i. happy house
[ The girl with golden eyes arrives wordlessly into the belly of the beast, she thinks, spat back out by fate itself into an existence that may as well mean nothing. The girl looks like she has no intention of interacting with any of the people here, but if you're the sort to pay attention, you might notice that her gaze carries a nervous quality to it, as if she's expecting people to turn on her at moment. In the end, perhapd radiating this aura of unapproachability is how she's keeping that from happening. Unapproachability is not a word, but you more than likely get the feeling that she makes the rules up, and wants you to follow, anyway.

Before everything moves away from the welcoming crew, eventually, she deigns herself to grace everyone with the sound of her voice. It's like sugar syrup; sweet, smooth, and mood changing. If you ignore what she actually says, you'd probably have no problem thinking this is just a sweet young girl, blessed with vocal chords made out of honey.

Unfortunately, she actually talks. ] Come now, come now. Such an operation must have been running for a long time, if it is so smooth already... And with such power, I see. Quite the government, I must say, but I don't feel an ounce of authority from those of you who choose to stare and not speak...

Well? Hehe... Cat got your tongue? Oh, if only that we me.

[ She may never have an answer to that last prayer, now. How cruel fate can be. ]

ii. tenant
[ It all feels like it goes against God, truthfully. Even so, Morgana cannot help but feel the pressure to partake of the ... drink. It goes down like liquid fat, vile and horrific in it's own right, and when Morgana's mind is clearer than it has been since she's come to in this strange place, she feels like she's betrayed a part of herself she will never get back. It's poetic, perhaps. She looks to the floor afterwards, avoids eye contact with everyone in the group. Yes, perhaps that prayer never will see an answer now. ]

...Have you been to church before, my dear?

[ It's an innocent question. ]

iii. trophy ( test of initiation, closed to yuna )
[ Morgana is overthinking this already. She can't help it. Staring down their choice of tools has her calculating all the ways they could botch this. She can't say she has much faith in this wisp of a woman, even if she has a determined glow to her mismatched cat eyes. ]

I suggest we each choose something to compliment the other's tool. ...I'll exercise some uncharacteristic kindness, my dear, and permit you the first choice.

[ Taking a step back, the girl waits patiently, fingers laced over her stomach. ]

i. hybrid
[ Morgana is not joining fight club. She will never join fight club. She is literally only here to laugh at you. When she gets a moment to speak, it's always with a cheerful edge; her words are unkind, but maybe, in tone... You could dupe yourself into thinking it's her expressing concern for your body injuries or ego. Who knows. Maybe she is. ]

Tell me. Does it make you stronger when you land on your back or does it make you stronger when you feel the weight of your failure on your shoulders?

[ As sweet as her voice is, it's probably as welcome in this moment as a mosquito would be at, uh, any time at all. ]

ii. lunar camel
[ The girl with red braids as long as her hips takes to art well, it would seem. It's probably the fact it is so solitary. She doesn't need to speak or be spoken to. She merely paints, and the color her brush soaks up is exactly the one she would have chosen, anyway. There's no reason to hide it, after all; Morgana's paint is color of wheat fields and sunrises, new beginnings and the sensation of a new home.

Her canvas says "tower" at first, in loopy, ornate handwriting that looks like it was plucked out of ancient tomes, back when bookbinding wasn't an obscure hobby and more of a necessity in order to have books. She takes her time with it before wiping it out, perhaps a big too aggressively. ]

...My dear. You there, yes. Do you have red I could use?

[ She hasn't figured out that her paint will always be wheat colored help her ]

iii. christine
[ Halfway through your story (whatever it might have been), Morgana stands up. There is hellfire in her eyes, her expression as sour as six month old milk. Her braids are beginning to come undone from the long day, and perhaps from the fact she has been listening to ghost stories for who knows how long now. WHO KNOWS HOW LONG NOW.

She picks up a rock.

She aims it at the group of busts.

She is about to yeet the rock at the busts. What do you do? ]

[ if you'd like to plot something else out, please hit me up through PM or on plurk @ weirdautumn! on the other hand, if you would like to write your own starter for me, please do! be as creative as you desire. i'm up for plotting or running into the sunset and seeing where it takes us! ]