Here's the prologue/teaser thing. I used an online translator for the other languages, so that's why they probably only loosely mean what I say they mean. This is totally insane take on a certain character's backstory, and will feature a number of Original Characters. I like this prologue well enough.
It couldn't be said that the whip looked alive in her hands. Rather, it was like it was another appendage, an extension of her body. She cracked it without even looking, with the ease of a woman who had done this all her life, not even batting a heavily mascaraed eyelash when the man she was beating screamed. She spoke in Portuguese, slowly, calmly. Though her accent was almost flawless, there was a trace of something else in it.
"Nós somos após as perguntas óbvias." She told him. We are past the obvious questions. "Agora, nós obtemos ao mistério real." Now, we get to the real mystery. "Não porque você se encontrou, não porque você estola. Quem você é, e quem você está trabalhando para. Quem o emitiu?" Not why you lied, not why you stole. Who you are, and who you are working for. Who sent you?
When the man made no answer, she slashed the whip across his back again, bringing forth another, weak, terrified shriek. She coiled the braided leather around her hands, frowning. Then she reached over, and grabbed his chin, making him look into her light brown eyes.
"Eu sou a Matriz aqui. Responda a minhas perguntas." I am the Mother here. Answer my questions.
When he only babbled nonsense, she groaned, tossing his face away, and tucking a piece of hair away from her own. She was a tall, beautiful woman, with long hair that spiraled about her face in dark brown curls. There were slight streaks of gray at the roots, but it was the only indication of age on her. Her face was wrinkle free, perhaps through her clever application of make-up or perhaps, as many believed, by sheer force of will. Her make-up was indeed heavy, dark and striking as her figure and the coldness of her expression. She was not dressed for what she was doing, in a black suit and pencil skirt that reached her knees, and heels that added another two inches to her height. She wore a black leather glove on her right hand, the one not wielding the whip, and the left glove was tucked into the breast pocket of her suit jacket. She had only ever worn black since the night her predecessor died, and no one was brave enough to tell her to stop. She folded her arms, tapping the ornate handle of her whip on her upper arm, staring thoughtfully at the bound man, and the others knew something was in store.
When the Mother was thoughtful, it rarely turned out well for those who defied her.
"Rosa." She said, switching to Dutch, "Haal me mijn mes." Fetch me my knife.
Rosa was just leaving when another man came in, tall, thin, and dark skinned.
"My Mother," He panted, as if he had just run up stairs, "I must speak with you."
She sighed loudly, dropping into the language that had to be her first one, for her voice rang without the hint of another accent in it: German.
"Gerade als ich ernst erhalte, immer die unterbrechungen!" Just when I am getting serious, always the interruptions!
The man stepped towards her, bowing his head. He spoke English with a heavy, almost cockney accent.
"My Mother, a scout sent this." He held out a picture to her. It was a photograph of a British newspaper that read 'Sherlock Holmes Saves The Day Again!' She gazed at it, frowning, then her eyes lighted on a figure in the corner of the photo.
"Ah." She said, in German accented English. "How wonderful. We can have a little family reunion." She looked up. "Jacob." A blonde man in the corner moved. "Go." He was out of the room before the word had even finished echoing. She turned back to her victim, a smile spreading across her face for the first time in over twenty years.
"It will be so good to see you again, my dear twin brother..."
