerciful, after all.</i>\"

Her eyes are captured by the oil lantern that helps illuminate the shade of her tent, and there she remains as she says, \"<i>And, well... she struck us swifter still than we foresaw.</i>\" You notice her hands squeezing each other.

\"<i>The gardens, the herbary, ablaze and consumed by flame. They battered the entrance—torches, threshing flails, hay scythes, and pitchforks in hand.</i>\" A moment of hesitation. She doesn't look like she wants to, but carries on nonetheless. \"<i>I know not wherefore... The servants' idle whispers, someone who espied me, the lunatic himself, a meld of all, or something else entirely...</i>\" The reflection of the lamp's soft light flickers behind her glasses. \"<i>But the townsmen beset us, ravening and ravenous for Father's and mine own death, assured he was a sorcerer frightful nefarious and I his thrall of villainy reincarnate.</i>\"

The rising strain is obvious in Marielle's posture, like something is starting to simmer inside of her. When she doesn't speak up again, you ask her what happened then.

\"<i>Ah.</i>\" The girl relaxes somewhat, one finger adjusting her spectacles. \"<i>Well, uhm, we... we fled. Father made— had to make many a pass of violence in guarding us both, but therethrough made we our escape and erelong eluded them amidst the woods.</i>\" Setting one hand on her table, the seamstress taps a stray needle towards its designated pincushion.

\"<i>Nary a thing could we call our own... Behind us, cinders. Afore us, a life of vagabonds, for the Sacred See would know anon what transpired and, ah, in pursuit send out inquisitors. Therefore could we ill-afford aught but keep afoot and ahead.</i>\"

Sounds like quite a fall from luxury, but a faint smile forms on Marielle's lips. \"<i>Yet resented I it not. Aye, bereft of all we were... and 'twas certainly not what I, ah, was accustomed to, but we persisted, offering simple sewing tasks and vending small, englamoured baubles and bibelots so as to not, ah, rouse suspicions. And... still were we each other's. Father was still there for me.</i>\" Wistfully, she looks on with tranquil contentment, her gaze stepping into the distance for a moment before she snaps back.

\"<i>Ah, I am rambled on for long, I ween. My apologies.</i>\"

//90 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again


> [Revulsion]
//Tooltip: "So her father was a necromancer? You find that revolting and you'll adamantly say that to her face."

Necromancers are vile, revolting creatures, and her father was one of them? That absolutely disgusts you, and you tell her as much.

\"<i>...Pardon me?</i>\" Belatedly, all that anxiety turns into wide-eyed bafflement, and you repeat the gist of it. \"<i>I... I... But... Revolting?</i>\" Marielle stares at you, something else starting to simmer under her incredulity as she grips the tips of her hair tighter.

\"<i>Father was of a cloth and mettle most proper virtuous; not once used he his might for deviltry.</i>\" Her voice is quivering, her eyes suddenly as cold as death. \"<i>Not once cast he down a man innocent, not once profaned he the dead and turned them to his minions, not once treated he me, the sole corse he ever dared revivify, as aught but his most precious daughter. 'Revolting' he was not, [name].</i>\" She's glowering at you as she says all that, but you know better. You know what necromancers are really like: they care about none other than themselves, they are disgusting, evil creatures that spread death and disease for their own amusement. Perhaps he had her fooled, or perhaps she just doesn't want to admit it, but they are all the same, all of them are—

The bowstring snaps. Marielle's hands strike the table hard, cutting you off and rattling the tools atop it. Something audibly cracked, but she pays it no mind as she furiously whirls up from her seat to face you.

\"<i>I shall [b:not] permit thee [b:slander, scorn, and vilify Father!]</i>\" she screams at a volume you didn't think possible for the reserved seamstress as she takes a fuming step towards you. \"<i>Why, a thousand times as bright shone he as [b:thou] ever wilt, and I [b:forbid] thee [b:tarnish his tomb] with thy [b:black, nocuous] tongue!</i>\"

[if (tallness > 74) {Despite her much smaller stature|With her livid face this close to you}], her rage is palpable, her pair of unbroken hands curled tight into fists. Expecting a blow or slap to come, you tense your muscles, but it never does. Instead, you catch a glimpse of a roiling blizzard of emotions as the girl glares icy daggers at you, unmoving like an incandescent statue, but slowly and begrudgingly reining in her anger.

Something in her wintry eyes relents, and she lets out a sharp, shaky exhale. \"<i>Begone.</i>\" The word is almost inaudible through her gritted teeth. \"<i>Aroint, begone, I said,</i>\" Marielle mutters once more, taking a step back before turning around and forcefully sitting down on her stool again. \"<i>And show thyself but once thou hast recovered thy good wit.</i>\"

One hand rakes her hair back, another massages its injured brethren. A soft pop has her wince, but she insists, \"<i>Just get thee gone.</i>\"

The girl evidently being in no mood for anything else, you turn and leave the temple, ploughing through the miry, insect-infested bog back to your campsite.

