Cirque de Tromperie

Zombie

Cranberries	34.2%	[ 13 ]
Rob	18.4%	[ 7 ]
Apocalypse	21.1%	[ 8 ]
White	5.3%	[ 2 ]
I don't understand any of this...	21.1%	[ 8 ]
Total Votes:			[ 38 ]

[Cynotastic]

Rei
The cry about ruining the blue boy's favorite pants only made Rei cackle harder as he tossed a magma rock idly in his hand before tossing it at Taubryn. It seemed the contact with the burning rock had managed to phase him as he made a hissing noise when he touched his own injury. It was great entertainment! This boy was inspiring humor inside of the evil Fire Breather as he continued to release rolling laughs. “Is this your idea of fun?” He was as transparent as he imagined he was. The guy calling out and questioning if he truly was having fun. Though, really, he would be having more fun if Katarina were actually paying attention to him instead of the familiar face. With the man distracted with the Ringmaster, Rei had decided that now would be the time for him to start preparing the fireworks and the grand finale~! Curling his left hand into a fist, he extended his fingers on his right hand out and then began to rotate his right arm around his left fist. There was a small ring of fire that began to curl around his wrist. It illuminated his hand in orange with the occasional flicker of light bouncing out of the circle. However, the conjuration of flames was stopped abruptly when the blue boy began to holler at him once again. “Is this your idea of fun!” "Whua?" Rei muttered as he jerked his attention from his hands and over to the illusionist. However, the ring of fire began to move from around his wrist and began to travel up to his hair. His gaze narrowed in on the blue haired boy, but not before his attention was grabbed by the line of fire traveling up his body as well as the changing of his wound.

"Oh god!" He shouted with panic as he began to pat at the fire chain that was misbehaving. His eyes narrowed onto the other fire breather before he chucked the fire creature at him. But, Pyrrhus' manipulation of the fire caused the object to simply dissipate in the air. Though, Rei's attention shifted back to the wound that was once a small dot and he began to press onto it. However, when he was applying pressure to cease the bleeding and size shifting, he noticed that the wound was actually very small. "Hmph," Rei grunted as he realized what a foolish trick the blue boy had been playing on him. A slight breeze blew around his legs and his gaze shifted down to the floor where he spotted a series of snakes beginning to attempt to travel up his body. “Do you like them friend? They certainly like you.” "Woah man!" He yelled as he began to shake his legs out trying to get rid of the pests. He probably looked like a bafoon the way he hopped around and flailed. A few of them had managed to break away and he quickly noticed the rocks tumbling to the ground. But, somehow a few of them stuck to his legs. He paused as he bent over and began to swat at them. He was beginning to get annoyed with all the playing, his eyes narrowed on Taubryn as he narrowed his eyes and began to mimic the hand motions he had been doing before he was interrupted. "Enough playing around." He snarled as the fire began to spiral around his arms and grow once more.


Interacted With↷

Ararelia

Taubryn - reacted to his snakes.




Pyr was a pest.



Katarina
When Kat approached the trio in the middle of the tent, she released a low agitated growl as she heard the words tumbled out of Maiya's lips. "-- to bring this man, Morgan von Faustus to life..." The ex-blade thrower scoffed as she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. This whole thing was overly dramatic. She spun her blade idly in her hand. She had come to the scene too late, the brunette was lucky. After all, if Kat had opted to stand around by them then she would have been murdered during her momentary mourning. Her eyes narrowed on the brunette's head as she watched the scene change and spark to life. Morgan seemed to be feeling the touch of life again as color began to blossom along his cheeks and his fingers and chest began to move. She had been standing there dawdling and taking in the scene too long. However, she wanted somewhat of a fair fight with her opposite - Maiya - therefore, she made her presence known with a hearty laugh. "Oh ho ho~! Did someone just sacrifice their life for someone who was supposed to die? Well, sounds like to right fate, the both of you need to die." She twirled the blade freely across her hands as she held tightly onto her blades. Katarina had plenty of experience with her fellow knife thrower. So, she knew that she would need to keep a tight grasp on her blades to prevent the woman with telekinesis from stealing the weapons from her own hands. With a grin, Kat continued forward. "And, I feel like you owe me, Maiya. You always talked big game when we worked together. Let's settle this here and now." It seemed that the brunette realized that rejecting the suggestion was not an option as she told the Lion Tamer to take care of Morgan. "Fine."

With that one word of consent, Katarina charged at the "younger" woman. She was agile with deadly accuracy. It was clear with how instantly she darted forward that she had been training over the years she had been missing. Maiya, however, was the opposite. The brunette had been honing her skills of showmanship and accuracy with hitting a stationary target. The Ringmaster's lover, had been slacking in physical training, it was clear that she was already running low on reserves and energy with how lackluster her attempt to dodge the red-head was. Maiya simply sidestepped, but doing so had managed a slice to cut through her dress as she had lifted her arms to block her face. The red-head had sprinted past the other woman and had dealt a blow while doing so, and it was her unaware of the fact their battle was starting that had caused her to be so damaged. Well, that was what the brunette attributed it to. "Augh!" Maiya groaned as she fell to the ground. Her eyes squinted as she looked up at her opponent. It had been a long time since Morgan's Knife Thrower had to use her powers offensively. And it seemed that the initial attacked had provoked a need for violence within the woman. Her right hand crossed over her body and she applied pressure to the wound in her side as she watched Katarina elegantly spin around towards Maiya before licking the blood off the blade. "Pa-the-tic~" Kat sang after she had finished her momentary blood thirst. She shook the weapon allowing the remaining blood to spray off onto the floor. "Just like you had to have your Ringmaster protect you the night that my sister attacked. Oh! So sad~!" The red-haired woman continued to laugh and enjoy herself. But, Maiya's crimson eyes darted off of the ground before her and onto the show-boating woman. The brunette stared at her as though she was trying to summon her own powers. But yet, Kat was able to react before Maiya could conjure any strength. The Knife Thrower on Roland's side stepped in front of her and bent down, lifting up the Seilouen girl by her chin before walking across the tent, moving the brunette to an abandoned section of the tent. "Don't worry, I'll put you out of your misery. Weakling."


Interacted With↷

Cynotastic

Beating Maiya up.



Abagail & Apostle
Her leather boots nervously pushed soil forward as she swallowed anxious saliva. This was not what she had anticipated going down in the least. After all, for how long her father and the others had planned, she was starting to believe that none of their plans would even come close to seeing the light of day. After all, Roland had been scheming to attack Morgan for as long as she could remember. And it was only through her own assistance that he was able to collect a gang of Morgan's immortals to join him on his quest for revenge. But yet, he showed no thanks and continued to only abuse her. It was because of this that Abagail was uncertain as to how she was going to spend the rest of her life. As much as she wished she could have an attachment to Roland as Ava had to Morgan, she knew it was something that simply could not be. Because instead of cherishing her, Roland abused her, smacked her, beat her up, stated that she had seen her use and he had no qualms in taking her life; and that she was only around because he allowed it. But yet, because she still had her own parent, she felt it was difficult for her to simply go rogue and abandon the man. Especially considering what the wretched voice in her mind always echoed when it came to the idea of abandoning him. No -- according to Apostle, Morgan was a horrendous man that she needed to stay away from. But, yet, none of her memories really showed that. For the most part she had been left to fend for herself. Which, being alone in her room was just how she liked it. Though, perhaps, it was the presence of Morgan that Apostle disliked the most. After all, with the aura of darkness that surrounds the Ringmaster, he struggled to take hold of her body as much as he could with him gone. So,maybe, it was simply that for which Apostle constantly stated she should be gone from the man.

Regardless, her hands were reaching nervously at her neck where she scratched with anxiety. This whole situation was dreadful. People had died, people were crying, and though she had no attachment to any of them, it still was painful. Especially seeing the sadness of those who surrounded Morgan. A whimper escaped Abagail as she let her gaze roll over the scene once more. Her ocean blue eyes hesitated on the scene in the middle of the tent, with Morgan, Maiya, and she assumed their daughter. Her lip quivered with the feeling that was settling in her gut; it was uncomfortable. Though, the fact that people seemed to idolize Morgan to the point they seemed to not care about their lives, but just wanted to crowd around the man and hope he was well said miles for the man's character. He had not been the kindest man from her past, but he was certainly much better than those she lived with now. She allowed her eyes to continue to skirt around the tent. She watched as Kat approached Maiya before challenging her to a battle, her gaze shifted onto Roland who was recoiling from the battle with the blonde haired woman. Then she looked to Liesel who was fighting with the doctor, and then Cannes who was in a spar with a second blonde. Abagail lifted a hand up to her lips as she pressed onto them allowing her teeth to pull off chunks of the flesh. Was there anything she could do to help? She couldn't prevent Apostle from holding up his barrier because that was entirely something on an ethereal realm, and that was his area of expertise. The only way that would happen was if she were mortally wounded. So, she was stuck here; a fly on the wall frozen in fear as she still watched the chaos unfold.


Interacted With↷

Shuffled around the tent.


Color Key↷

██ - Rei General ██ - Rei Talking ██ - Rei Thinking
██ -Katarina General ██ - Katarina Talking ██ - Katarina Thinking
██ - Abagail and Apostle General ██ - Abagail Talking ██ - Abagail Thinking ██ - Apostle Talking ██ - Apostle Thinking

[Scrivener_Lost]

Cannes

He had been flying high, riding the euphoric wake of a beautiful success of his mission. He had taken out nearly half of Morgan's troupe alone; something that would most assuredly gain him favor and recognition in Roland's eyes. After all, that was all he wanted. That was all he ever wanted. Recognition. Acceptance. Love. That was what had spurned him on to become the most talented acrobat in Morgan's troupe. No one could best him. He knew all of the tricks, all of the equipment, all of the wonderful secrets that made a show amazing. He knew them all and flaunted each skill he had. Every performance was magical and awe inspiring. There was no denying that the acrobats were easily Tromperie's best feature. And he had made it so. Beauty, elegance, and precision; he had it all. He had been the crown jewel of Tromperie's Fliers! Everyone told him so! "Cannes, your performance was brilliant! Top notch!" "You really had us on the edge of our seats!" "You look like a dove flying so simply through the air." It had all been his. Fame. Glory. And yet, Morgan never acknowledged me. He ignored me and not once ever told me I had done well. It surely must have been because he was flawed. Something was wrong, otherwise, why wouldn't Morgan look to him at least once? He wanted it so badly, just a little word of admiration; anything! More than anything, he wanted Morgan's attention. He wanted his love. He wanted him, but he would hardly even look at him. It drove him mad. Night after night he would practice until his ankles were swollen and the blisters on his palms festered and callused over. And not just his acrobatics, but dance and poise; everything that Morgan looked for. Or at least, what he thought he had looked for. He had come from a family of dancers and his parents had prepped him to become the best. Hell, they had even sold their souls so that Cannes would become a world renown dancer. He was the best! So why would Morgan never look at me!!? It had possessed his mind, took him completely, and twisted him into the pitiful creature he was now. So desperate for attention. So desperate for anything. Not once did he ever say anything to me. I was but a shadow, a simply fleck, an annoyance that he could not wait to be rid of. Why? What did I ever do wrong? All I wanted...all I wanted was for him to smile at me. Just once... The sobs continued as he stood stunned and frozen to the ground, his hands trembling as they brushed against the horrid gashes on his face. Already he could feel the bruises becoming puffy and aggravated, blood dripping from his nose and mouth in healthy amounts. I just wanted...for him to look...favorably on me...once! His wailing was fractured only by the sharp squeaks of his lungs attempting to draw in breath, his shoulders shaking with the effort. He didn't know what to do as fear mixed with confusion. This girl had threatened to kill him and if it had not been for Katarina, he would probably laying in the dirt, dying like some sort of pitiful insect. I got so close...Morgan was in my hands...and now...I am going to die.

And as the girl with the long blond hair rolled to her knees, Cannes' fearful gaze slowly drifted towards her, the tears cutting through the dirt and blood on his face as he watched with horror as the creature pulled herself from the dirt. His knees were locked and he could not find the courage to move, his hands still cradling his face as the wraith barely managed to find her feet. No... He clenched his jaw, white teeth stained with red and pink as he grimaced in terror. ”What crime could possibly warrant all of this, hm? It was not their burden to bare, but you punished them for it all the same. I’m no fan of the ringmaster, but…..” Her eyes were on him again and he shook his head slightly, desperately trying to will his legs to move. Please please please! I don't want to die! The foamy blood that speckled her features only added to the horrific appearance of the witch and when she spit up the bubbling mixture, he felt his stomach flip, his hands pressing over his aching lips. It served a dual purpose to help stifle the pitiful squeak of terror that crawled from his throat as she marched towards him. ”I meant it. I’ll be your death, so help me god.” He shook his head still, tears dripping from his eyes with no end as he sobbed beneath his fingers. "N-no...please," he begged. From the distance came the sound of shattering glass and for some unknowing reason, it sent an electric shiver of hidden energy through him as he dropped his hands from his mouth only to shoot a look into the rafters. He had to escape. Now. He lifted his right arm, his fingers brushing against one of his silky strings. All he had to do was pull it and a ribbon would fall to his aid. He gripped the string, air trapped in his throat as he shook violently, the image of Nova's approach in the corner of his eye as he begged for the ribbons to save him. Please! Come on! Please- "Ahhh!" He screamed shrilly as her hand gripped the fabric of his shirt and jerked him forward, his fingers losing the thread just as the girl's other hand wrapped around his jaw. He continued to scream, shrill sharp piercing cries echoing unhindered across the tent, until she spoke. He wasn't sure why he had stopped, startled into silence. "You didn't have to do this, you know. Things couldn't have been that bad. But now.... now you've forced my hand, little boy. I can't help you now. No one can help you now." He could feel as his limbs began to feel heavy, his arms falling to his sides as his fingertips scraped against the sides of his pants as they trembled with fear. Her lulling tones and docent notes were infiltrating his mind, sweeping across his body and down his spine where his knees finally unlocked as he nearly collapsed. Tears continued to bubble over his lids, wet silver streaks trailing down his face as his mind began to grow fuzzy. "We can't have you screaming out again, dear. It's just you and me, now." Its no use...I am going to die... he thought as the fleshy pad of her thumb pressed into his throat. Immediately panic began to set in, but her siren's song had turned it into a dull roar in the back of his head. He knew he should be flailing and fighting her. But he felt yards away from his limbs and even more so with the lack of oxygen now as he grew limp in her hands. "I didn't come all this way to watch these people suffer. To watch that son of a b***h die. I'm not done with them yet. I just can't let you get away with that, spider." Her grip tightened and the edges of his vision became dark, his right hand slowly crawling up to grip her left. However, all he managed to do was to simply paw at her wrist before it dropped again, his mouth open as his tongue lolled out of his mouth. His heart was punching against his ribs in a rapid panic, his lungs unable to draw breath as his entire body tingled as though it were on fire. All...I wanted...was... He couldn't draw the energy to finish his own thought as his eyes slowly rolled into his skull, his body jerking in response as his lungs struggled to draw in air, the saliva in his mouth bubbling into foam as his body reacted with violence to try and dislodge whatever it was that prevented him from drawing air. "Apologize to me. Beg my forgiveness." P-please...let me...go... "Atone for your crimes, boy. Tell me what you've done. Tell me why." Roland...Morgan....anyone....please....I'm sorry!


