Ghostly mates

He waited for the scene to evolve, as it didn't fade, but simply malformed as he stood along with the rest looking for some interesting things to happen, finding them with his roving eyes and his crisp and clean ears of sunshine. He paid no attention to the death, his mind registered it, the surrounding actions from everyone around him.

But Ergot did not care.

And as the head fell, and the blood poured, cascading over a floor that had been scrubbed -so hard- by the servants, he winced. All the work that had become nothing. No, don't bother with the death and the violence, deal with the troublesome lives of the servants under Larkin's rule. Ergot sensed the need to twitch. From his right hand, index finger. And so he twitched, looking like a mad man who found his way into the flour, his skin was white and translucent, but he didn't know why. His blood was depriving his skin of rose tinges. No one paid him any mind, he made himself invisible to the layout of the play, this play, with the bad acting and emotion control behind laughing faces. He heard the sounds of steel against flesh and stone, against bone, cracks of fire and all was lost. Inhuman screams from the Netherworld in this very ball room, pops and yelling and he was splattered with someone else’s life.

Alas.

He was murmuring to himself again.

He rolled his eyes, one sided dice.

They rolled their way across the floor, searching and bumping, rolling across the thickening blood, smearing dark rich red paths of sweet iron tasting juice. And they finally met the crumpled form of a girl. It was the one the Shrike was dancing with, she looked so fragile and small.

Ergot winced at his own narrative, and then his eyes rolled back to her.
He tilted his head back, cocking it quizzically to the side, then let his face bow down to his chest, wondering a moment.
And before, he fully knew, what he was doing.

Ergot had walked as fast as he could to the fainted girl,
and he reached and kneeled to her, taking her body and cradling it next to his own, seizing her in her form of unconsciousness.
The life size rag doll that wasn't conscious or talkative at all.
Ergot stroked her face mindlessly,
tears fresh as a daisy on her face. He wiped them away before the saltiness burned her face.
No one noted the bard, as he yet again sat in the midst of attention groping moments.
His lute sighed as it was left alone,
a toy instrument temporarily replaced by the pretty doll.