//Back to camp
//1 hour consumed
//Bog Temple unencounterable for a day
//Severely limits her interactions until you've apologised
//[Undeath], [Family], and [Father] will be cut short even after apologising, and some other small changes remain


> [His Death]
//Tooltip: "Ask how he died."
//Two versions depending on whether you've given her the Desert Rose or not

>Before giving the rose:

Curious, you ask the girl about her father's death.

Silence lies heavy on you, growing more and more uncomfortable as you watch Marielle press her lips thin, her face gradually contorting to a miserable frown she makes little effort to hide.

\"<i>...May we... not?</i>\" Her voice is barely audible until she clears her throat. \"<i>Pray pardon me, [name], but I, ah... I would rather talk of it not.</i>\" You can draw your own conclusions from that, but it's evident she won't be confirming them any time soon.

//10 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again

>After giving the rose:

You ask the girl about her father's death—how and when he died.

Her silence drags on long enough to make you think she's not going to answer at all as she leans to the side, settles her jaw against her hand, and stares near-unblinking at the flowering, uncurled ball of little green branches floating in its water bowl.

\"<i>Upon the height of autumn,</i>\" Marielle eventually begins, her voice level, slow, and even lower than usual, \"<i>many a year agone, sojourned we at an unhabited woodman's lodge, warming ourselves by the hearth therein.</i>\"

Sounds like you're in for a bit of a longer story. You settle in and listen.

\"<i>Unseasonable snowfall had, ah, waylaid us, and all but buried the pathways underneath vast, virgin domes of white... Thus cumbered by moonish mother nature herself, we rested within that cabin—a happy and welcome harbor from the numbing chill without. And one quite well-betrophied.</i>\" She draws a thread up from a thick skein of yarn and starts weaving it with her fingers.

\"<i>'Twas a something merry time for us... For all its tribulations, we were grown rather accustomed to the wandering life of transients and had made best of what it bestowed upon us. Verily, we had want of little.

</i>\"<i>The realm, too, was calmed much when the duchies had forgone war to favor, ah... preparation for another lengthful frost. The granaries were well-brimful, the dukes' cows enlarded and sheltered, much akin to their owners</i>\"—that quip catches your attention, but she simply continues on without a change in expression—\"<i>and we at last found respite from our pursuant inquisitors. By fortune's grace had we seen neither hide nor hair nor hauberk for nigh-on a twelvemonth full, and 'twas, ah, rumored that broil and garboil were erupted within the upmost echelons of the Sacred See, anent the succession of the late High Pontifex.

</i>\"<i>Too bestraught to hold their gaze endarted upon us twain vagrom withersakes so far remote, I weened them, and so did Father...</i>\" You hear her breathe out. The first sign of emotion since she started talking, and with that, her body tenses as the seamstress sets her palms and yarn down onto the table.

\"<i>How wan a hope that was,</i>\" she murmurs, \"<i>arrantly fatuous.</i>\" One hand squeezes the bit of balled-up thread it holds.

\"<i>No glimpse of them caught we amidst the shrouded trees, yet we in turn were turned targets most irradiant to their arbalests... One volley shattered the windows, Father was struck, something sliced mine ear.</i>\" She sweeps some hair behind it.

\"<i>'Twas cacophonous chaos in but a trice. The doors were rent asunder by steel and thunder when a brumous maelstrom of bolts, ice, and lightning bestrode the threshold—shivered glass blowing everywhither, blood upon the ground and table... the very air cracking and shimmering in magic. It all lightened bright, then dark, and Father...</i>\" Marielle's nails scrape the wood. \"<i>Father was screaming, screaming for me to run... and so I did. The man at the pantry postern burst ablaze, tumbled, and I hied. Aweather I hied, into the night, not once looking back...</i>\" The girl curls her hands to fists as she continues to stare at them. \"<i>I ran like the basest of craven poltroons.

</i>\"<i>...Voices resounded through the biting gale, clamor afar and anigh at once. Then, from behind arose a... short, shrill whistle of sorts, like a... tea kettle left overlong atop the stove. And the next instant, it all ceased to be.</i>\" A shaky breath, and she squeezes tighter.

\"<i>Deep into snow was I thrust, as by a titan's hand... and when I came to and stirred, there was... fire. A topless hell-spire of flame, spearing the roiling welkin above.</i>\" She swallows. \"<i>There... was naught left astanding of the cabin. Just a raging... raging conflagration. Not even could I hear the inferno's roar, for there was... just... nothingness. Just—</i>\" Her voice breaks, fingertips digging into her own palms, her breath quivering.