Interacted With↷

Quote:

Nova; still getting his a** kicked




Liesel

Yes. This was satisfying. Though part of her wished that it had been Morgan's skull that she had crushed, the other suggested that smashing the Strongman's head like an overripe grape was perhaps just as fulfilling. It meant that she was the strongest creature alive. No one could match her. Her manic grin widened as blood and foam spilled out from the dead man's lips. He was dead. Gone. Obliterated. And she had been the cause. One more of Morgan's brood had been killed by her hands and this knowledge sent a euphoric sensation across her body as she laughed airily. Yes...yes...this will do nicely, she thought as she gazed down at her kill with a hazy glee. It were as if she had become drunk off of the sweet taste of her victory, a wonderful nectar that made her face blush with inebriation. There had been no doubt in her mind that she would win. Of course she would win. This was all for Jean. The strongest man alive is dead, Jean. We are one step closer to avenging your death. We are one step closer to ruining Morgan...forever. A series of bright chipper giggles escaped her as she pressed her bloody palm against her face, the other resting against her breath as she panted heavily and wetly. She was injured, that much she would concede to the strongman. Never before had anyone managed such a task. But it was of little concern. She would deal with the effects of the injury later. For now, all she wanted was to bask in the beauty of her kill. Roland had tasked her with killing the strongman and even if she managed to snap a few peons in the mean time, she had successfully completed her given command. Cirque de Tromperie's strongman was dead. And even while he writhed on the ground, seizing from the impressive pressure that had been applied to his brain, the tall wiry Doctor had watched, just as Katarina had forced him to remain still while the pink-haired acrobat lay still in front of him. To watch someone's life fade before your eyes must truly be terrible, not that Liesel would know. No, she thought darkly, I could not be there when Jean took his life. How horrible he must have felt...to think that I had run from him! And it was all thanks to the damned devil named Morgan. But perhaps even worse an offense was this complacency his current troupe felt. This wretched loyalty and unknowing ignorant bliss. They had to pay for it. They had to be the coins in which Morgan took with him to the afterlife, for they would be the currency in which the man would use to pay the ferry across the great River of Death. Her eyes focused once more, her fury bringing her out of the haze of pleasure as she addressed the pitiful man in front of her. "Now, little doctor man...where were we?" Her task had yet to be completed. There was still the manner of the Doctor.

Roland had been particularly worried about the man, though Liesel could not understand why. She knew he had the ability to heal and the leader of this wicked band of rivals had made it abundantly clear that he was to never get close to Morgan. During their months of reconnaissance, it became obvious that this man would be trouble as his powers risked turning the tide of the entire battle. "If he takes Morgan's wounds, that will be it. We lose." It had been suggested numerous times that should the man adhere to his role as a physician that it would only help them if he should take Morgan's mortal wounds. It was impossible to know his threshold for pain, but he was not like Morgan. He was mortal through and through. It stood to question Roland's reasoning in not taking out the Doctor sooner, but the silver-haired man's logic had stated that it would simply only hinder Morgan, but not incapacitate him. Liesel was far from a strategist and still could not comprehend why, if he was truly a capable player in this game, they had simply not lopped off his head in the beginning. It matters little, Liesel hummed as her smile remained sickeningly sweet as she stared at the man in front of her, He was not my target, so I shall suffer no repercussions from this. But...he said nothing about the man remaining alive once we had the Ringmaster in our control. And though it made her sad that the one plaything that could actually match her strength was gone, she was still drunk from the victory over the strongman and if killing the Doctor would renew the sensation, then it was only time before he would be dead by her hands. As the fury built on his face, she could few the tingle of excitement build in her body once again. He's so angry! Its cute!She tittered as she dropped her hands to her side. She pursed her lips as she watched his features twist and shift into pure fury, emerald eyes shifting into a poisonous green color as the hatred surely boiled the blood within his veins. A breathless laugh escaped the woman as his snarled, pulling his lips over his teeth like a wicked beast. The sound of his bow dropping to the ground was stifled by the deep rumbling octaves as the Doctor allowed his anger to saturate his being. It was like watching a dragon finally awake from a sleep lasting decades. Impressive. Exciting. Frightening. Just like Morgan. "We're finally getting to the part... where I [******** kill you." Her lips parted with a brilliant smile as he acted with a swiftness that matched an acrobat's. Within seconds he brandished a blade, its metallic surface flashing with the dull shadowy light that brushed against his back, nearly enshrouding his face. His brilliant eyes shimmered despite the lack of light, nearly glowing with the fury behind those poison-colored irises. It was the gleam of a true killer. Someone who had killed before and still held the mental preparedness for it. Unlike the strongman, this creature wanted blood. Rhythm had merely attempted to stop her, cease the fighting and prevent her from doing any more damage. This tall brown-haired demon on the other hand, he was out to rend her immortal soul from this plane. A shiver of apprehension shot down her spine and she froze for a moment in time, captured by the bitter green embers that stared into her own, laughing at her and mocking her for even being alive. Her nerves were bright and alive as she stood there, her mind racing with conflicted interest. She had not truly taken the time to investigate the man and as he glared vehemently at her, she found that she could not discern between the fear and excitement that bubbled within her. Those angry absinthe eyes, the tousled brown hair, the tall lithe form; in all of that fury soaked being, she could see him. The strength he flaunted and the hatred, it was nothing but a door. A door in which she could see Jean.

It was pitiful, it truly was. She was both elated and frightened, a conflicting mixed signal that rent her useless on her feet. It wasn't until he charged her that she felt her synapses begin to fire off again telling her to move. He was aiming for her stomach and she nearly giggled. He was truly a Doctor through and through, his useless slash going for a vital area. But his attack was pitiful and without any true skill. It was easy to dodge, but even easier to grab. She released an open mouthed laugh as she stepped back and to the left, her toes sliding against the dirt as she his attack swing wide and empty, her hand lashing out like a powerful python as she gripped the blade-hand, her fingers tightening around the brittle bones that clenched the hilt of his dagger. They stood the same height, nearly matched evenly as she pressed her right shoulder against his left and gazed into his twisted features. She smiled coyly as she crushed his fingers against his own weapon. "You are rather cute up close. It is too bad you are so terribly-," she wrenched his arm back, twisting him around so that she faced him as her left hand gripped his right shoulder, "-weak." Her hand brushed against his chest as she slid it towards his neck. How easy it would be to simply snap his neck, she thought, her eyes drifting to meet his once more. And for a split second, she was lost; lost in those terribly dark eyes that glittered with hatred and blood lust so pure, she wondered if perhaps this man was truly a devil and not the cretin that was stationed in the middle of the tent. It was like standing with Jean again, his tall frame staring down at her as he professed his love for her, his messy brown hair growing just over his eyes so that she could not entirely see his beautiful gaze. Oh she missed seeing the rare chance to drift endlessly in his eyes. She had trapped this man and held him hostage in her reverie, gazing into eyes that were both familiar and foreign, and for a second, her heart beat painfully beneath her rib cage. Jean...I am sorry. She pinched her eyes shut and shook her head. Then she struck with lightening speed. The hand that had precariously lingered at his throat moved to the collar of his shirt as she gripped a fistful of the fabric. "Devil," she hissed in his ear before she twisted her hips and threw him over her right shoulder into the unforgiving dirt. A cloud of dust billowed around the man, the dirt having been churned and displaced by the clash between the strongman and strongwoman. Panting heavily, she took a step back. The effort she had exerted had caused her ribs to shift, causing her immense pain as she stared at the man on the ground. A hand shakily moved to her chest, pressing against her ribs just below her breast. The strongman had done a number on her body, but the Doctor...It had been a long time since anyone had assaulted her mind.

Her breath rattled uncomfortably in her chest as she slowly turned her back on the demolished Doctor, her eyes sweeping to assess the condition of the rest of her comrades. Despite the degenerate nature of their attraction, they were still a group of fellow combatants. They each had their own reasons for being here; revenge, hatred, love, all different and various reasons to draw the angry crowd against Morgan. But they had yet to truly accomplish their mission and until she saw Morgan truly destroyed, she would offer what little sympathy she had for the group she had trained with. They were working towards a common goal and even if Katarina's cruel remarks and Cannes' annoying antics drove her to near madness, until Morgan was plunged into the depths of Hell, she would try to keep them alive. Her eyes first fell upon Cannes writhing on the ground as some little blonde creature gave him a solid walloping. It wasn't long until a flash of red assisted him as Katarina knocked the small girl from the tiny acrobat's body. For the moment, Cannes was no longer a concern. Nor was Katarina. Rei was occupied with the Illusionist and the Fire Breather, but he appeared to be handling it well enough. Perhaps more concerning was the blonde woman that had challenged Roland. The man was a tough opponent in his own right when concerned with mind games and strategy, but he was far from a reliable warrior. She would have to assist him. But as she strode forward, something else drew her attention as apple green eyes slid to where Morgan was supposed to be locked in his chains, only to see him cradled in the arms of the Knife Thrower. A spark of anger flickered across her face. "Damn!" She curled her hands into fists as the Lion Tamer and Knife Thrower exclaimed with excitement. "Morgan! Morgan, you're alive!" When did they-? It mattered little. The tide of battle was slowly shifting and with Morgan freed, soon it would degrade. They had to kill him quickly. Katarina was there, challenging Maiya now, but as the Assistant stumbled towards them, even with the brunette occupied, the helpless pair of brats would still be able to retrieve Morgan. She had to alert Roland. He needed to think of a new plan, quickly. "Roland! The Ringmaster!"


Interacted With↷

Quote:

Damuron; attacked



Color Key↷

██ - Cannes General ██ - Cannes Talking ██ - Cannes Thinking
██ - Roland General ██ - Roland Talking ██ - Roland Thinking
██ - Liesel General ██ - Liesel Talking ██ - Liesel Thinking

[Scrivener_Lost]

Roland

Oh, how wretched this woman was. It had only taken but a few minutes, but he could see it now. Clearly. And he hated it. This pitiful cow was something not human and yet, not quite a devil either. She was strange and interesting. At first, the correlation had been drawn with her swordsmanship, watching with fettered interest as she used her weapon sloppily. However, the minute she had shifted her blade hand, he knew he was dealing with something completely different. Something familiar and quite unnerving. It was the the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she stared at him with cold coin-colored eyes; everything was stirring up emotions in him that only one other person had ever managed to accomplish. He could feel the old stale rage, the humiliation as the blade bit into his flesh, and the fear that accompanied challenging The Ringmaster. She was not the Ringmaster, but if he had not known any better, this woman held far more similarities to the man than the urchin he had adopted. Perhaps she was a doppelganger; a creature from another world used as Morgan's double. The fierce fiery eyes, the elegant and cold perfection of her movements, and the smooth demeaning words that dripped from her lips like bitter honey all reminded him of how Morgan used to be. She was the flaming spirit of the Ringmaster now, the man's devilish soul before he had become this worn down mess of an old man. He could see it in her. The passion. The tempered steel reserve. The wild soul of a creature that had been born into the world before humanity sullied the animal nature of the creature that walked this earth now. It was both delightful and terrifying; the pair of them were like the sun and moon. Morgan, aged and beaten down was nothing but a shadow of the impossibly bright woman that stood before him now, her ripost reminding him of an era long since gone. How wretched. I had once thought that there was no one in this world like him, that once I was rid of that man...I would be freed of the von Faustus curse. But this woman... Her shimmering golden hair splattered her complexion, but highlighted the fierce gaze with a crown and despite the dirt and sweat that gathered, he had never seen anything so radiant. Like a goddess, Athena herself standing before him, weapon in hand and ready to judge his soul for its worth; it was beautiful. Standing before him, her naked ankles donning dirt like war pleats and her dress torn with little care for its previous purpose; she had abandoned any length of class or decorum to save this pitiful man that bled in the middle of the tent. This woman will be the death of me. I can feel it. She has inherited his soul...I can feel it... The evidence was in the blood that bubbled beneath his fingers, leaking from his body. She had marked him just as the Ringmaster had. It was frustrating but admirable at the same time. If I do not rid the world of this woman...should Morgan perish...I will never rest. She will hunt me... There was no denying it. Even if the lass herself could not feel it, she had become Morgan's blade. The man was weak and his soul had disintegrated; Roland had watched as his pitiful emotions had degraded him to some sniveling dog content to become leashed to the whims of a woman. He was not the man Roland knew in the past and it made him perhaps even more disgusting. Morgan needed to die. For all of his proud faults in the past, seeing him writhe in the hands of these heinous mortals was perhaps the most sickening thing that could happen to the powerful cretin. But now... Crimson eyes remained locked on the sunlit goddess in front of him, It would appear I have more than one target...

He had tried to sway her, uttering sweet words of promised slavery at the hands of Morgan. Perhaps it was even more relevant now as he basked in the glow of Morgan's doppelganger, his breath easing from his lungs in carefully measured breaths. She seemed intent to cast his words aside, hardly interested in the banter. But it was obvious that she had become far too wrapped up in Morgan's tailcoat to see that she was merely being manipulated by the Ringmaster. Though he may not have physically assaulted her, it was clear to him that her mind had become saturated the man's lewd lies, his snake tongue deep in her throat where she could not breathe for her own. Seduced by his charm and his silver words, it was sad to see such a strong woman so sullied by the Ringmaster. That was just it, though, the base of his bog of hatred. Morgan, despite his weakened mind, was still far more powerful than any of these fools realized. His mind was sharp and though his body was weakened and perhaps not in the best of condition, it was truly his logic that worked against the world. That's what had made him the best. He was smart, a brilliant man through and through. A strategist. He was icily clever and if only they had seen the wicked ways in which he moved people around him, there would be little doubt in his mind that this woman would not be so keen to protect him. Morgan lied, cheated, and stole his way through the world. He played an unfair game, holding within him an unfair advantage that no human would ever be able to match. Not even this woman. If only he could make her see this. Understand it. But it would not be so. Morgan's fangs had gone too far into her mind and even if he could attempt to pry them loose, then he feared losing the goddess before him. I have no choice. She must be killed. And if I must cheat, then so be it. I shall simply take a page out of the Ringmaster's book. The vial had been cast into the air, aiming directly for the woman as he quickly followed behind it. He had to be precise in his aim. He needed to fell her now or risk this entire mission. She had to die in order for Roland to regain the swiftly deteriorating status of this fight. She was moving, just as he suspected. She was far too clever and swift to simply take the full blow of the acid. But what he had not expected was for her to remain frozen in her spot. Things were moving far too quickly. He only had seconds to spare as he watched her dagger come down on the vial, slicing through the glass like a hot knife through butter. Instantaneously, the liquid burst into the air, just as her rapier swung up to block his sword, her dagger joining to effectively buffer the blow and direct it away. The jarring effects of metal blades meeting rocketed up his arm, but it was forgotten nearly instantly when the acid splattered onto his arms and shoulders. His brain sent off a rapid fire succession of agonized pain and shock; he had walked straight into his own bloody trap. Perhaps even more terrifying was knowing the effects of the acid. Yes. He had just run blindly into his own concoction, one that he never wished to experience like this. The minute the potion hit his clothing, it ate away at the fabric quicker than a flame taking to dry straw. He had created the acid to be quick acting with a corrosive nature, aiming to express as much damage as possible. The threads of his jacket peeled away, the sound of the hungry concoction eating away at their clothing and flesh impossible to ignore as it hissed loudly and spit vapor into the air. "Aagh! The sound of the woman's cry was lost beneath his own wail of agony as the sleeves nearly disappeared, leaving behind angry red flesh that bubbled with white foam. He was easy to deflect as she shoved him back, the pair of them contending with their pain as Roland nearly lost his footing, hunched over as he attempted to brush the poison from his arms and shoulders, which only merely resulted in the mixture being pushed further along his arms and ate away at his gloves.

"You petty swine! Can you not even muster the slightest bit of integrity in combat? What deplorable trickery must you resort to. Are you so inept that you cannot muster the courage to face me head on?" So she thought him a coward. Well enough. Those who fought stupidly against a stronger enemy was only worth the hide he fought in. Morgan was impossible to defeat on any normal means. Yes. He had cheated. There was no honor gained, but then again...where was his honor to begin with? He had none. Morgan had taken it all. Roland cared little for her repulsed words. He would slaughter a woman ten times over with acid and wild dogs if it would assure his victory. He attempted to growl a reply, but found that the pain took his voice. He was panting, his heart pounding against his chest as he remained hunched over, his arms burning with the searing effects of the acid. He slowly turned his head to glance at her, sweat dripping into his eyes. The stinging of the salt was beyond petty compared to the flesh eating nature of the acid. His entire body was shaking, the skin on his arms practically crawling from the muscles as the fabric melted away, dropping to the floor in semi-liquid viscous piles. His arms were bright red, but in the corner of his eye, he could see something far more worrisome. He glanced to his forearm where the flesh was pale and ghastly white, nearly translucent with bright blue veins rising to the skin. He ground his teeth together as he placed a shaking hand over the skin before returning his attention to the woman. They were both suffering tremendously from the acid, but the woman was worse off than he. Despite her effort in deflecting the liquid, she had been practically painted in the potion. She will not be able to recover fully... It was perfect. He could fight through the effects of the acid, but the woman? She was already weakened severely. It was only time. He knew it. He chuckled airily as though he could not draw in enough breath. This fight was already won. "I know not of what your petty dispute is with the dear Ringmaster, so I cannot speak to whether or not your drastic action is vindicated, but need you drag so many innocent lives into the mix? That is deplorable, barbaric! ...and I simply cannot forgive it." He watched her carefully, his eyes lingering on her hands as her fingers moved near imperceptibly. She was pushing through the pain, but Roland highly doubted she would have the strength to take him on again. He slowly straightened his spine, his own fingers barely able to remain wrapped around the cane sword as he remained silent. The soft sound of the tip of his sword rattling against the ground seemed impossibly loud and he had to still his shaking limb before she could catch on to how much pain he was in. "Cut the head off the snake, Roland. Your words." His eyes darted to her as they widened. How...how could she possibly have the strength to keep moving? She is far too injured... He winced as he pulled back his blade arm, the effort of shifting his shoulder sending burning waves of pain down his back. He pulled up the blade, his stance clumsy now as he watched the demoness grin. This is impossible! She is a woman...she is supposed to be weak! Damn it...she is truly something to contend with...I may have misjudged this all terribly. It was the Ringmaster's fault. How could he have possibly gathered what few pitiful capable souls he had? How did they not hate the man for the years of turmoil and torture!? It simply made no sense! "Now, I will make you understand them intimately." His pupils dilated to near pin pricks. She...she was there!?

