A Poorly in Profile

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|text="No, Priscilla just wanted to right a wrong, to reset a bone that hadn't healed properly. Even if that meant rebreaking it."]]
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**Title:** A Poorly in Profile
**Author:** [[*user Mr Panik]]
⚠️ **Content warning:** Gore.
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[[Image http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/a-poorly-in-profile/Unbenanntes_Projekt.png]]

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Priscilla Poorly lounged in her bath, her brunette hair entangling itself with the lily-laden bubbles with each languid motion she made. Her porcelain clawfoot tub, with its hand-painted flora adorning the bottom, stood on her vaulting terrace pointed out into the shattered void beyond her palace at the edge of nowhere between realities.

The silent, chaotic sky before her swirled with the movements of galaxies and fractal glimpses of other worlds, a sparkling mobile for her and her alone to enjoy. Here in the open air where she took her repose, the universe lay itself as bare for her as she did for it. She knew the motions of these worlds, having hunted across them for centuries. She knew their moods. She'd grown comfortable in the spaces between places over the years; tracking the movements of existence was quite easy if you knew how. The Lampeter's had done it once and she didn't have half their ambition in mind.

No, Priscilla just wanted to right a wrong, to reset a bone that hadn't healed properly. Even if that meant rebreaking it. She couldn't help but smile just a little. Her latest quarry had gone down so cleanly she wasn't sure he realised he was going to die. A pity, really.

Footsteps echoed from behind her and she turned, "Yes, Florence. What seems to be the trouble?"

Florence, her handmaid, walked into Priscilla's line of sight. She wore a simple black dress, reminiscent of a habit, her hair in a bun. The austere woman was one of few people that at least didn't show her fear of Priscilla and approaching during Her Ladyship's bath time was usually dangerous. It was a respectable rarity, Priscilla couldn't deny.

"My Lady," said Florence, her shoulders squared despite knowing she was currently trespassing on Priscilla's sanctuary. "I'm very sorry to disturb you, but I have news."

"You found another Poorly." said Priscilla. It was the only acceptable excuse.

"Not quite."

"Florence."

"There's a man in Three Portlands currently asking after a "luxury wares craftsman" by the name of 'Poorly'," Florence explained. "Apparently a [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-8717 fountain pen] was found in America."

"Who found the pen?" Priscilla shifted her weight, sending lilies and bubbles sloshing about. "And what does the pen do?"

"The SCP Foundation," Florence seemed to pause, probably gauging the reaction, but Priscilla gave none. "The pen apparently caused outbreaks of diseases in a town in Connecticut. It came as part of a gift set from an establishment called 'Poorly Fine Wares'."

All languor left Priscilla and her eyes narrowed on Florence as she toyed with a thick lock of hair she fished from between her breasts. In going on 300 years of ranging across realities, she had successfully kept herself clear of the Foundation, the GOC and the rest of them. They were bothersome fixtures she knew she couldn't do away with, so avoiding them had been her priority. These monoliths of order weren't of much interest in her grand scheme; they were barely relevant.

But she had always known the time would come where they would cross paths. She'd engineered her curse, her retribution, knowing it would spread and that meant it was bound to draw attention at some point. She still didn't like it.

A choked cry from near the edge of the terrace suddenly broke through her reverie, once again pulling her back to the grim present. Her evening's entertainment awaited.

"I'll be with you in a moment, Florence," said Priscilla. She smiled lazily once more, and slowly pulled herself up out of the bath till she was standing, regarding an equally naked man bound and gagged lying just before the cold, black marble edge where the terrace reached out into the nothingness beyond. He struggled against his invisible bindings, shuddering from fear as his eyes drank in the shadows that darted about the room.

She knew he didn't know what was happening, but it didn't matter. He was one of them -- a pathetic Poorly with a pathetic soulbound skill.

She steadied herself on Florence's arm and stepped out of the bath. Immediately the two jittering shadows that had been circling the bath on the floor leapt beneath her feet. A third shadow, humanoid, shivered into existence next to her holding a silvery-black dressing gown in one hand and a towel open for her in two others.