Marielle tries to open her mouth again, but quickly closes it in a minute shake of her head, politely turning away with a half-raised hand and lifting her old-fashioned glasses off her nose to set them aside and rest her eyes.

 [Do Nothing] [Comfort] [Hug]

> [Do Nothing]
//Tooltip: "Let her calm down on her own."

You wait out her bout of grief, electing to simply sit in silence as you notice her back start to tremble, and listen to the occasional muffled sniffle. One of her hands reaches for a handkerchief and brings it to her face while another clasps the piece of yarn, the remaining two massaging her neck and shoulders.

It takes some time, but Marielle's breathing eventually evens out, and she lets go of a long, heavy exhale as she sets the cloth-tissue down before turning back to you.

\"<i>Pray,</i>\" she rasps, correcting her voice with a soft cough. \"<i>Pray pardon me... I ought be... fine, now.</i>\" Appearing relatively calm again, she puts her pince-nez back on and takes another deep breath, though her brow remains creased.

//Converges below

> [Comfort]
//Tooltip: "Comfort her with words."

Carefully, you offer some words of comfort to the girl as she starts to sniffle, trying to calm her down.

You don't know if any of them are reaching her. If they are, Marielle doesn't show it, and it takes quite some time and the use of a handkerchief, coupled with a slow massage of her own neck and shoulders, for her breathing to gradually even out. But eventually, she lets go of a long, heavy exhale before setting the cloth-tissue down onto the table again and turning back to you.

\"<i>My,</i>\" she begins, her voice still raspy until she corrects it with a soft cough. \"<i>My apologies... I am... fine, now. Thank you.</i>\" She does appear relatively collected, though her brow remains creased as she picks up her pince-nez to secure them on her nose before taking another shaky breath.

//Converges below

> [Hug]
//Tooltip: "Just hug her."

This is no time for mere words or idleness—you [if (singleleg) {[walk]|step}] up close to her and gently stroke her turned shoulders as they start to tremble. She doesn't say anything, but makes no attempts to swat you off, either, so you use what little of her stool she doesn't occupy, sit down behind her as best as you can, and envelop her in a tender hug.

You can't see Marielle's face from here, but you feel her " + (saveContent.timesKissed && player.isFemale() ? "hands grasp yours, urging you to clutch her a little tighter to yourself as she leans into you" : "leaning into you ever so slightly") + ", and you stay like this, wordlessly holding the undead girl while her sniffles and the occasional hitches of her cold, small body slowly but gradually die down, absorbed into your comforting embrace.

Eventually, she lets go of a long, heavy breath and taps your hand.

\"<i>I am,</i>\" she begins, her voice still raspy before she corrects it with a soft cough. \"<i>I am fine now, I believe. Thank you... [name].</i>\" You unclasp your fingers and give her shoulders a final rub before separating and sitting down on the rubble again. She does appear calm once more as she wipes her face with a cloth-tissue before picking up her pince-nez and setting them where they belong, though her brow remains creased slightly.

//Options converge here

Allowing her the time to summon back her usual poise, you watch her squint her eyes a few times more before she nods, looks up, and continues.

\"<i>And thus, Father was gone. There...</i>\" A wavering pause. \"<i>There was not a thing remaining. The blast razed all—the lodge, everyone within... even the inquisitors without were but husks of dust and ash. I was alone, now forsooth, standing afore the ruins of mine erstwhile life.</i>\" Marielle falters again, briefly, but stabilizes herself with a sigh.

\"<i>Our packhorse, too, staunch and trothful for so long, was... panicked and, ah, off-galloped somewhither far, most of our needments upon its back, and thus left me scant of aught, besides a single knapsack that must have shook loose by the beast's flight... although at least these here</i>\"—she spreads her lower arms—\"<i>were still contained intact therein. And, ah, well...</i>\" Fading off, she lets her hands rest on her lap.

\"<i>I was still alive. Even if I wished not to be.</i>\"

When the seamstress doesn't go on, and instead peers at the desert rose again, you ask her what she did, afterwards.

\"<i>Well... I had no choice but to, ah, march on alone, had I? Mine heart makes me confess it and I longed for naught but a dagger's sweet, unfettering kiss, but...</i>\" One hand, the yarn still in its grasp, weaves through the girl's blonde, silken hair. \"<i>But 'twould have undone and most foully distained all that which Father ever strove for; to, ah, squander his gift by so calamitous and heedless a megrim should have been... well... 'Tis well indeed I hearkened to good reason.</i>\" She sighs once more, a sound that fits her somber face all too well and carries throughout the old sanctuary.

That seems to be the end of that story.

//75 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu again


> [Necromancy]
//Tooltip: "Ask about his necromancy."
//Only visible if you're given the rose and talked about [Her Death] again afterwards

You ask if she can tell you more about his necromancy.