She was truly Morgan's mirror.

Like a hot wind gusting across the desert, she came at him, her steps purposeful and planned. He was not prepared as he stumbled back, attempting to secure some sort of protective stance, his boots scraping against the dirt in desperation to find solid footing. She was too quick and her movements flowed like the icy undercurrent of a river frozen over. And as the two combined, it created a terrible storm in which Roland found himself unable to decipher, let alone contend with. Damn it! Katarina! He bared his teeth as Alaizbel thrust forward with the rapier and he brought his sword up to parry. His foot slipped, his own momentum working against him as a flash of silver rose up. s**t! There was nothing he could do against the dagger. He had been ill prepared for this attack, unable to secure his blade quick enough against it. His own desperation to dodge the rapier spelled his own doom, his footing loose and unable to cease his own tumbled forward. Her blade found its mark, however, it was not to the throat as the woman had hoped. His scream of pain echoed through the tent as he twisted away, crimson flying through the air as it trailed behind her dagger as it went wide. It had hit something, deflected to the right with a jarring as Roland spun inelegantly to the left, tumbling over his own feet as he crashed to the floor. His sword clattered to the dirt as he curled into a ball on his knees, his hands wrapped around his head. "Nnng aahh....AHHH!" He bellowed into the dirt as blood quickly spilled over his fingers as he cradled the left side of his head. "D-damn it...damn it! Agh!" He couldn't believe it! How could she had moved so quickly! The acid should have put her into shock, or at least slowed her movements. She was a woman possessed. A devil. He wanted to know what moved her. What gave her strength. SO THAT HE COULD RIP IT FROM THIS EARTH. He gasped as red hot pain washed over his face, his hands cradling the massive gash she had planted on him. It was not a simple wound, no mere cut like the jab to his side. He breathed harshly, his left hand pressing against the side of his face as his right hand eagerly abandoned the sword to assist it. He was bleeding too much. "Roland! The Ringmaster!" The alchemist could hardly move his head let alone see what that horrid swine Liesel was screaming about. He had to gain control. He could not let Morgan's kin win this fight! With a dizzying turn of his head, he watched as the Assistant stumbled over to the Ringmaster and his daughter. Fire slowly leaked back into his veins as he realized that Morgan was not only free but also appeared to be on the mend. "NOO!" He could not believe he was losing! He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled, and collapsed; his hands peeling away from his injury to catch himself. The left side of his face was nothing more than two flaps of skin now that were untethered and bleeding profusely, muscle and bone shimmering beneath layers of skin that had been revealed to the world. From just below the right side of his jaw up across his chin, slicing across his left cheek and ending just above his ear; the horrid injury poured crimson life down his shoulder and chest as he struggled to his feet. "I...will not...allow," he pulled from his belt two more spheres, slightly smaller than the acid potion, gray in color, "..this plan..." he turned slightly and threw the potions at Alaizabel. "TO FAIL!" And from his belt, he pulled the holy dagger in which he had used to start this massacre. With it, he would end it.


Interacted With↷

Quote:

Alaizabel; fight me!



Paul

He was so close; God, he was so close. The closer he managed to hobble towards Maiya and Ava, the more painful their sorrows became to his ears. Ava was sobbing, the poor thing, as she knelt next to Maiya and Morgan. The Knife Thrower looked beyond grief, her crimson eyes pooling water onto the still man's face with a thousand yard stare. He could hardly stand to look at them. To see that much pain in their face was like watching them die from the inside out. And as he stumbled closer, dragging his useless leg behind him, he could see the Ringmaster's still body laying in Maiya's arms, his pale features relaxed in the wake of what had to be the more unearthly torture the man had been put through. He was in wretched shape. His lips were mottled with red and purple bruising in between the crude stitches and his skin was pallid and sick looking. He gazed down at the man that had taken him in and showered him with stern kindness. How anyone could hate this man as much as this band of vegabonds, Paul did not understand. He could not comprehend the level of violence and hate that swirled and danced around them. Death saturated the air, stifled only by the scent of blood as numerous members of his family lay strewn about in the dirt. His family. His one and true family. Companions, friends, lovers; Paul's eyes swivled towards Alaizabel. The woman was fighting with all of the fury of the troupe behind her. Her blade was their anger, her cold calculated jabs were their sadness, and her brilliant mind was their hope as she challenged the mad man behind all of this pain and agony. His heart swelled despite the panic that lingered. Never before had this woman looked so beautiful than in this moment. She was their hope. But not just her, Paul thought as his eyes darted to Taubryn and Pyr fighting valiantly together against the rival fire breather. They were all fighting. Behind him, his gaze listed over his shoulder where Nova was giving the spider child a sound beating. And even despite the wretched cry of Damuron expressing his sorrow as the gentle giant crashed to the ground, Paul knew that Rhythm had fought an impressive battle. It was too much. The troupe were not soldiers and Paul knew this. And yet, he had spurned them on. Given them the will to fight. But had they been too late? He wondered with bated breath as he finally reached the Knife Thrower and the Beast Tamer. Morgan's chest was still, his body unmoving in Maiya's grasp. Had they failed? Were they all dying for a cause that no longer existed? His words had fallen upon deaf ears as the women mourned over Morgan's body, the pair entirely involved in the loss of the Ringmaster. He panted harshly, turning his gaze to where a loud shatter drew his attention as liquid showered down upon Alaizabel and her opponent. Her pained cries grated on his mind and he twisted towards her. No! The effort in moving shot a wretched pain up his leg and he was reminded of how useless he was. Going to her would only put her in more danger. He furrowed his brows deeply and returned his attention back to Morgan. No. The man could not be dead yet. Surely they would have felt something! He was by no means an expert on the workmanship of souls, but he had been around Morgan long enough to know that when the man saw it fit to remind them of their place, all he needed to so was to simply touch their souls and they would bend to his will. Surely that sort of connection would have had a dual feed? Would they have felt the man who controlled them passing? He had to believe it. He had not felt a shudder, so he had to be convinced that Morgan was alive. Barely. But alive.

"He's breathing!!" Paul was pulled from his dark reverie as Ava reached forward to grab Morgan's arm. He could have simply collapsed right there. Morgan was alive. He let a breath eke out between his lips. "Morgan! Morgan, you're alive!" But something was wrong. The Ringmaster's hands shot to his mouth where he clawed at his lips as a horrid retching sound emitted from the man. "His lips!" Maiya was moving quicker than he as she pulled him upwards, Morgan's head lolling against his shoulders and chest with the rough manipulation. Maiya brandished a knife and he watched with squeamish wonder as she manipulated the blade between the threads, slowly freeing the choking man from his horrid silent prison. He watched as the man expelled a viscous mixture of blood and saliva into his lap before Maiya pulled him into a tight embrace. Paul winced for the man. There was no mistake that he was in an incredible amount of pain despite his strange revival. Paul had been around the Ringmaster long enough to know that he was a strange and magical creature, but watching as the angry letters etched into his skin begin to disappear as though someone were erasing them was something in its own category. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was no place for him in the moment as he gazed upon the moment as an observer. He was hardly phased by it. As Ava and Maiya expressed their joy and relief, he was simply happy to see Morgan moving, even if it was only by mere inches. He was still in danger. The threat remained all around them and Paul knew it was his duty to get Morgan to safety. With Morgan alive, it meant the world for this fight. The others would not perish in vain. Their celebration was cut short when a woman appeared next to them. Paul nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke, his hand rushing to his hip where his wrench pressed against his leg. He had not seen her approach them. Though, for all intents and purposes, he and Ava were invisible to the wicked woman as she addressed Maiya. She challenged the woman, a promise of battle for some past offense Paul knew nothing of. And before he could deter her or suggest otherwise to Maiya, the woman was on her feet and accepting the challenge. "Ava, please make sure he's okay, I have business to take care of." As the Knife Thrower placed the Ringmaster in Ava's arms, she addressed the young woman before the woman with the crimson hair charged at her. Paul recoiled as the two women clashed, his face plastered with worry for the Knife Thrower as she threw herself forward in order to protect Morgan. She is protecting the ones she loves...trying to deter his fate and keep him from falling into their hands once more, he thought as he turned his gaze to the man struggling to pull himself from whatever fathomless slumber he had fallen into. Cries of rage snapped his attention to Alaizabel's duel; they had paused their fight, the smell of burning acid filling the room. Paul looked to the Escape Artist, his arms shaking with the anticipation and worry for her. He wanted to go to her. To take her in his arms and comfort her. To drag her out of this hell and hide her away. "I will not allow this plan to fail!" A veil of smoke burst from the ground as the alchemist dashed forward, his crimson eyes locked on Morgan.

Paul knew what he had to do.

He had to defend this man and his daughter. With a breath, the Romani turned to the pair as he quickly approached them. Ava's startled gaze swept up to him, mocha eyes wide with fear. Smiling gently, he crouched down as best as he could. "It will be okay, Ava. Come on. We have to get out of here," he said with strength. He could see Ava was afraid, tears lingering from the revival of the man in her arms, threatening to drip down her cheeks. They had to move quickly. Paul reached down, his fingers wrapping around the underside of Morgan's right arm. The Ringmaster's golden eyes drifted to him and Paul couldn't help the amiable grin that crossed his features. "Come on, Boss. Let's get you out of here," he spoke gently. There was an airy whisper shared between them and though Paul could just barely make out the words, he had little time to dwell on them as a demonic scream split behind them. He barely had enough time to react when there came a sharp whistling sound just seconds before he felt a powerful punch in his back. The force of it nearly knocked him into Morgan and Ava, stumbling over the pair and his useless leg. But he did not fall. A feather of strength eased into him at that moment and he gripped it, catching himself as he turned slightly to face his opponent. Roland was upon them, his arms outstretched as though he had just thrown something. Ava released a terrified gasp and Paul knew. "Paul!!"He knew it, but he refused to acknowledge it as he peeled back his lips with an angry scowl, eyes wide with pain and fury as he glared at the man that would dare harm his family. "You b*****d..." Paul choked out, the taste of copper filling his mouth as he shakily raised the wrench in his hand. The bleeding monster in front of him merely remained still, his chest rising and falling as angry growls escaped him. "I feel bad for you," Paul muttered, his breathing becoming labored. He watched as Roland's features twitched with dark interest. "You have only known hatred and jealousy," he panted, the pain in his back growing with each attempt at a breath. He was quickly losing the ability to breathe. The coward...struck me in the back, he mused. But it was of little concern. Somehow, Paul knew this was to be his fate. The visions of the cards had shown him as much. "Whatever Morgan did to you...as his Assistant...I apologize on his behalf...y-you knew him before any of us, so you should be able to see how much he has changed!" Paul bellowed, stumbling forward a few steps. "No one man is worth this much death and suffering, no matter what crimes he has committed!" He coughed and red splattered the dirt below him. "You have wasted your entire life...hating a man that has suffered just as much...if not...more than you. I pity you, sir and I pray that you will eventually find peace. This," Paul lifted his arms weakly, his eyes sweeping across the carnage of the tent, "Your troupe...Morgan's troupe...have all suffered because of you." He coughed again, wetly, and he felt his legs quake violently beneath him. "Shut your filthy mouth you disgusting creature! I do not need your pity! I do not need your sympathy!" Roland screamed. Paul shook his head slightly, his anger washing away as he still looked on with compassion. "You do not want it, but you need it. Don't hate...p-pity..." Paul could no longer draw a full breath as he clenched his chest, his knees giving out as he collapsed into the dirt, the holy dagger clattering next to the ground beside him. His vision swam like the mixture of oil and water before his eyes as blood filled his mouth. Roland's boots approached him, stepping over him just moments before Ava screamed. He could no longer help as his eyes drifted to Alaizabel, his right arm clawing at the dirt in her direction. I am sorry, Alaizabel. I was unable to keep your promise and stay safely by your side. These last few weeks have been the happiest of my life. Being with you made me feel more than just a scoundrel pulled from some old creaky ship. I love you, Alaizabel...







Color Key↷

██ - Cannes General ██ - Cannes Talking ██ - Cannes Thinking
██ - Roland General ██ - Roland Talking ██ - Roland Thinking
██ - Liesel General ██ - Liesel Talking ██ - Liesel Thinking

[Promise of Bliss]

·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´


Her sword could not have flown truer without choreography. His lumbering steps backward did nothing to salvage him from the oncoming maelstrom of her intent. The ungraceful skittering of his feet was nothing if not amusing to her, and she snarled a savage grin as her rapier lunged, lusted for the connection to his flesh. She knew that it would be rebuked, but that would suit her just fine. A snake, after all, had two fangs. Roland could dodge the one, thrusting haphazardly up with his canesword to knock away her foil, but the other blade knew no such intervention. No, nothing short of the divine would interfere with the righteous venom of her second fang, her dagger slicing through the air with a low whistle. He had made a grave misstep, physically and metaphorically, in underestimating her. In her life, so many had. In a way, it was refreshing to finally be the carving hand that educated such insolent whelps as this. She would have his throat. But it seemed Roland was not the only one who had miscalculated. Her aim was true in the sense that she had assuredly not missed her target- in fact it was arguably improved as she slit more flesh than intended. A delicious spray of crimson took to the air, embodying the discordant sounds of a haunting orchestra in the physical as it twisted through the air, splattering her as she watched her blade sink, slash, split the man's skin across his face. He twisted with the force of the impact, howling with animalistic intensity as he fell to a heap in the dirt. He clawed at his face, attempting to staunch the bleeding that her blow had opened. If pressed, she would have to admit that the look suited him better than before; a deceptively handsome face on such a rotten sub-human entity was unacceptable. Alaizabel was doing the world a favor in so many ways this evening... She heaved her breaths, captivated by the vision of him shivering and wailing on the ground as an almost amused simper crawled across her expression. "Oh, come now Roland..." she crooned with a half-hearted laugh. "It cannot be so bad. They do claim head wounds bleed more than others." She took a step back and straightened her stance, hovering a few feet away from him and glowering down at him. So this was how it felt. To be the cat in a mouse chase. No, a lioness in a mouse chase. He was nothing more than a sniveling rat, curled in on himself, mewling and shouting in agony as she prepared for the final blow. It wouldn't take much, what with the state he was in. "D-damn it... damn it! Agh!" She gave a hum of amusement. His calls were an orchestra, the tones swelling, beautiful, enrapturing. She took a few shaky steps forward. "You must not fret, dear." The Viscountess spoke as one would speak to a child, her voice light and airy, laced with the grin that he could not see. She gave a noncommittal shrug, her brows arched demurely as she said without urgency, "This will be over before you can even bleed out." Her grin fell, her ocher eyes hardened as she brought up her dagger, preparing to bring it down on the man and simply end this. With this strike, the fight could be over- the morale of the other troop would be shot, the driving force against their Ringmaster felled with a single slit.

"Roland! The Ringmaster!