"Thank you," she said softly, slowly patting herself dry and then sliding the dressing gown on her steaming frame. Florence took the towel from her mistress and stepped back to take her place next to the vanity at the side of the room, her expression grim with the knowledge of what was to come.

Priscilla's plaything on the floor hadn't stopped whimpering. She tutted, turned and approached, each gliding stride making her gown rustle. Her shadowy companions also made their way over. The two on the floor darted towards him and a frightened shriek escaped from behind the gag. They orbited him excitedly as the shadow behind her simply drifted obediently just at her shoulder.

"Tom, was it?" She asked. A flick of her finger lifted him off the ground in front of her and he began to thrash as more of his understanding of normalcy broke. He floated with his hands above his head, not unlike the livestock he truly was. "Oh, piggy, calm down. You're making such a fuss."

She placed a gentle hand on his cheek, and with the other she reached around and untied his gag. Babbling begging erupted from his mouth, filling her ears immediately and she quickly pressed her manicured fingers to his lips.

"It's okay," she consoled him. "It's alright."

"Please, please, let--"

"No, that won't be happening."

"I have a wife."

"She left you," Priscilla said, placing a warm hand on his chest and pushing him further towards the edge. He drifted backward, helpless in the throes of her perfect will.

"P-please." He whimpered miserably, tears and snot beginning to pool on his top lip.

"You're going to die today," she said, peering over the edge that he now floated over. He cast his eyes to the abyss below and all misery escaped him to be replaced immediately with horrified panic. Over the edge of the terrace, a sheer cliff face with thousands of bloodied and greying human arms and torsos reached out like grotesque baby birds waiting for food to be dropped to their disgusting maws. Garbled moans of people trapped in the rock drifted up to mingle with the hysterical squeals escaping her captive. She regarded him coldly. "Have some dignity."

She released her hold on him and he fell.

Arms immediately snatched him from the air and the soprano of his shriek climaxed and choked out as he was dragged close against the wall. Fingers snuck their way into his mouth, mangling the noises he made even more.

The arms maneuvered his body, each limb getting wrapped in a cocoon of fingers trying to move him in one direction or another, until eventually they began to pull.

His howls of terror quickly reached a crescendo again as the arms dragged him in opposite directions. He screamed, realising what was about to happen and Priscilla watched him desperately try to pull himself toward himself. A set of hands wrapped around his head and the rest now twisted, trying to force his body to give way so they could strip him for parts.

A sickening crunch and a spray of blood leapt from the huddle of tugging limbs as his left arm gave way. His guttural howl as he came apart sent a smile across her face. His arm separated from his body and quickly disappeared into the hankering mass around him. But there was more of Tom to take. Piece by piece, he was torn apart until only his torso and head, near death and in shock, were left.

Finally, with grisly yanks, his head was twisted off and he slowly gargled his last.

She always did like it when they left the head for last. She smiled, breathing deeply after the show and watched as the macabre scene beneath her settled into stillness once more. As the arms folded slowly back against the wall, her eyes turned upward to the roiling and broken sky beyond again. Another of her family, however distant, dead. Another gleaming success.

In the countless worlds, shattering and reforming in this void between places that she'd built for herself, there were more Poorlies for her to find, more family that she needed to bring to heel. Even the ones that didn't know why she hated them.

Priscilla retreated from the edge, heading for her vanity as the skittering shadows went back to their play. The one at her shoulder remained at the edge, apparently considering the void as she had. "Send someone to find this man."

"Do you want him dealt with or brought to you?" Florence asked as though nothing had happened.

"Neither," Priscilla said, letting her dressing gown fall from her shoulders and taking her seat before the mirror. The light mist of steam still played against her skin and she smiled at the visual for just a moment before her eyes flicked up to Florence in the mirror. "Have him followed. If the Foundation is looking for my nephew, he'll be a lot harder to find than the average. This could be a completely different Poorly, though. Let's not be hasty. Once I see what this agent knows, I'll decide the next step."