\"<i>Hmm...</i>\" Marielle folds her many arms atop the table, one hand reaching up to play with her hair. \"<i>Little be what may I tell you here, I fear... Father ill-wanted me to learn more about the reviled, revivifying art than absolutely needs be known, and never have I, ah, owed or perused scripture upon the subject.</i>\" She continues twirling the golden tress in ponderment, evidently unsure of what to say.

Perhaps you should be more specific.

 [How to Learn] [Abilities] [Forbidden]     [Back]

> [How to Learn]
//Tooltip: "Ask how he learned it, in the first place."

You want to know how he learned it.

\"<i>Ah. Well, no mentor had he, and, what with, ah... necromancy's nefarious report, finding one would have proven nigh-impossible. Yet by right of his eminence within the academy procured he tomes elsewise forbidden, under the, ah, pretence of research. Copy he did them in privy perlection and stole the duplications home, where he might study them unwatched and undisturbed.</i>\"

You wonder how he could get books on necromancy in the first place, if the magic was outlawed. The strand of hair around her finger deftly switches to another one.

\"<i>They were all well-preserved and repertible. Not for the, ah, general, but most academies would keep grand, extensive libraries of every and all things—even of matters foul and ungodly. For all their misdeeds, the Sacred See dared not once be throughly rid of 'heretical' scripture; instead pronounced they but their possession cross to the gods' will and bound them to schools faith-sanctioned.</i>\"

//15 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father]>[Necromancy] menu again

> [Abilities]
//Tooltip: "Ask what he was able to do with it."

You're curious what exactly his abilities allowed him to do.

\"<i>Hmm. Well, raise the deceased, such should be manifest,</i>\" she says, leaning back a little. \"<i>But besides that... made he no use of his powers... Ah! Mine arms.</i>\" She briefly lifts the lower pair in physical emphasis. \"<i>Those he devised for me.</i>\" You ask how he did that.

\"<i>Well, he... Uhm, in their pith, they are replications of mine, ah, other arms.</i>\" Marielle puts the left pair closer together for you to compare. They do look very much like twins. \"<i>Meant these were to assist my dressmaking, for I would at times bemoan a lack thereof, though but in merry jest. Howbeit, well... natheless said I not nay when he revealed it to be quite possible to, ah... 'cultivate' a second set, complicated though it was. Everything for his princess...</i>\" Marielle momentarily forgets the conversation's thread by staring down at her fingers while wagging them this way and that.

\"<i>'Twas a, ah, fairly lengthful process, the creation and animation of skin, flesh, thews, and bones, sequent then the binding thereof unto my body to allow me, ah... 'wield' them. Numbersome tasks, and greatest in complicating the matter was the absence of a proper laboratory... But for it all, they have been well worth their heft in gold, thenceforth.</i>\"

She regards them fondly as one of the upper hands resumes its absent-minded hair-twirling.

//15 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father]>[Necromancy] menu again

> [Forbidden]
//Tooltip: "Ask why it was forbidden."

You ask why the magic was prohibited, in the first place.

\"<i>Well...</i>\" Her hair wrapped entirely around her finger, the seamstress releases it again to begin anew. \"<i>It treads upon all life's sanctity, does it not? Misused it could be to, ah, uncharnel and enshackle the restful fallen, to unmake their will and make of it but mockery, and to summon minacious hosts from naught, ones that would be vanquished by neither steel nor the wear of war...</i>\" Marielle tapers off, delving deeper into thought.

\"<i>'Tis unnatural,</i>\" she murmurs, \"<i>terrifying, in the wrong man's hands, and those are ever aplenty.</i>\" That does make it sound like she shares that view.

\"<i>Hmm... No, not quite, howbeit I do understand the, ah, sentiment thereagainst. But withholding a tool of such might for mere fear of its perversion is but a thing most foolish to me.</i>\" She lightly adjusts her glasses. \"<i>Purblind, if you will. Necromancy holds the potency to lend succor where the arts of healing founder, and I believe I myself am testament to such. And if mankind... or any other race wish to stray awry and extirp its very self by means of wars it cannot be the victor of... why, then mayhap 'tis well-deserved. Certainly, 'twere a demise much swifter than at the hands of these demons.</i>\"

She fans the blonde strands out, then spins them the other way around. \"<i>Not that I, ah... wish for any such event.</i>\"

//15 minutes
//Brings up the [Talk]>[Father]>[Necromancy] menu again

> [Back]
//Keeps text, brings up the [Talk]>[Father] menu


> [That's All]
//Tooltip: "You have nothing else to ask."
//This is the option from the initial Father menu
//Always the same

That's all you wanted to ask. Marielle simply nods, adjusting her posture into a more neutral one as she shifts on her stool.

//Brings up her talk menu



> [Kill]
//Tooltip: "Move to kill her."
//Disregard for now
//See: https://pastebin.com/rx2wnhDK