Alaizabel wanted to be completely focused on her task. This was the final strike, she wanted to follow through. But the Ringmaster? Morgan-! Her breath hitched in her throat as she ceased her strike, her eyes turning in tandem with Roland's to see a sight that brought a smile to her face. Not laced with the sickening, demented mirth of wreaking the fall of the other troupe, this smile was one of relief, which flooded her with a wave of lethargy at the realization that she did not necessarily need to end this man for this fight to be over. Morgan was freed, leaning heavily, though clearly actively, on Ava. Morgan was freed, and drawing breath. Morgan was freed, and they were getting the hell out of here. Paul and Ava worked together to attempt to lift the man to his feet, and an almost disbelieving laugh escaped her lungs. "That is-!" She let out a whooping cheer, or at least tried to before an infernal scream ripped from the man in twisted wreckage at her feet. "NOO!" The cascade of relief suddenly solidified into frozen terror, its icy tendrils wrapping around her as she stood rooted in her step. Roland's bellow was not something that she had been expecting, distracted as she was by their seeming success. He seethed from where he sat on the ground, and Alaizabel took a jaunting step back in retaliation as he pried himself up off the floor. She had seen he was bleeding, and profusely at that, but witnessing the full extent of the carnage that she had wrought tossed her stomach for a whirl. That was not just blood that marred the man's flesh, but the woven sinews of muscle, the gleaming ghost white of bone peeking through. Alaizabel's intent had certainly been harm, had been death, but the visual of what she had done sickened her. Alaizabel had only ever sparred, never actually harmed anyone. The majority of her brain felt an almost rolling excitement, a pleasure at the sense that she had accomplished her intent so soundly, so completely; but there, in the back of her mind, the whimpering cries of condemnation. He teetered unevenly on his feet, and she watched him with pitying eyes. What were his reasonings? She had never stopped to ask. Whatever they were, obviously she could not condone the mass murder of her friends and loved ones. But was he so beyond salvation that he deserved death? Deserved mutilation, more like, but nonetheless. Alaizabel prided herself in diplomacy, in the ability to bend people to her will with wiles and flouncy words. Was Roland so depraved that not even words could reach him? She had never even bothered to find out. She was no warrior, and she was no god. What had put it in her head that she could decide who lived and died without some form of judgment? "I.. will not... allow..." "It is done, Roland. Disarm and we will--" He drew two spheres from his belt, and Alaizabel tensed in an instant. The last round of vials had lost her the feeling in her arms, in her shoulder- damage that she would not truly understand the extent of until her brain allowed her to ebb the shocked numbness away, until the adrenaline left her and her body refused to lie to itself any longer. Who knew how much lower the man's treachery could stoop? "... this plan..." "Cease this idiocy and accept defeat!" He would not. Roland turned, chucking the liquid warfare at her with an adroit flick that put her own skills to the test. She recoiled, bringing her rapier and dagger down separately to slice through the spheres before they could impact. Whatever liquid was within them would not touch her-- but it did not seem to matter what they touched. The moment that the liquid was expelled, they burst. "TO FAIL!" She heard the cry barely over the tremendous, deafening popping that accompanied the destruction of the vials, and she gave a sharp shout of surprise as a dark cloud enveloped her. At just the sight, Alaizabel could almost have believed that she had suddenly become trapped in the belly of a storm cloud; the gray was as dark, and the smoke whistling past her ears whirred with the same intensity as a continuous wicked crack of thunder. But that was not the trouble. Defensive tears sprung to her eyes as the smoke seared into them, damaging her vision and her calm instantly. Alaizabel made as if she were going to cough, but any attempt at breath was labored, upheaved and made impossible by the sickening, twisting tendrils of smoke that clawed lustfully at the inside of her chest. She staggered back for a moment, sheathing her rapier quickly and bringing her dagger up to defend herself. Roland was not in this fog- she could feel it in her bones. Riveting as their combat had been, the man had his sights set on one and one alone: Morgan. Contemptible, depraved, conniving--! Her mind sorted through an incredible list of adjectives, though Alaizabel was not entirely convinced which of the men she was describing at the thought. Both applied...

The smoke was lessening, at least enough that she could breathe again, that she could hear something. A man's voice, though for all of it's familiarity, she could not discern who's it was. "Roland?!" she called, her dagger at the ready as she twisted in the smoke. Her eyes were leaking, squinted in an effort to see through the screen that inhibited her. Damn that bleating coward! It was a fine method of combat, she supposed, when you were clearly so bested as he was. But Alaizabel believed firmly that you should face your opponent until the end, eyes open, welcoming the assault with honor and a knowledge that you had been beaten. To be berated like this, robbed of her victory... That didn't matter. What mattered was finding her way free, to break out of the fog and to be able to breathe normally. That was it. She would need to breathe--

"...pologize on his behalf...."

Her breath caught in her throat, whether from choking on smoke or recognition, she could not rightly discern. The voice she had recognized- the one she had heard somewhere fleetingly in the distant. It couldn't be-- "...y-you knew him before any of us, so you should be able to see how much he has changed!" "Paul!?" The hoarse cry was almost as much an inquiry as it was a shout of disbelief. There was no way-- he was not so daft as to challenge Roland! Alaizabel admired a great many things about Paul, not the least of which was his pluck and courage, but this was less brave than it was blatantly witless. He was injured! Even in the brief moments that she had seen him- freed, alive, moving around, safe!- she had been able to see how very damaged he was. He was in no condition to be taking such an obvious risk! And it was a risk. Armed with nothing but a damnable wrench, what hope did the Ringmaster's Assistant have against a man with such an arsenal of underhanded tactics at his disposal? Poison, acid, smoke, a sword--! Alaizabel's heart, already racing, beat viciously against her chest, as if it were a wild animal who had every intention of escaping from its cage and ripping Roland to threads on its own. She choked against, sputtering another weak call of, "Paul! P-Paul, please-- be careful!" She was shifting now, tottering through the inky darkness and toward the sound of his voice. He had to be careful- he had to be safe! She was moving in the right direction, his voice growing louder, or was he just shouting now? "No one man is worth this much death and suffering, no matter what crimes he has committed!" He will not listen, my love! Please do not waste your breath- run! She had said much the same thing previously. Though this was Paul, and had she not just considered diplomacy-- no, that was not a possibility now. Not with all of the damage that had been done, not with all of the carnage around them. Alaizabel's thoughts had come to her in a moment of flitting sympathy, In a moment of fear at the idea of taking another person's life. It had been a foolish notion, and one that she could not stand for Paul- sweet, tender, naive gypsy!- to entertain. She should have killed him. Mercy was best left for childish games and fairy tales. Now was not such a time! Frantically, she dropped her dagger hand, twirling around. She ignored the stinging in her eyes as she searched the shadows more vehemently. Paul-- she could hear him, but she could not see him. Paul-! To her side, she heard a violent cough, the sound of liquid splattering against the ground, and her chest was plunged beneath the ice. What was... a vial? Surely a vial. It must have been-- it couldn't be--? "It couldn't-!" The desperate whisper sounded pitchy even to her. She could attempt to convince herself as much as she liked, but the worry was still there, teasing at her mind, tugging at her senses. Paul would be-- he had to--- "You have wasted your entire life... hating a man that has suffered just as much... if not... more than you. I pity you, sir, and I pray that you will eventually find peace." The insufferable maggot that was Roland deserved no such kindness! He did not deserve prayers or pity! In contexts such as these, pity had much the same quality as mercy: misplaced and misguided. How could she make Paul understand that? She was supposed to be at his side, and him at hers- they were supposed to watch one another, protect one another! Now...! She was shaking, and at last she sheathed the useless dagger and took to feeling through the smog. Why did he sound like that? Paul's voice was strong, commanding even when it was so gentle and caring. He did not know how to utilize the power of his words, but that did not mean that she could not always hear it, could not comprehend the fortitude behind his low, graveling voice. Never before had she heard it like this- thick and heavy, slurred not with drink, but with pain. What had Roland done? She scowled into the smoke, her shoulders and arms shaking. If he so much as touched her beloved, she would make him rot. She would make him know the meaning of suffering better than he knew the familiarity of his own name. She would see that he suffered an agony tens, no- hundreds of times more detrimental than he had dared to incur upon the Romani. Alaizabel would use her every breath to slay him, to see that he did not reach the eternal slumber of rest peacefully, but by her own fury and blades. She would end him. "This... Your troupe... Morgan's troupe... have all suffered because of you." Another cough, and Alaizabel's blood arrested in her veins. No, that was not a safe sound. The cough sounded almost slick, as unbidden as reflex and disgustingly pained. "Paul?! Paul, please!" A scream of fury cut her off, and this voice she recognized, his cry making her chest heave in revolt. "Shut your filthy mouth you disgusting creature! I do not need your pity! I do not need your sympathy!" That pitch, that screaming high pitch, was just what she needed. She could follow it with more accuracy than the low grate of Paul's tone, follow it out of her holdings and into the open air. The irony that Roland, not Paul, would liberate her from the man's own trap was not lost on her, and she finally broke free from the smoke. She heaved a breath gratefully, wiping her eyes at long last as she could finally see--

Roland was furious, which was no surprise; the terror in his eyes, though- their vermillion gleam was panicked, frenzied as he screeched at the Ringmaster's Assistant. It was almost as if he were being physically struck rather than simply being accosted with words. She had thought him subhuman, but the realization of his humanity in this moment was almost worse. He was not a beast, a cowering limp mouse in the paws of a cat. He was a man. A broken, desolate man who truly believed that what he was doing was founded, was vindicated by whatever damage their Morgan had wrought on his life. They could not even begin to know, nor would the apparently proud man have ever explained. But Paul's words, their gentle kindness despite volume, the way he wove an almost comfort into his speech was somehow lost and not lost all at once on the opposing Ringmaster. He was angry, and he was scared. The man, for all of his compatriots, was still standing there, alone in the middle of a tent, beaten and bloody, and alone. It was a damnation of his own design, but in that moment, Alaizabel could almost rouse enough within her to muster pity for the man as well. Almost. And had her eyes not flicked at that moment to Paul, she very well may have managed it. But as soon as her ocher eyes flicked to him, any semblance of remorse was lost. His expression was telling, his warm chestnut eyes bright and overflowing with enough compassion to fill Alaizabel's heart with an almost vicarious passion were it not for the blood trickling down his chin. His pain was hers in that moment, her world almost tilting as she drank in the full sight. That wasn't someone else's blood- there was no convincing herself, even in the deepest pit of denial, that the blood escaping his lips was someone else's. The knife in his back was no doubt the cause. She couldn't breathe. It was as though Rhythm had reared back and let his fist fly directly into her chest, expelling any air from her and leaving some anguish in the impact's wake. Paul was shaking so fiercely, like a leaf ready to pop from a branch in a winter's breeze. But despite all of his pain, all of his obvious struggling, he was smiling. Why? Why was he smiling? Did he not understand like she did, numbly and all at once, what was happening? Could he not feel all of the blood leaving him, the trembling of his limbs as they struggled to support him? Clearly he must, but clearly he could not, would not care. He was smiling. "You do not want it, but you need it." he said softly, voice weak enough that she almost doubted the words in her ears. "P-Paul....?" Her plea was not above a breath, her hand lifting subconsciously to reach out to him. Paul... he couldn't... he wasn't... he...!

"Don't hate... p-pity..."

Paul collapsed. And Alaizabel stood stalk still, as if she had sprouted roots in that moment and could not be torn from them. She stared but could not see. Paul was... The knife dislodged, falling from his back and clattering with deafening clarity to the ground. She felt the bile rise to her throat as she forced herself to swallow, to speak with a quiet haste. "N-..n-no." she whispered adamantly. "P-Paul this is... this is in poor taste, Paul, you must not...." She was accustomed to his trickery- the engine might explode, the cards had a mind of their own, that tap on her other shoulder was assuredly a ghost that haunted the train. But none of his jests had ever hurt so. She barely even processed Roland moving purposefully past the scene, and if she heard the frightened screech, she paid it no mind. Paul's eyes, those eyes that she could feel herself fall into, warm and embraced by their affection, were listlessly lolling around in search of something, of anything, and Alaizabel could not move. It was not until she noticed his hand clench into the dirt, barely inching in her direction that the world seems to begin again, that her lungs seemed to draw breath and force her to go on living despite the sight before her. And that breath was immediately expelled. "PAUL!" The anguish in her tone was nothing compared to the fierce way that grief sunk it's vicious talons into her heart as she barreled forward, collapsing to her knees beside him. Her hands hovered over him as she struggled to breathe. No, no this couldn't be happening. Not to Paul. She hadn't wanted it for anyone- for Icarus, for August, even for that libidinous cow Aloise-, but it simply could not- "Paul, no, please. Please Paul, you mustn't- you cannot do this- you- I-I-!" Safety be damned- if she wasn't supposed to move him, she would deal with that later. Frenzied, she tugged him with exorbitant effort from the ground, taking him into her arms. A muted smile, reassuring, crossed her lips. "I-it will be fine! You will see-! I can call the doctor- he can- he-" She looked up, searching the tent for the doctor anywhere, but in her panic she could not train eyes on him. No- could Damuron, too...? Such a resilient man with such incredible talents- surely he--?! A choked, dry sob escaped her as she called, "DAMURON PLEASE--!" He wasn't coming, or if he was, it wasn't fast enough. She inhaled sharply, looking back to Paul now. Anyone could tell he was fading- had been fading the entire time he had wasted his energy exchanging dialogue with such detestable filth as Roland. She shook her head almost unconsciously, desperation pinching her expression as she laid a hand on the man's cheek- he was so cold already!, that wasn't how-- he normally... She barely breathed, "No, you-- Paul I cannot... I do not want to lose you. Not you. Please I-!" Like brilliant still tapestries alone a wall, her mind's eye flitted between each image in turn- reading tarot cards by candle light, all the while Alaizabel feigning misunderstandings for the opportunity to spend just a few moments more under his tutorship, under his gaze- the rambling discussions about Oscar Wilde, a shared interest (she never had gotten those chapters he had told her about; he had promised her, did that count for nothing!?)- their shared laughter, discussion of life in the engine room as they amended all variety of mechanical ailment through the weeks she had assisted the Assistant- the sprawling meadow, bathed in moonlight, the sharp sting of the breeze cutting into her skin as she was held in his arms, as their lips met in a jarring, unexpected moment of passion- an obviously inept attempt to waltz, the way that he had blushed in nervous laughter as he stomped her toes for a third time (that was just this evening-- how could that have been so recent, it was just this evening- Her throat closed on a breath and she bowed her head, putting her forehead to his, slick with a cold sweat that jostled her long abandoned calm. With every ounce of sincerity left to her, Alaizabel begged him, "Paul please, nothing means a thing if you cannot breathe- not me, not Morgan, not this Cirque, nothing... Paul, please I-..." A smile, despondent and fractured as it was genuine, turned up her lips as she lifted her head to look to him. "I love yo-"

There was nothing left. His eyes looked listlessly to the side as his head fell, hers no longer supporting it where it was propped. Paul was gone. He was gone and she had missed her chance. The tent was silent around her as she felt herself tremble. "N... n-no.. No, Paul." She shook him gently. Nothing. She shook him again with more energy. "Paul come back to me, you can't-." But there was still nothing. A sort of growl tore from her throat before she shot, "T-this isn't funny Paul! Get up!" But of course it wasn't funny. Nothing about the evening was funny. He was dead, after all. Dead, and she had done nothing to save him. If she had felled Roland when she'd had the chance, if she had not let that disgusting spider pluck him away from her, if she had just been the coward that she deplored and escaped the entire fiasco with Paul in those brief, precious moments in the pebbles outside of the train, then Paul wouldn't be... he would be--!

Suddenly, she was horrified to be even touching the man. She dropped him with a cry, desperately heaving herself away from the scene and curling into herself as her shoulders shook. She couldn't cry- why couldn't she cry- this was when Damuron would have been in tatters, would he not, so then why couldn't she--!? In her retreat, something hit her bare foot, skittering sharply against the dirt. Alaizabel looked to it, her breaths coming in ragged, frantic gasps. The knife was an impressively beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The large pearlescent handle was encrusted with a variety of small jewels, the opal sheer gleaming even in the lacking light of the tent. It was almost unnaturally glowing, her eyes drawn to it as if by some outside force. The blade was curved wickedly, and as she took it up, she could just barely see the cross etched deep into the fine metal. It was hidden, though, beneath a thick sheath. A sheath of red. It seemed even a fictional entity was aghast that such a thing would be done to such a gentle, compassionate man, and sheltered itself from the concept in such a way... She took the blade into her hand, surprised to find that it had an almost soothing effect on her as her breathing normalized. This was his blood... Paul's blood, successfully blotting out the holy symbol and replacing it with a macabre reminder. Just the reminder that she needed. God had no place in this battlefield. It was just this: Alaizabel, Paul, her blade, and " ...Roland.." She did not do this. Circumstances beyond her control had made sure of that. But he did. He was to blame. Whatever vendetta she had harbored before, on behalf of the Ringmaster or Cirque or any combination thereof, was lost, replaced now with exponential fury of her own. She felt a vacant grin cross her face, a manic giggle bubble over her lips before she caught it. So.. Paul would still help her, would he? He would guide her blade toward it's truest destination. "Morior invictus." she muttered, forcing herself to her feet shakily. The agony had set into her shoulder, her forearms in the moments that she had been 'resting', but it was a trifling matter compared to what she was seeking now. She would lose her arms if she had to. But she would have Roland. His head would be on a pike before the evening was out.