"Understood, My Lady."

Florence began tending Priscilla's hair, brushing it carefully as Priscilla's thoughts played at the edge of excitement. She always did her best not to get too invested when leads suggested a central Poorly had been found. There were false leads everywhere and the multiverse was mostly infinite. At least, she believed it was. If Pascal was crafting that could only mean he had lost his mind or they had confirmed he wasn't cursed.

If he wasn't cursed, that meant she had a new target; she had no leverage to bargain with him then and dispatching him would be the only option. On the other hand if he //was// cursed and crafting, well, that changed things significantly. She could always use a powerful thaumaturge to make her some new toys and there wasn't a finer craftsman than a Poorly. All she needed was the chance to make him an offer.

Who knew? Maybe he proved useful.

Out in the darkness beyond the terrace, the cosmos swirled with echoes of worlds on all sides. It was her window into the millions of places her relatives and their retainers were hiding from her and some days it felt like she would never find them all. She had never settled on whether that was a good thing or not, but traversing the chaos between these spaces, these stories, had become the lifeblood of her campaign against her family.

It had been a mistake that any had survived in the first place, but that didn't matter. This curse was alive and well and torturing them. That was enough on most days.

Today though, Priscilla's thoughts dwelled on the Poorlies for just too long for her to enjoy. If Tom Poorly was how far diluted the talents -- once vaunted soulbound skills -- had become, then she was further away from the end of this than she thought. Tom was nothing compared to the power of the central Poorly family members.

"Have we any idea where Pryor is?" Priscilla asked, suddenly curt. "Pippa?"

"Unfortunately not, My Lady," said Florence. "Pryor was last seen in cowboy wear near the Hokkaido entrance to the Lampeter three months ago, but we haven't seen him since. Pippa hasn't been spotted outside of the United Kingdom in a year."

"And now suddenly, what could be one of Pascal's creations has shown up in the United States," Priscilla pondered out loud. "Why doesn't this feel right?"

"I would have to agree with you there, My Lady."

"Elaborate."

"Three Portlands is too obvious a place for Pascal to be operating from. It stretches across the Atlantic," said Florence. "The conveyor belt of anomalies traveling between Britain and America because of Three Portlands would draw too much attention for any of them to be comfortable with. Whatever this agent is looking for, he won't be finding Pascal there. I don't believe he has much of a lead at all."

"Perhaps." Priscilla had to concede, it was a good point. Pippa was far too shrewd to put Pascal at risk like that. Wherever Pascal was, Florence was right, it probably wasn't Three Portlands. That was why she liked Florence; she understood how cowardly House Poorly truly was. How weak they were. "Have the agent followed, but, Florence, I'm getting tired of handling these extraneous Poorlies. They are barely worth my time. I want Pascal."

"Understood, My Lady."

Priscilla turned her attention in the mirror to the cosmically torn sky once more. Roiling lightning jumping between realities clashed with visions of worlds she'd never been to and from her perch between universes, Priscilla considered her prey.

Pascal wouldn't be hard to contain. He would be hard to find. Pippa and Pryor were going to be a handful no matter where they were. Pryor's guns had claimed more than a few of her favourite lackeys and Pippa had the savvy to build the alliances the Family needed to stay safe. If she managed to convince the Foundation House Poorly wasn't a threat, that would certainly be a problem Priscilla couldn't ignore. Despite the threat the two elder siblings posed, neither of them were Pascal, the pinnacle example of what a Poorly craftsman was supposed to be. If she could just break him the right way, she could have him under her sway without much effort.

Priscilla smiled once more at the cosmos. Even if it was a slim chance this Foundation agent was even onto something, a lead on where Poorly Fine Wares was located was more than she'd had in years. If the arbiters of normalcy were going to lead her to her prize, she was hardly going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
Filename: Ubenanntes_Projekt
Author: [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/nylo-s-author-page | Nylo]]]
License: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0
Source Link: [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/nylo-s-author-page | Nylo]]]
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