"Morior invictus" --& "I die unvaniquished"


Aiolios

Quote:

Quote:

Quote:



·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´
✿ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Big Top xxxxxxxx❀ ϻσσɗ: Murder-Lust xxxxxxxx✿ ωɪтʜ: Alone (Roland, Morgan, Ava?) xxxxxxxx❀ σσc: TEARS SHIRT OPEN AND SCREAMS PAAAAAAAAAAUL

[Promise of Bliss]

xxx┣▇▇▇═─ Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr
xBruised and broke her, he struggled closer.
tab tab tab tab tab tab tab xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTHEN HE STOLE HER
xViolet wrists and then her ankles. I will hear their voices
xI'M A GLASS CHILD. x I'M A GLASS CHILD. xI'M A GLASS CHILD. x I'M A GLASS CHILD.x I'M A GLASS CHILD.
x▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇x▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇x▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇



In his spare time, Damuron was a man who enjoyed keeping tabs on all of the new research released in the medical world. On such a day that he'd had the free time to entertain this itching for new knowledge, he had stumbled across a very interesting theory about the id, ego, and super ego (some man named Freud who, for the most part, was grandly ignored in the scope of modern medicine because of his unreasonable malarky in reference to the world of psychology, which Damuron believed did not have a real, proper place in the world of modern medicine. Let the loons squabble over their untangible psyches- this doctor worked with the physical... didn't mean he didn't enjoy a good theory every so often, but he wasn't convinced...). He remembered the concepts plainly: the mind was divided into three respective sections, each in charge of certain parts of the mind. The ego and superego had similar functions, in his mind: both of them operated by experiencing the world and attempting to rationalize it to society, though the superego was more geared toward ideals and moralistic behaviors; the ego, though, acts as a sort of go between, from the unrealistically idealistic and guilt inducing superego, which kept so much of society in check, and the clever id. Ahh yes, the id. The id was the pleasure center of the 'mind', the part of your brain that operated solely on impulse, to hell with the rest of the world. The id was impulsive and uncontrollable, commanded by pleasure, by Eros and Thanatos- sex, and aggression. And it was safe to say that, in this moment, Damuron could hardly distinguish the pleasure of either at the thought of his blade carving the wicked blond devil that grinned before him. Damuron did more than just watch the acrobats, he learned from them. Their grace, their speed, the litheness of their movements as the twisted and twirled through the air- as a relatively large-statured man, it was something that he lacked, but admired so deeply that he strove for it. And in this moment, he could honestly say that his friends, his loved ones, were behind him. Like a man possessed, Damuron lunged toward Liesel. He could feel his blood pumping fire through his veins, the adrenaline spurring him on with complete disregard for any lingering pain or impediment from his earlier run-in with his metal trappings. He was revitalized, rejuvenated, and entirely dedicated to one cause: death. No, worse than that- he wanted her to experience pain. This wasn't like George. No, this was leagues beyond, incredibly enough. With George, it had been panicked, clumsy and messy and entirely produced from a desire to protect the sweet, tender Dawn. His father had deserved it, granted, but not like Liesel. Where he had deserved to die hastily and without delay, Liesel had earned a much deeper swell of hatred. What George had done... to Dawn, to him, and with the help of every disgusting excuse for a man that their hometown had boasted (at the moment, Damuron had half a mind to be surprised that he hadn't done away with the entire lot back then- Lord above knew they deserved it- but there it was, that little remaining twinge of a superego tickling the back of his thoughts with You regretted it later... you regretted what you did, and you would have regretted that--) But what he was doing now- that he could not regret (right?). George had stripped a solitary woman of her pride, had sold her out to men like a common whore and used her body as if it were his own property. He had demeaned and disrespected the person that he cherished most in the world. It only made sense that he had to pay. But this woman had surpassed even his level of filth. The blood was not on her hands, but her conscience; she knew what she had done-- his friends, his family, Alosie... Even if she had not dealt the final blow on practically anyone, it was enough. It was more than enough to warrant him ending her. And with the inferno of hell nipping at his heels, spurring him on, Damuron knew in that moment that he could not, would not lose to this contemptible b***h. The world had fallen away around him entirely, his lustful wrath trained solely on the strongwoman and nothing else as he swung his blade toward her stomach. Vital points- he needed to incapacitate her before he did anything else. If he did that, he could take his sweet, sweet time in making her regret every. single. thing. she had ever done with her life. And she would repent. Oh how she would repent. But she was smiling. That face... pisses me off! Her sheer glee at the sight of him was disgusting, grotesque as it was unabashed. He would wipe the grin right off her face... and maybe some skin along with it.

The insatiable t**t sidestepped-! Damuron's fury ripped from his throat like the bellow of a bear as he attempted to catch his footing and strike again. How dare she attempt to avoid her fate? How dare she not resign herself to the knowledge that she had to die? Any momentary shock that had flitted through his mind at missing was usurped by the raged realization that she wasn't bleeding enough. There was no escape for her at this point- she would die, and by his hand. Dodging him would only make it more painful for her later. He would be absolutely sure of it. Apparently not at that moment, however. Liesel was quick as a serpent, coiled and prepared to strike as her arm shot out. The b***h was even laughing as she clenched her fingers around his hilt-holding hand, and he seethed against the sudden shooting pain that rocketed up his arm. That was a fracture, at the very least a fracture if not significantly worse. He would not drop the blade- no, he would not let himself drop that blade!- as she slung him around to face her. It only infuriated him more to realize how infantile he was compared to her in strength. When Rhythm did it, it was endearing. But her hand, curled viciously around his, her other hand curved purposefully around his right shoulder as her nails sunk in. Standing here toe to toe, he bore his luminescent eyes into hers, the rotten green of hers meeting the poisonous malachite of his. As tempting as it was, he knew it was foolish to attempt to punch her with his free hand, grappled as he was, much less to attempt to head-butt her. Anything without the blade would be a fool's errand. Damuron was furious, but not completely without his wits. His fist, his forehead, would crumple like talcum powder beneath a mortar and pestle against her, and while he was not pointedly convinced he was even making out of the fight alive, he was certainly going to at least make sure to take her out with him. His breath came in heaving pants from where he stood, the two of them looking impressively like they were about to perform some sort of macabre waltz rather than attempt to eviscerate one another. Where his expression was now almost flat, distant but clearly still flickering with anger, her was demure, a coquettish simper on her lips as she squeeze his armed hand again. His lip drew up in a snarl, and he hissed in pain. He would not let go. He would not- "You are rather cute up close."[ A pained, dry scoff escaped his lips as gave her a once over with his eyes. It was purely for the aesthetic of looking at her- he didn't much see anything-, but his lips turned up in a condescending half smirk. "Wish I could say the same. You're pretty homely, y'know." he shot back despite the intimate knowledge that her hand was sliding almost seductively up his chest, tracing the contours of his body as they made their way to his throat. If she snapped his neck, he was done fo-- no, he would have a split second. Her making the foolish decision to touch him would be her downfall. He was a black window, in his own way. One touch, one dose of his venom-- one split second to transfer the break from his neck to hers, and she would be finished. Do it. he bid, his smile widening wickedly. Do it. It'd be too ******** good for you. Do it and I'll end you right here. ********. Do it. She looked to him with an almost flirtation in her eyes, one that rolled his stomach, clenched his chest. She crooned, "It is too bad you are so terribly-" How dare she look at him like that? After everything that her lot had done to him, to her, to his friends?! "--weak." With a glare that could level a forest for its sharpness, Damuron stared back at her as she gazed at him, toying with the collar of his shirt with an almost sickening intimacy. Her gaze, her touch, he longing in her gestures- what revolting game was she trying to place? Her every touch made him nauseous, but he dared not move dared not steer her away from the single swift flick that would decide her fate. It would only take a second-- but she's looking at him with a an almost longing. Her eyes were lost within his, and he could practically feel her reverie, her warped sense that she wants him in some strange demented instance of the term. He did not want to see that. He couldn't take the chance of sympathizing with the despicable beast that he was divinely ordained to dismiss from this world. He despised her, her and those amatory eyes, ones that almost soothed him with their distant familiarity. He did not want to be lulled by a seductive temptress. He did not want to see Aloise is her filthy bedroom eyes. He wanted to see her insides outside. He wanted her to bathe in a pool of her own blood, just as Flynn was doing mere yards away from them. He wanted to witness the light leave her eyes, to know that after all of his profound failings, he had finally, finally done something right. Just this ones. He wanted her dead. And she wanted... "If all you wanted was a sound ********, all you had to do was ask. This is a little extravagant."

Clearly the woman was unamused. As if jarred by his words, the woman shoot her head fervently, closing her eyes against the dialogue as expelling him from her mind. Again, he found himself impressed by how lightning quick she moved as she took two healthy fistfuls of his collar into her hands, pulling him close to her. "Whaaaaaat, don't like dirty talk?" In response, she gave a low, guttural hiss of dissension. "Devil,"

Vertigo was an understatement to describe the sensation that overwhelmed him. Rhythm had lifted him casually overhead before, and it had left him reeling from just the short motion. This was significantly worse. Without so much as a scream of exertion, Liesel deadlifted the doctor from the ground, chucking him effortlessly through the air. There was nothing that he could do to catch himself, to save himself from the inevitable, merciless impact of the ground that was to come. And so he smacked into it hard; he didn't need to hear the cracks on the first impact to feel the way his ribs shifted, to feel his leg crumple like tin foil beneath his weight. He bounced once with a shout of anguish before colliding with the dirt again, finally staying grounded as he rolled to a stop amid the overwhelming cloud of dust that had been kicked up from the packed dirt. For a moment, he simply laid there, the agony coursing through him in replacement for the earlier adrenaline that had so spurred him on. His right leg was in pieces. He couldn't tell how many, but from what he could feel, his femur was shot, and his shin was more than likely more intimately involved with his skin than he had ever hoped to experience. Don't look at it! he told himself. No matter what, don't look! Feeling the pain was a good sign, despite the hot tears that sprung to his eyes, despite the gasping, spluttering coughs that wracked his frame as he fought with not only the dust settling, but the ribs that were certainly not where they were supposed to be any longer. Feeling the pain meant he wasn't in shock yet, and his body hadn't registered yet what his mind already knew: he was in pieces. Guess humans really aren't meant to fly... he thought ruefully, but he chuckle was intercepted by another husky cough. Copper- he was tasting copper-- Don't-! He couldn't think about it! Liesel... he had... he had to kill her..! The dust finally settled, Damuron drawing deep, ragged breaths as he peered through the distance to search for her. Instead, his eyes settled on the neigh motionless form to his left: Flynn. He looked terrible- no, that was too polite. He looked dead. But he wasn't, not yet anyhow. Laboriously, his chest was flitting up and down, like the final strokes of a butterfly's wings before it finally gave in to the inevitable. For a moment, the fury was subsiding, replaced with a desperate need to administer aid. "F-Flynn? Hey... hey b-buddy I..." He coughed again, this time unable to deny the metallic taste in his mouth as it welled up in his throat and dripped down his chin. He choked for a moment, horrified. Damn-! Shock. He could feel it at the mere sight of his own blood. But there was no way- he would have been able to feel a punctured lung. His ribs were definitely worse for wear, but his lungs should have been-- He risked the glance. The first rueful thought that occurred to him was that he should have wondered instantly where the knife had gone. The second thought was much less entertained: after all, a punctured stomach was hardly something to laugh about. Though it did soundly explain the blood. He sucked in an agonized breath, feeling himself begin to tremble pathetically as shock gave way to frigid panic. He couldn't die. He had challenged a veritable god, and his foolishness was catching up to him, but that didn't matter. He couldn't die. Not with so many lives in the balance, not with so many lives to be revenged. Flynn's included-!

As if struck again, Damuron gasped. A thought, tantalizing as it was demented, alluring as it was putrefying, occurred to him all at once. Flynn was dying. Dying, but not dead. And with wounds like this, Damuron was certain to follow soon after. The doctor breathed, a shallow and onerous affair, staring to the once proud and powerful juggler with a mixture of sympathy and predatory longing. With his power, one of them could live. This gift, this curse, that Damuron bore could amount to this moment. Him or Flynn. Damuron had always said he was willing to die to save another life. And that fact remained. He was expendable in the overarching scheme. He was worthless for much else other than his training as a doctor and some occasional kind words. Compared to a vast majority of the Cirque, he was worthless-- no, compared to a vast majority of people. The choice should have been simple: he would save Flynn. But. Look at him, Damuron. He was, and he understood. This was what had become of him fighting Liesel. With his power, he could only save one of them. But with his power... You could kill Liesel... Yes. He could do it. And Flynn couldn't. It was a horrible thing, and were it not for the blood in his mouth and the sheer weakness in his body, he probably would have been made physically ill by the concept of what he was planning. But... The fact was that revenge could only be sought for the masses if Damuron's hand delivered it. He had a significantly better chance of ending her than Flynn did, though he was more deserving of the second chance. What would Puck think, knowing what he was planning to do? He would hate him, and rightly. But... Damuron couldn't take that chance. For the others, for all of those who had fought, had died to make this happen-- Damuron couldn't let their sacrifices be in vain. Hot tears pooled in his eyes before rolling down his cheeks, creating clean lines amid the dirt that had caked him in the landing. "F-Flynn I'm... I'm so s-sorry." He whispered. Decided, he reached down to the knife in his side and sucked in a purposeful breath. It came out with a sickening schlick, and he screamed at the fiery sensation that coursed through him as the blade slid across every exposed nerve in his stomach. He panting, he dropped the knife again, collapsing onto his elbows and beginning to crawl. He wasn't so far... Flynn was just.. barely... there! His fingers quaked as he extended his hand out to the man's shoulder, sucking in a harsh, shallow breath as he fought with the tears and agony. "I'm sorry... I'm s-sorry... I'm so sorry... I-" But it had already started. Given that Damuron was so commonly the one taking wounds, he was not well versed in the sensation of giving them. It was as if he were being enveloped by a soothing blanket, cool and light but providing comfort and soothing his ails. The leg was drifting away from him, the pain replaced with a foreign feeling of normalcy. And next his hand, crushed as it had been by hers- he watched as the bruising that had already formed sunk deep, deep into the skin, the obviously mis-directed bones realigning. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Flynn! Flynn, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry-!" His breath was easier too as it was not only mending ribs, but mending the terrible synching pain all around his chest and torso from being trapped and struggling against his binds. The wetness in his side did not vanish, but the searing pain of his impalement did as the wound closed and healed; all of the anguish, the laborious injury he felt, washed away like wet paint struck by a pressure hose. But he did not feel so clean as that. The transfer complete, Damuron crumbled to the ground, his shoulders heaving in tears as he continued to chant his soft apologies. He knew they would not be heard.

Just a few moments. That was all he allowed himself to wallow in his self pity and grief. He didn't have the time right now. His tears would never dry, it seemed- he had shed ample tonight, and yet knew there were still more to come-, but he needed to push them aside for the time being. He would avenge them all, he reminded himself. Flynn included. All he needed to do was stand. He pushed himself heavily from the ground, feeling around for the knife. Taking it in his hand, he stood, swaying a bit as he turned his head listlessly up to search. Where had all of his energy gone, all of his righteous fury that had compelled him? Had his cause abandoned him?

But no. As his eyes trained on the square of Liesel's shoulders, he knew that it had not fled. It had been waiting for him to remember. Like a match against flint, his inferno had been again set ablaze. A wicked grin, a quiet laugh. "Liesel~" he sang to himself under his breath. "You forgot something, dear...." He took a tentative step forward, contemplating. What could he do to her. Now that he had her right where he wanted her, what devilish punishment could he wreak upon her for the damage she had done? He felt the phantom sensation of the knife, bored deep and traitorously into his side. He snickered softly. That was it. Yes.... yes with that, he could repay her kindly for all of it, poetically for each and every life that he could see lost to her demonic chaos. With George, he had not had such a power. Well, he had, but with no knowledge of it, he couldn't blame his previous self for not properly utilizing his resources. The ignorance hadn't been his fault. This time, though, there was no need to use his hands in such a way. There was no need to ball them into fists, to fly them one after another, sobbing and screaming. There was no need to coil his hands tighter, tighter around the other woman's throat. No, he had all that he needed... right in the palm of his hand. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he knew he had to do. Walking slowly, purposefully, he raised the knife high over his head, then in an instantly brought it down. His aim was exemplary, considering he was his own target, but the pain, familiar as it was, made it difficult to be silent. He managed, though he choked out a soft utter of, "Kimber." He withdrew the blade, ignoring the disgusting slipping sound as he drew it up again, slamming it into his stomach once more. Again, but worse this time. He wrestled with the agony. This is... nothing... compared to what they had been through. To what, "Icarus-!" had been through. Again. To what, "August!" had been through. Fighting the urge to be sick, the drop due to the pain, he plunged the knife again and again, chanting beneath his breath, "Rylee, Flynn, Rhythm, Aloise!!" Every name, a harsh stab, every breath, a punctuated pain as he stumbled now at last forward.

Her devotion to her task was admirable, but it would be her undoing. His breath rattled, burning his parched throat, and his vision swam from the pain, but he didn't care. He didn't care if he had to die, too. He would happily give his life to see this through, to see that the rest of her miserable existence saw the suffering, the anguish that he and the rest of his precious troupe did. She needed to feel every. Last. Stab. "And me. This is... this is for me." he breathed, eyes glistening, smile curved dastardly across his lips. "Rendez-vous en Enfer, chienne!" he growled. At long last, Damuron wrapped his unwielding arm around her waist, leaning his head against the back of her neck as he brought up his knife. In tandem with the beginning of the transfer, he mustered his conviction and, in one motion, brought the knife harshly across the length of his throat. The world swam instantly, his breath lost. But it didn't matter. She would feel it. She would bleed like a pig, just as he would for what he had done. She would bleed. He would bleed. But she would die. One, by one, by one, the stab wounds fled his abdomen, bringing with them muted relief as his head began to sway. If he died, it didn't matter, he insisted. If he died, she would die too, and in such tremendous agony. If he died-- but he wouldn't. At last, after each of the tokens of his revenge had been transferred, Damuron made quick work of mending his throat.

With a loud breath and a half-hearted cry, he shoved Liesel forward and to the ground before taking a step back. His legs had no intention of keeping him up. He crumbled to his knees, gasping, laboring for breath and covered in blood. The one immaculate white dress shirt was now stained with a vibrant crimson, and it messily creeped down the front of him where he sat. He hadn't thought this through. The wounds were transferred, but the blood loss was still real. He'd been too hasty. Black dots swirled through his eyes as he leaned sideways, barely managing to muster the strength to catch himself before he actually collapsed. He knew that it would regenerate, and not as normal. He was blessed with at least moderately better healing than the average human. Where most people would have been unconscious, he still clung desperately to reality. He needed a few minutes.... but surely he would be able to do something more. Physically, he was better than when he'd arrived, after all. Still panting, he looked numbly (shock, he surmised; wounds or not, his nerves were getting revenge for the horrible shock he had just put to his system not once, but twice now) on at Liesel. There could be no doubt. The limp vessel was assuredly no longer living, lying as it did in such a magnificent pool of blood. It was a vision, captivating. Just as he'd wanted. A mirthless, manic laugh bubbled past his lips. He'd done it. All of them- he had done it!

Looks familiar, eh Dammy boy?

The laughing ceased instantly as true reality flooded through him. Aghast, his eyes widened at the visage before him. What had he done...? He damned the superego for having been correct all that time ago. Regret flooded through him, overwhelming his senses. What had he done? She had deserved punishment. That could not be denied. But what had gotten it in his head that he had any right to administer it? She deserved what had happened, but it was a life. A life that was not his to do with as he pleased. He had... again he had... and Flynn-. The knife flipped from his grasp as his hand flew to his mouth. He consciously resisted the urge to be ill. Flynn. The tears had stopped for a moment, but they returned now with a vengeance. He had no right-! For either of them, any of them! His list was growing by the second, flying from one to four in the short span of three weeks. A monster-- did he deserve to leave this tent at all...? If someone like him was allowed to leave... someone like him, and not Icarus? Not Rhythm? Not Aloise? It made no sense. He couldn't... he shouldn't...

"DAMURON PLEASE--!"

That voice was never meant to be above a proud but quiet volume. Alaizabel Conway did not shout, much less with such a raw edge to her voice. Even hearing her felt like listening to a bleeding wound, and Damuron was snapped from his existential crisis in an instant as his eyes sought her. And there she was, hoisting up the limp frame of another of their fallen friends. Of Paul. A pained gasp left him. Paul as well? Would the death ever end? There was nothing he could do for her. "Alaizabel..." he muttered, softly shaking his head. He did not need a closer like. The Assistant was dead, and she seemed to realize it too as she violently jerked away from him, collapsing into herself. His heart lurched in his chest, as though it could cross the chasm of death between them and commiserate. Both of them... Paul... Aloise... he and Alaizabel, left behind... he dropped his head, tears overtaking him.

What was left...?


Aiolios] Translation: Rendez-vous en Enfer, chienne! --> See you in Hell, b

dm83a9e7:241="Aiolios] Translation: Rendez-vous en Enfer, chienne! --> See you in Hell, b***h!



✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Big Top ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻσσɗ: Misery and Agony ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Alone ⋯

[secretshades]

◆ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Big Top xxxxxxxx◇ ϻσσɗ:Pain pain painxxxxxxxx◆ cσϻpaɴʏ:Tunnel Vision scoped in on Cannes

All Nova could see was the crying, pitiful, man before her. Never before had anyone ever cowered in front of her. She was small, lithe, and short. Even back in her village, people picked on her for her small stature. Men always looked down on her, and the children hardly looked up to her. The shriveling old crone that ran the orphanage was taller than Nova, even in her old age. Seeing the fear in Cannes’ eyes fueled the small woman, though, her eyes widening like wild sapphires as he continued to bleed and weep.


She was sure she was nearly as much of a mess as he. Iron dripped off her own lips, rich and red. A small trail of red dots followed her from where she stood, and marked her approach to the man. Her knuckles bled into the dirt below, drip drip dripping out her path. Each breath was a labor against the burning hot pain in her right side. The fluttering of her ribs has stopped on that side, only to be replaced with the burning agony of what she suspected was a puncture of some sort. The blood on her lips was bright red and frothy with loose oxygen bubbles; both bad signs for her. She had put it to the back of her mind, though, compartmentalizing. First things first, she was going to sort out the sniveling mess in front of her. Then she could succumb to her wounds, sure. Vengeance first. Priorities.


It was getting a little difficult to concentrate between the painful bouts of coughing and the need to spit every few seconds. It felt like she was constantly salivating, her mouth pouring over with thick red liquid every few minutes. When eyes met, she felt a shiver of ecstasy, drinking in the fear that washed over her prey. ”He deserves to know fear. To know how they felt, and suffered at his hand. Fair is fair. Right is right. Certainly it’s not right, but it’s fair enough.” He covered his face with his hands, but the sobs that shook his slender frame were visible from a mile away. The few feet between them felt like agonizing miles on Nova’s injuries as she closed the space, moving to grip him. She couldn’t let him get away now. She wouldn’t allow him to hide away in the rafters again, licking his wounds and reveling in his kills. "N-no…please,” Nova was drunk on his tears, shaking her head. Nothing was enough. She could feel the venom of her poisonous words seeping into her own cuts, intoxicating herself with the hatred she felt.


They should have never come here. It had been a setup, certainly. Morgan would have perished, and they would have been free to take their pearls and run. Return to their homes, or make new ones. The screaming of her man in her grasp felt far away as she stared through him, thinking everything through slowly. Aloise, and August. They’re gone. And Icarus, too. Bryn and Damuron and holding their own, Mayia and Ava have Morgan, Alaiza and Paul are there…. Flynn…..but Puck is still standing. Rhythm is gone, Rylee, is she dead too… None of them were fighters. Their best asset was Rhythm, but he was a man of peace, certainly. This troupe had prepared, had known they were going to stage an attack. They had time to train, to hone a craft and become skilled. They had set up a trap in the bigtop, and the rest of them flooded in like sheep for the slaughter. The five of them had certainly done enough damage against the lot of them.


Nova came back to her senses as her gaze tracked back to Cannes, hanging almost limp in her arms. Saliva frothed up in the corners of his mouth, and his face had a sickly hue of blue to it. His writhing wasn’t enough to dislodge her slender figners from his throat, but the constant jerking of his neck and limbs wracked her arms and body with pain. She winced, drawing her hand back and gripping his shirt beside his other arm. ”Don’t you ******** die on me yet.” Her words bubbled in a sticky growl. She spit once more at his feet, retuning her cold glare to his eyes, giving him a rough shake. She winced through the act, trying to shake him back into this plane of consciousness. She couldn’t tell the difference between her pulse pounding in her swollen fingers and wrists, and his heart beating wildly in his ribcage. ”You don’t have my permission to leave yet, do you hear? You haven’t earned a reprieve. Come on. Snap to.” His violent shaking had taken its toll on her as well, though, her own body going weak in the knees and elbows, using his weight as a sort of counter to the awkward lean she had to adopt to keep herself from unbearable pain. Another mouthful of blood passed through her lips into the dirt, a thick splotch forming between her feet.


Everything was getting hazy around her. Her vision was blurry from the fall and the constant steam of tears pouring down her face. Blood dripped from her lips, and sweat trickled down her neck and face. Every action strained her battered frame further. She had never known pain like this, to fall so far, to hit so hard….but the pain wasn’t the worst of it. Looking upon this small, weak man, she had tasked herself with killing him. She had watched him take the lives of all her companions, all of the other flyers. They had all died in this room, two of them to him. She would be their avenger. She had marked him for death the moment he tore Aloise away from the group. But this weak, crying boy….


Nova shook her head, her grip tightening, and her body pulling him closer so she could root her elbows into her torso, stabilizing herself. There couldn’t be pity within her for this….this roach. ”You killed my team. Your hurt my friends.” He hadn’t hurt her in the slightest….though she was sure it wasn’t for lack of desire or trying. She had been faster, and reckless. Another haggard cough produced a thick stream of liquid from her mouth, her head tipping forward to drain her body of life once more. She tightened her hands once more, gathering more fabric between her palms. ”Why? Why would you use these gifts for pain and…and murder. You….I could have learned from you. We can….we can save you from this…? You’re far more skilled than I’ll ever be….” It wasn’t saying much, being that she could feel her body slipping, her pulse wildly pounding to account for all of her swelling digits. With the other acrobats dead, they’d need someone who could teach, and certainly Nova had no notion of Canne’s history, his age and his past with the cirque. ”I-I…..I don’t want to have to…..” The grey haze of her mind clouded her eyes once more as she let go with her stronger hand, reaching back up to hold his jaw, demanding his gaze and focus into her own face. She poised herself to snap his neck to the side roughly if he so much as reached upward for one of his silk tethers. ”I can’t let you….” The adrenaline was running thinner and thinner as time slowed down around her. Each agonizing second dragged on as she secured his shirt firmly in her right hand, and his delicate jawline in the left.




" Aiolios"






◇ σσc

[sunriseparilla]

TA U B R Y N ↺ M E L E A C H L A I N N

"The Illusionist"

✱ ✱ xThe city looks so pretty, do you wanna burn it with me?
xxx▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
Let's watch this city burn

xxxFrom the skylines on top of the world
'Til there's nothing left of her

░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░

Contrary to what he was expecting, he didn’t get nearly as much satisfaction watching the man dance and flail around like an idiot. Well, all right he did get a little. Taubryn couldn’t help but laugh a bit when the fire began to misbehave and spread up his arm. Wait. Fire? He didn’t do any fire did he? He looked to the side and found Pyrrhus. When…? He must have been taking lessons on sneaking up on people. Or he was just too preoccupied to even notice his arrival. His eyes lost a bit of his manic glee at seeing a familiar face. So it was his doing then. He scratched the back of his head in slight embarrassment, “Hey, now. I can handle this myself thank you very much.“ he said, half jokingly. The unimpressed glare he received in answer was enough to let him know that Pyr refused to believe any of his bullshit. He sighed. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth and shun his help. It did wound a little of his pride somewhat…what little he had left. But he couldn’t deny the fact that his shoulders lost a little of the tension that had gathered. Pyr was strong. Stronger than he himself was and he could definitely hold his own. Maybe now they could have a chance against the other fire breather.

While the man was distracted with his snakes and batting them off, he checked on Ava to make sure she was still safe. A little sigh of relief escaped him when he saw that she was generally all right. No one seemed to have attacked her or anything, all seemingly busy with their respective fights to pay too much attention. Damuron was taking care of the woman who had murdered Rhythm, dear little Nova was fighting valiantly with another, Alaizabel was still with the leader, and Maiya as well was facing another. All busy, all not targeting his sister. He’d take what he could get. It was a little strange though that she looked so happy, amongst the death and bloodshed. His eyes moved down to Morgan’s still form…not so still anymore it seemed. If he looked close enough, he could swear he saw the telltale signs of breathing. It was very faint, seeing how far he was, but he swore to all the gods that existed that he saw Morgan’s back rise and fall slightly. Coupled with the faces and exclamations of Ava and Maiya…

The same voice from before whispered, ‘Are you sure? Are you sure you’re not seeing what you want to see? You’re awfully far from the scene.’ Taubryn shook his head. He was right. He knew he was. Neither of the two would say something like that if he wasn’t. Even if his eyes were deceiving him and making him see the faint rise of the Ringmaster’s back, they could not make him believe that Paul helping him up was a lie. Morgan was fine now. Paul and Ava had him in their grasp and they would get him out of there. He turned to Pyrrhus and grinned, “Looks like we’re almost done here.” They had lost too many people, but he was relieved to see that it would almost be over. But of course life was too cruel to even let him believe that for a few seconds. A broken scream pierced through the air, making him jump. It sounded suspiciously like…

Taubryn looked. And he was faced with something more he didn’t want to see. Mouse. Who had been so strong before and so confident in her abilities was now on her knees. Though he didn’t see it, it was easy to tell what had happened. The anguish and grief in her eyes and face was familiar. A mirror he had once worn himself so long ago. He knew that face, he knew those feelings. Even if it had been several years now, watching her made everything seem like such a short time ago. He could still feel her hand as it fell weakly from his grasp. He turned away. He couldn’t bear to watch the past unfold in front of him again. His gaze flitted from one tragedy to another as the unknown fire breather was starting up his attack once again. And here he thought they were done with all this. But in hindsight this was good, he told himself. If he could keep him focused on him for now and keep him away from the others then...Taubryn took a defensive stance and braced himself, preparing himself for the worst.



x ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░

Let's watch this city burn the world
Let's watch this city burn the world
Let's watch this city burn the WORLD




〈 location 〉 ㄨbig topxxx 〈 company 〉 ㄨEveryonexxx 〈 ooc 〉 ㄨ oh god this post is such s**t and so short OTL




Cynotastic

[Scrivener_Lost]

cynosural𝐓c𝐡y𝐞 n 𝐑o𝐢s𝐧u𝐠r𝐦a𝐚c𝐬c𝐭a𝐞t𝐫



"I want to extend my contract. I wish to give away the remainder of my life, my time, my soul, anything -- to bring this man, Morgan von Faustus to life..."

Awakening from such a deep and all encompassing realm of unconsciousness was like waking from the sweetest of dreams one had ever experienced. As the fantastical world around you begins to fade and you realize that you are in fact in a realm where anything your heart desires could be true, you begin to panic and in a desperate attempt to prevent yourself from awakening, you hide deeper in the dream where you hope consciousness cannot find you. Though it is a futile attempt as the grip of reality is far stronger than any force known to mankind, you try to shroud your face from the light that will inevitably slice through the protective veil of darkness. Knowing that the world outside of your dreams is nothing but a dreary sodden puzzle game, it becomes a fleeing notion to awaken. And it was by no means different for the Ringmaster as he fought against the knowing embrace of becoming aware. In his case, it was not simply the sensation of being awake in a world of responsibilities and strife, rather, it was the fear of pain that was spurning on the desperate fleeing of cognizance. For a few blissful minutes, he had been without pain and in those forever swings of the pendulum, it had occurred to him that no matter what he did to try and stave off the inevitable, the pain would become a reality. The gashes in his arms and chest, the stab wound to his side, and the variety of other injuries, both minor and major only made him ever more reluctant to rejoin the waking world. But he knew he had no choice. Fighting it would only make the agony worse and in the end, he knew he had a responsibility to return. He had already promised Victoria,-no. All of them. Though they could not hear nor see him, he had promised his troupe that he would no longer hide in the honeysuckle garden. They needed his help just as much as he had needed them. They had come for him, walked into this tent as lambs to the slaughter -for him. It was his own folly that he had inadvertently dragged these people with him into this miserable fate. He had begged God and Fate that they would not follow him, but it was a foolish and empty plea that fell upon the ears of the Devil himself. As if to mock him for this pitiful attempted plan, Lucifer would see it upon himself to make this as painful for the Ringmaster as possible. He showered his waking moments with voices and screams, cries of agony and pleas for help muffled only by the sound of metal sinking into flesh. The cacophony was wretched and timed perfectly in the manner of order in which his senses returned. Sound. Smell. Hearing. Sensation. Taste. With the slowly awakening portions of his mind and body, the Ringmaster was becoming aware of himself and the world around him. The dream had all but faded, a curtain of fantasy dissolving back into the portrait of Hell. He was back. And he knew that it was not by chance. Just as he could hear the symphony torment around him, a soft voice in the back of his head singing the cause of his revival. "I want to extend my contract-," It was Maiya's voice, her silky tone breathing into his mind like a warm breeze that fluttered across the empty and scorched earth that was his soul. A contract had been made. For him. It was impossible to comprehend that after his antics, anyone would want to see him alive and breathing.

And yet, all the while he begged that no one would come for him and act upon such a foolish request, he could not deny the immense gratitude to the woman that would sell her soul again for such a dishonest cretin like him. It was beyond his imagination to think that after serving her entire contract and staying with him for so long, she would want to relive the entire contract. "She loves you, Morgan. She wants to devote her life to you.” The woman was a fool. She was a dense, terrible, poor fool whom had no idea what she was doing. Or perhaps she did. Not a single soul had chosen to stay with him after their contract had been released and even years later, she was still by his side. Even now, he could sense her, holding him and cradling him protectively in her lap. He knew it to be her by the feel of her skin and her scent. He was returning to the waking world with his senses intact; her could hear her breath in his ears and he could feel the cold tears that dripped onto his face and cascaded down his cheeks. But it was not just her that was near him. The moment he heard her voice, his heart began to beat painfully strong in his chest once again. "Father...Morgan...please answer me..." His beloved daughter was there, her cold fingers like ice against his skin as she held his wrist. If only this were part of the dream's remains; he could not stand the thought that Ava was here amongst this wretched nightmare. They were in danger here. He did not have to have his sight in order to know that Roland and his crew were somewhere and it was only a matter of time before they would return to finish their failed attempt at his life. He needed to get them to safety. But I am so weak... He could hardly move let alone strike out a path to salvation for them. Just like waking from a deep deep sleep, his body was slow to respond to him, despite his best efforts to push along the recovery process. He simply could not get his body to move. He tried everything; moving his legs, his arms, his head, anything to jump start the pumping of blood into his muscles again. But everything still felt fathoms away from him. He tried to move his hand, focusing his energy into moving his fingers. Please...please move... He knew the details and nuances of his contracts better than anyone and knowing that rushing his recovery would only compromise the end effect, he simply ignored it. He had to get back to his feet. Maiya had offered her soul once again. That was indicator enough that things were desperate and he needed to get his troupe to safety. But the frustration at the lack of cooperation his body was willing to provide to him was building and despite the healing process, he could feel the wounds reprimanding him for his desired quick actions. It was enough to make him shudder with anger, the action sending a ripple of movement across his body. "Maiya, look! He's breathing!!" If breathing was what his body was doing to take in air, he didn't question it. But he knew it was by no means the typical manner of drawing breath. Sound. Smell. Hearing. Sensation. Taste. His senses were firing off in rapid succession now as his consciousness had begun to fade back into real time. He could hear everything that was going on around him and he could smell the iron in the air. Blood...so much of it...by the Gods...how long have I been out? The idea that he had been unconscious long enough for enough blood to be spilled that it saturated the air like a wet blanket had birthed a panic in him. Did the blood belong to his troupe or to Roland's crew? Who was injured? Who was...dead? He didn't want to think of it and as sight slowly began to return, his pale golden eyes searched around him. A kaleidoscope of color and swirling masses greeted him as he opened his eyes, Maiya's face obscured by her hair and Ava's desperate expression trying in vain to get a good look of him. Sight. It was his once more.

When he tried to draw a breath, he found that he could not. The earlier panic that had come with knowing suddenly flared. What is...what is going on? He tried to inflate his lungs, but when he drew breath through his nose, it was only met with a mass in his throat. He could not breathe. He was suffocating. "Morgan! Morgan, you're alive!" Maiya's glee was only felt by the woman and the Beast Tamer as he could hardly pay attention to the words coming from her as she sat him upright. The flicker of relief was short lived as he hoped the movement would ease the terrible pressure in his throat, but all it had managed to do was to make it even more evident that he was in trouble as the thick viscous mass remained stuck fast. He needed to remove it from his mouth. "His lips!"Panic filled his mind as he reached up to his mouth, his fingers brushing against the threads that held his lips closed tightly. Breathe...I cannot...breathe! A thick dark trail of red oozed out from between what pathetic escape it was offered from the small space between the threads and his lips. But where his mind was on fire with mania, Maiya remained a marble fixture as she moved, one arm wrapped tightly around him as she supported him despite the weakness he was experiencing, the woman handling him as gently as the moment would allow. His fingers began to claw at his mouth, desperate for a release, scraping down his chin until the woman gently pushed his hand side, her strength firm and commanding as she gently placed a blade at the edge of his lips. Hazy gold eyes slowly moved to her face and he could see her clearly for the first time. "I am so glad you're here..." She looked worn and exhausted, though, laying beneath the dirt and sweat, he could see almost a renewed glow as she carefully worked to free his mouth of its bonds. As steady as her hands were, the slight pinch and pull of the threads as they were sliced free made his expression twist in pain. Thread by miserable little thread, she cut through with grace and patience. Unlike Roland's harsh treatment of his mouth, he was spared the slicing of his gums and stabbing of his tongue. And as she worked the last few stitches, he felt such an overwhelming sense of relief that he had nearly been swept into unconsciousness once again. With the final snap of the binding, Morgan's head jerked forward as he expelled a mass of coagulated blood and mucus, expelling the horrendous copper-tasting flood into his lap as a sharp wheezing came from his throat as he desperately sucked in air at the same time. Maiya hardly gave him a chance to recover as she pulled him into a tight embrace, his body twitching underneath her arms as he coughed with sharp squeaky cries. Thick rivers of viscous old blood dribbled down his lips and his chin, trailing down his neck and over his shoulders as the woman cradled him to her chest. "I thought I had lost you..." She whispered as he held him tightly, burying her head into his shoulder. He panted hungrily for breath, his hand slowly rising despite the trembling weakness in his limbs to brush it against her arm. He could feel her shaking and despite all of the tenacity and strength she showed while fighting for him, she was still a woman with a heart. And right now, her fragile heart was on the verge of splintering into a million pieces as she held his broken form in her hands. He had been such a fool for making her worry. For making all of them worry. Deep inside, he knew he had made a grave mistake and now, he was paying for it. In blood. The blood of his troupe. And to reclaim yet another victim; he could just barely make out the faint sound of footfalls upon the dirt. Following it came the deep husky voice of the wretched red headed woman. No...Maiya... Damned be this weakness! Hi body was healing, that much he knew, as the skin healed and the bleeding ceased, but such was a bone-deep weakness, he could hardly lift his own head. "Oh ho ho~! Did someone just sacrifice their life for someone who was supposed to die? Well, sounds like to right fate, the both of you need to die." The sound of the woman's blade slicing through the air made him flinch in response, Maiya's grip around him secure as she slowly lifted her head. "M-Maiya..." His voice hardly rose above a whisper as he begged the woman. Maiya please...do not challenge her... He tried to wrap his fingers around her hair, to prevent her from leaving, but the silky brown locks slipped between his grasp as she turned towards the Beast Tamer. "And, I feel like you owe me, Maiya. You always talked big game when we worked together. Let's settle this here and now." "Maiya....Maiya..." He was being transferred into the slender arms of his daughter as the Knife Thrower spoke with conviction and strength, "Ava, please make sure he's okay, I have business to take care of."

His fingers were trailing through the air before he could deter Maiya as Ava took hold of him. If Maiya had been trembling, the girl holding onto him now was absolutely shaking. His head lolled about against his shoulders as she desperately clung to him, attempting to hold his torso against his lap. But she was so small and his shoulders sagged off of her legs. Ava wrapped her arms around his neck as she took small sharp breaths, terror laced in those meager whispers of breath. The sound of battle was so close, but Morgan could hardly make out shapes and forms two feet from him. Bitter grey smoke suddenly filled his field of view as Paul suddenly appeared at his side. Morgan's eyes drifted to the man as the Romani smiled gently, his eyes focused on the girl as he spoke to her. Paul... The strong man knelt next to him and took his arm, the gypsy gaining a firm grip on him. "Come on, Boss. Let's get you out of here," he said lightly. The Ringmaster could feel a sense of calm and relief come from the soft spoken man as he was slowly lifted. Paul was going to get them out of this Hell. He was going to set things right. As he always did...wherever I made a mistake...he is there to clean it up. Where I fumble...he is there to help me back up. Truly he had never had a better Assistant and owed the man much more than he was due. He was the true heart of this circus, the blood that which pumped through the invisible veins and kept everything running smoothly. He was truly beloved by Morgan. And when the demon surfaced from the smoky hellfire, Morgan knew instantly that this was going to be the last charming smile he would see from his dear Assistant. "I will not allow this plan to fail!" Golden spheres widened as the bloodied devil sprung from the smoke, his arm pulled back before releasing his attack. No... Morgan's lips were moving and he was unsure if Paul had even heard him when the dagger slammed into the man's back. "Paul...I am sorry..." In a flicker of a second, Paul's grin remained despite the force of the attack that sent him tumbling over Morgan and Ava, tiny flecks of blood showering down on them as the man struggled to remain upright. Ava screamed the Assistant's name as she dug her fingers into Morgan's skin and the Ringmaster watched as his Assistant turned to face Roland. His eyes lingered in the blade embedded deep in Paul's back and Morgan knew that he would only have minutes to live. Minutes that Morgan could have sworn stopped his heart as Paul bravely stood to attention, his chin raised as he spoke to Roland. Morgan should have been the one to stand up against the man, to say the things that Paul spoke so strongly and eloquently. He should have been the one to take the blade. And yet, all he could do was lay here useless and watch as Paul's life slowly seeped from him. Paul...I am so sorry... His hand wavered in the air as he slowly lifted it, his hand reaching for the Romani as he tried to reason with insanity. Paul...I do not deserve your grace...please...I beg of you... "Don't hate... p-pity..." I beg of you and all of the souls I have disgraced... "Morgan." The Ringmaster shut his eyes as he felt his heart plunge into an icy cold cage that constricted around him. It had only been days ago that he had held Paul in his arms as he mourned to him what the cards had spoken. "People are going to die. Here, at the Cirque." He had sworn to him that no one would die. He had sworn to protect everyone. He swore- "Maybe me too, I'm not sure."-that he would not let his horrors come to pass. And as his body crumpled to the dirt, Morgan felt his heart stop beneath his ribs. His breath hitched in his chest as his hand slowly came to rest on his breast, golden eyes rolling up to the top of the tent. Have I not suffered enough at your hands? Why do you insist on taking that which I hold most dear? Am I truly that despicable of a beast? Why give Roland the power to do this? "PAUL!" Morgan flinched terribly at the sound of Alaizabel's scream, her cries of agony like hot acid being poured onto his heart. God...what have I done... Ava's trembling beneath him was only intensified when she jumped against Alaizabel's bitter cries of sorrow. "DAMURON PLEASE--!"

"Oh no..." Morgan closed his eyes, his nails digging into the tender flesh of freshly healed skin. Paul...I am weak... "N... n-no.. No, Paul." You are truly the reason why this circus has been successful... "Paul come back to me, you can't-." Give me your strength...to protect... "T-this isn't funny Paul! Get up!" That which you love and cherish. Morgan had never been a firm believer of any sort of religion and had quite a distaste for it. But tonight alone, he had prayed numerous times to any deity that would listen for this massacre to have never happened. It was only by this wretched bloodied silence of God that Morgan found that he had spent wasteful minutes wishing upon some awful last string of desperation that it would see kindly upon him and his Cirque and save them from this horrid night. It had never happened. Nothing was going to save them. No God, no religion, no amount of praying was going to prevent his family from being slaughtered. And he had spent a great deal of this massacre in the wretched grips of damned weakness; something he should have been able to ignore. But that was not the case and while he slumbered in some pitiful pained delirium, his troupe was being felled around him. All for the sake of simply being associated with him. It was infuriating to know that Roland, that pitiful detestable mockery of the human race had managed to gain the upper hand on him. And now...he dare to take away the one person whom respected me despite all of the transgressions I had passed before him... And as he lay there in his daughter's trembling lap, he could feel the fury building in him. His eyes stared up at the apex of the tent, his lungs powering beneath his aching ribs as his breath came in short rasping gasps. I...I cannot let this come to pass...I must...make Roland...bleed...he must pay... But he could not do this alone. He could hardly move his arms let alone his whole body. And if God will not help...than I shall call upon another... The anger and frustration was peaking, bubbling in his gut and a sharp ringing in his ears began to grow. I need you... He groaned audibly as he struggled to sit up, his muscles jumping beneath his skin as they fought against the subduing weakness. Are you sure you wish to awaken me once again? Why, I thought that perhaps Roland had done you a favor by silencing me. Morgan peeled back his aching lips, the action resulting in searing pain across his mouth as several of the holes split open. A soft gasp escaped Ava as she gently shook Morgan. "M-Morgan...d-don't move or you...Morgan! What are you doing?" Her voice sounded far away as his hand fell from his chest to the dirt as his nails dug into the soft earth. I am desperate...I need your help... I have been greatly weakened... I do not have much time! In fact, time was not a luxury he had at all as Roland stepped over him. Morgan watched as he reached over and grabbed Ava, the alchemist's blood dripping onto the ground with wet splats. Ava! NO! The terrified scream that ripped from Ava's throat was enough to send electrified currents through his body, making him lurch on the ground as her legs were plucked from underneath him. "I am done playing with the lot of you! It is time to end this!" Roland bellowed as he wrenched Ava close to him. NOW, I NEED TO MOVE NOW! Just then it felt as if someone had punched through the earth and into his back as he felt his limbs come back to him with fire in his veins. He could feel everything. Every nick, every cut, every slow healing fracture; but he could also move. The pain became a dull throb in the back of his mind and the weakness fluttered away as the Ringmaster felt the fire surge up his throat and through his vocal cords as he released a guttural animal growl. His hands slammed into the dirt, his nails dragging long marks into the soil as his knees curled up as he pulled his head from the ground, his neck pulled back with gravity. His long hair, matted with blood and debris, clung to his form, hugging his shoulders and spine as he slowly rose into a sitting position as simply as though he had not been on the edge of death not more than a few seconds ago. Ava released a small cry as Roland pulled her close, pulling the girl protectively to his chest as he held his rapier at her throat, his eyes locked onto the Ringmaster. "Release my daughter," Morgan bellowed, his voice distorted and warped as he slowly rose to his feet. Though he had managed to get to his legs, he wobbled, his knees quaking underneath the effort of moving his body while not fully healed. His golden eyes were saturated and dark, stained with a swirling crimson that threatened to engulf the ocher color. No longer was he the picture of poise and class. With his clothing in tatters, all that remained were the shredded remains of his trousers which hosted numerous lacerations across his legs and his riding boots. His chest was entirely bare with the bright red scarring of the letters and symbols written into his skin. Marked trails of crimson pooled around his mouth and down his chest, the red smeared across his body from Maiya's hands. He was hunched over, breathing in raspy breaths as he glared at Roland, his hair strangely frazzled as he held his hands out by his hips, his fingers poised into claws as his chest rose and fell, ribs bright white underneath the pale skin. Using Ava as a shield, the alchemist took a step back, his blade carefully poised. "You are in no position to make demands, Morgan!" In that sense, Roland was correct. He truly was not in the position to ask of anything, let alone for Roland to grant him some sort of peace. But he had to try. Ava was in danger. "Roland, you have won," Morgan hissed, taking a shaky step towards the alchemist who responded by tightening the blade against Ava's throat. His stained blood-gold eyes swept around the tent and his arm followed. "We have spilled enough blood tonight. Novalynn, release the boy! Pyrrhus, Taubrynn! Cease this fighting!" Morgan bellowed before sweeping his eyes to where Katarina had dragged off Maiya, his features pinching with anger. He bared his teeth again, white fangs stained with red shimmering as he turned his attention back to Roland. He opened his arms and lifted his chin. "Roland...let us settle this...just the two of us. Call off your brood as I have."



Translations-
none :: " none "


cynosural† 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: The Big Top cynosural† 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲: The Troupe and Rivals cynosural† 𝐎𝐨𝐂:


Quote:



Layout Created by Cynosural Cataclysm

[Cynotastic]

tab 『ωɪтʜ: Everyone 』xxxxxxx 『ʟocaтɪoɴ: Big TOp 』xxxxxxx 『ϻσσɗ: In pain, injured, angry 』
"Talking"'Thought'

There was just too much going on. As she was being drug away from Morgan, she had lifted her arms and instantly regretted being pulled into the duel with Kat. She had initially accepted simply due to the fact that it would help ensure Morgan's safety. That was all she cared for. He was brought back, he had to be okay. So, accepting was more or less simply her attempt to guarantee that the opposing Knife Thrower would be distracted. Then -- Then, Ava could make her escape with Morgan, and everything would be okay. She would manage - with the assistance of her telekinesis (somehow), and then she would get back to the train where she could coddle Morgan and ensure he was okay. Even though it was his fault. But, she was willing to look past that for now. He was alive and okay. No - he is alive and okay. Maiya assured herself as she felt her limps fall weak at her side as Kat continued to tote her away by her head. It was painful, sure. But, it was for the better. Her crimson gaze lingered on Morgan as she smiled faintly. Even if the cut in her side was painful. It didn't matter. After all, if either she or Morgan had to die. She would choose to be the sacrifice. Because, if he died... Well, she did not imagine that she would be able to continue pushing forward in her life. No, living in a world without Morgan was not acceptable. The Knife Thrower would rather plunge a dagger into her own chest and remove it before she could allow that idea to become reality. It was for that very reason she had recreated a contract for the man. She loved him; she truly did.

There was a loud crash that echoed through the tent as a vial collided with a ground and smoke billowed around the center of the tent. Well, more it formed around Alaiza. However, her vision of the scene came to an abrupt halt as Katarina lifted her from the ground and placed her body between herself and the Maiya. "Hahaha..." Katarina chuckled as she squeezed the brunette's face with her fingers, pushing her lips together uncomfortably. A growl escaped from Maiya as she reached out and grabbed onto the red-head's hands and squeezed trying to get the woman to release her. However, it seemed that it hardly phased Kat as she simply smirked at the woman instead of reacting. "You really are quite pathetic." She hissed as she shook the shorter woman in the air before retrieving a dagger from her pouch of throwing knives. "You've made your capture so easily. I'll end your life with one quick motion." The woman declared as she spun the blade around so it was facing towards the ground. The metal of the weapon began to grow and change into a sword. Maiya's legs began to swing back and forth as she tried to wrestle herself free from the one-handed grasp. Though, it seemed really surprising how well she held on despite the fact it was only with one hand. But, the momentum from Maiya's slight swinging appeared to tire the other woman's arm out faster as the brunette found herself slowly lowered to the ground. Her crimson eyes darted over to the still changing blade as she squinted her eyes at it. There had to be some way to overcome such a weapon. Her gaze lifted and transitioned onto Katarina as she stared intently at the woman's neck.

Releasing a groan of agony, she attempted to cough breath into her lungs. But, it seemed the woman's grip was inhibiting that as well. Maiya's teeth began to grind together as discomfort riddled her expression. While she had her right hand holding onto Kat's hand, she transitioned her left there instead, but instead of simply squeezing, the Knife Thrower began to claw. It seemed to catch Katarina's attention for a moment as the blade began to stop growing as she moved her own crimson eyes into the fingernails of her opponent. Then, Maiya's right hand shakily extended out towards Kat as her crimson eyes began to stare holes onto the woman's neck. She was trying something new. After all, in the past the brunette had only moved things in the past. It was the length of her powers as far as she knew. But, could she do other things with it? If she was willing to sacrifice herself then now would be the best time she figured. Muscles of her face began to twitch as she stared at the woman's neck. Very faintly she could see something begin to press into the woman's flesh. Was it working? It was hard for her to intently focus with the cries and shouts taking place in various parts around the tent. "DAMURON PLEASE--!" But, she had to keep trying. After all, she was beginning to see the fruits of her focus begin to apply pressure onto the red-head's neck. The faint marks on the woman's neck began to deepen and soon, the grip on Maiya was released as she was dropped to the ground with Katarina clawing at her own throat. The brunette breathed in a large breath as she felt her lungs fill with oxygen, but it seemed that the action had only momentarily shocked Kat as she looked over her shoulders for anyone who was attacking her. But, there was no one. No, Maiya had managed to begin to strangle Kat with her telekinesis.

Cries continued to echo through the tent, but she drank in the air with heavy breaths as she looked up at Katarina. It was the sounds of chaos, sadness, despair that echoed through the tent that made realize that she couldn't allow herself to succumb to death. After all, she had made sure that Morgan would be alive. He had just admitted that he loved her. She could not throw that away. She could not allow him to live on without her; doing so would be similar to her living without him. And that wasn't fair - nor was it okay! He had taught her to dance and taught her how to speak a sentence in German. He had shared a bed with her, and he had tended to her wounds before. Now, now she had him to tend to. She had to make it through this. She had to be with him. Especially since there's already been one cute couple ripped apart... Maiya noted as her crimson eyes flew around the tent and landed on the mourning Alaizabel and the fallen Paul. Her heart ached with the thought. If anything, it had proven that she had to make sure the others got out of here alive. She could not handle more emotional pain. Amidst her moment of recovery, her opponent had taken a moment to strike while the brunette's guard was down. However, it seemed that her moment of observing had opened up a new vat of energy. This caused a jarring jolt of pain to vibrate through the red-heads arm as she took a step back in confusion of the event. "You b***h." She hissed as her free hand reached over and pressed into her arm to ensure that nothing was broken. Then, she went for another strike. But, this time, Maiya had managed with withdraw the remaining of three daggers strapped to her leg and with quick thinking she had managed to block the second blow.

"I will not be defeated..." Maiya growled as her telekinesis began to collect up the numerous blades that had been abandoned across their battlefield. The knives floated in the air around her as her crimson eyes were lit with fury as she looked up at the Kat with pure rage in her features as she stood to her feet. A growl escaped from the brunette as she narrowed her eyes on the red haired woman. The brunette launched two of her blades at the woman simultaneously. Only one of them had managed to slash through the woman, piercing through her sleeve and leaving a cut across her arm. Blood began to bubble at the surface and began to be absorbed by the clothes. Maiya grabbed the remaining blade out of the air as she prepared herself to move forward to jab into the woman's gut, but a voice caught her attention and caused her to hesitate. "Release my daughter," her jaw popped open in shock as she swiveled her head in the direction of the voice. It sounded like Morgan, but yet not. It was eery. Her eyes widened as she felt water pool into her lids. He's alive! She was reminded as the tight grip on her weapon wavered as she contemplated dropping her weapon and simply running over to him to ensure he was okay. After all, with his usual silky, deep, and smooth voice sounding so twisted it made her worried. Had something happened to him when she made the deal? Had they returned life to his body, but gave him a different soul? She swallowed nervously. Though, Maiya's moment of hesitation had ended badly as she felt another breeze as her opponent dealt another attack. Katarina had thrown her sword. But, luckily, the brunette had noticed the object flying towards her, so she had managed to move it slightly. However, she had also not noticed it soon enough. The weapon which had been aimed for her heart had been relocated and pierced through her shoulder. The blade was sticking into her shoulder, pierced through to the bone. A scream of pain sounded from Maiya as she reached her left hand up to grab hold of the weapon nervously. However, a would in her shoulder would likely leave her alive unlike an accurate stab to the heart. One of her eyes partially closed as the lid began to twitch in pain as she felt frozen in time. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she contemplated removing the blade. Is that even smart...? She mentally inquired, however, leaving the weapon in her shoulder was probably the most painful part. Every twitch of her left hand sent a bolt of pain through as she felt each little movement of muscle around the weapon.

"We have spilled enough blood tonight. Novalynn, release the boy! Pyrrhus, Taubrynn! Cease this fighting!" Crimson eyes drifted back over to Morgan as she saw the situation that had caused such a reaction from Morgan. Her hand reached up and removed the weapon as she heard a low chuckle echo from Katarina. "Oh this is rich!" She muttered spat as she reached up and removed the weapon from Maiya before crossing over to the center of the ring. Blood was spilling out of the Brunette's wound as she moved the hand that had been holding onto the blade onto her wound as blood dripped down her arm. She pushed into the wound before moving her other hand to cover the other wound before slumping onto the ground. "Roland...let us settle this...just the two of us. Call off your brood as I have." Maiya coughed as she leaned forward in pain. She knew what Morgan was doing, he was trying to save Ava. But, with the way that Katarina sauntered over to the man, she knew it wasn't a good idea. No, he was setting himself up for another cut into his flesh. "Morgan, please... Don't be dumb.." She muttered through ground teeth as she felt tears of agony roll down her cheeks.


『σσc: ABYSS MAIYA! 』

[Cynotastic]

Rei, Katarina, & Pyrhhus

This fight had gone on too long. Much too long. In fact, this massacre shouldn't have been an occurrence in the first place. He didn't know what sort of horrendous deeds Morgan had done in the past nor did he really care much to find out; all he knew was that whatever the damned Ringmaster had done, it had finally caught up with him. And on a massive scale. Pyrrhus was a realist and by no means pitied the crooked man for whatever misdeeds that had brought this on. Seeing him strung up like a piece of meat in a butcher shop window was hard to stomach and no punishment was worth this pain and suffering. But Morgan had brought this upon himself. No. He had brought it upon all of them. And though he would have liked to see the man pay for the sins he had committed in the past, this was by no means a necessary vessel in which to portray it. It was unfair, cruel, and unjustified. He believed in paying back your dues, sure, but to drag an entire group of innocent souls into such a wretched and mismatched fight like this was downright deplorable. Paul was an insanely passionate man and though he had a great respect for the Ringmaster, he had proven to follow right into Morgan's folly by gathering the troops and sending them off to the slaughter. Though Pyrrhus would never say such a thing to the man. His idea of evil and good was too pure and the fire breather did not want to be the one to shatter that illusion. But seeing the amount of blood spilled, watching as the life faded from the eyes of his comrades, it became difficult to truly justify the weight of this battle against Morgan's life. And though the fight had started out well enough, the moment the acrobats were ripped from the scene, everything had gone downhill. Fast.

He had faith in Alaizabel, he knew the woman was much more than what could be seen on the surface. She was a complicated woman (as all women were), but there was something special beneath that class and and often times, icy reception. She had shifted so quickly and willingly to the blade that she now appeared to be nearly an entirely different person. And that was not a bad thing. In fact, while he wished he could have seen this spark and spunk born of a different reason, he could not help but admire the strength and composure she held despite the mania that threatened to overcome all of them. She was not afraid to give commands and to see to the weaker creatures while keeping her cool. Even while his rival turned his flames into little more than heated putty, Alaizbel was rushing off to try and salvage what remained of the Ringmaster. She was focused, her mind set on the one task they had come here to accomplish: save Morgan. From her, he drew his strength and will. She was fighting despite the wretched nature of the Ringmaster, the focus she devoted to her task absolute. And if he did not offer the same fractional amount of attention to his task, then what worth was he as a member of the same troupe as her? Sure he had his differences with Morgan as they all did and even if he had hated the man for taking him into the circus so many years ago, he could not deny that he had come to at least enjoy his miserable existence in the Cirque. If it had not been for that reason alone, then he would not have come to know so many people. Like the dear illusionist at his side. He had to be careful with his powers as it became quickly evident that no matter what he threw at the other man, the rival fire breather would be quick to turn it into heated sludge. It was frustrating, but he had to rely on Taubryn while he prepared something else.

All the while Taubryn was fighting and throwing nonsensical illusions at the other man, Pyrrhus remained still and focused, offering only a few distractions here and there. He had to remain vigilant and cautious or else his entire trick would be shattered. But he had faith in the magic maker beside him. Taubryn could be a silly fool most times, but when the cards were down, he could rely on him to help with distractions. And that was exactly what he needed. Keep the b*****d entertained. Show him what it means to mess with Tromperie. All he needed was a little time. He had been working on this for years. Not even Morgan knew of what he had been planning; hell, not even Ava knew. It would be a spectacle for sure, something that would have blown the audience away. But now, it would be used for something else. He needed time, though, a luxury which they could not afford. Time and focus. Taubryn was keeping the fire breather occupied (and doing a good job of it) until the clash of two powerful beings behind them drew his attention away. A snarl crossed his features as the Doctor called out the name of the titan. He didn't need to look back to know what had happened. They were quickly losing their best chances at this fight, their numbers dwindling quicker than an ember caught in the rain. He just needed a little more time. But now, Taubryn had been compromised. He did not need to see the illusionist's face to know he was in pain. Rhythm held a special place in a number of people's hearts; the gentle giant was a steadfast creature that was easy to befriend and even easier to adore. Taubryn had become compromised as he let his fury and sorrow overwhelm him, attacking the wretched man in front of them with his illusions. He was running out of time. He needed to stop this madness before anyone else was hurt. Before Taubryn was hurt.

Whether or not the rival had seen the desire to fight in his fiery gaze was to be known as he tossed some sort of pathetic attack at him; he simply slashed through the pathetic chain of fire with his hand. He scoffed at it. It wasn't a serious attack by any means. Rather it was simply a reminder that he was running through his chances to attack. He was so close. He could feel it building up inside him, his body tingling with the possession of his rage and searing hatred. He simply needed the final outlet to use his attack. That was it. He had enough of this fight. "Enough playing around." Pyrrhus' scowl turned into a grin as Taubryn's antics appeared to rile up the rival enough to finally put this fight to a climax. The man was a fool. He acted like a child and that would be his mistake. As the man summoned fire to his arms, Pyrrhus' eyes widened with anticipation. Yes. This is exactly what he needed. “Hey, now. I can handle this myself thank you very much.“ He tilted his head towards the illusionist and his expression softened. He gazed at Taubryn for a moment. He looked exhausted. Worn out. It was hard to watch as such a lively creature was slowly being crushed by the weight of sorrow. "Mmm," he hummed in reply. As Taubryn's gaze drifted to the other side of the tent, Pyrrhus' gaze followed and he could see the Ringmaster slowly climbing from the dredges of death as Ava and Paul struggled to pull the man to his feet. Good. Morgan is safe. This was working out better than he could have hoped. Soon, they would be able to flee this miserable graveyard. Well, some of them. “Looks like we’re almost done here.” His attention swiveled back to his friend and he nodded, a smug grin on his face.

"Yes. Let's hurry and finish up business," Pyrrhus growled as he turned his attention back to the man whom was still building flames along his arms. Suddenly, a soul shattering scream ripped across the tent, sending a cold dagger plunging into his chest. He wrenched his eyes shut for a moment as he ground his teeth together. "Damn it..." Alaizabel's cry was absolutely tragic and it nearly cracked his resolve. He wanted to go to her and comfort her, but he knew that doing that would only put them all into further risk. No. He had a job to do and he would carry through with it even if it was the last thing he ever did. The troupe was in shambles and falling apart quicker than he could keep track of. There needed to be an end to this. He managed to steal a quick glance at his partner only to see the weight of this battle slowly crushing him. It was time.

Rei continued to contort and manipulate the flame ring. And in order to deny the Fire breather the ability to manipulate the dragon, he was certain to lace the object with lava. Not only would it make it harder for Pyr to control the flames, but it would also cause for ultimate destruction. A low chuckle rumbled from the dark brown haired man as his hand continued to maneuver around the other. His right hand pulled away from his left wrist with the flames growing larger.The front of the ring began to twist into a head of a snake. His eyes swept around his immediate area as he spotted the blue boy standing there defensively with Pyr to the front of Rei. "I am not ******** around anymore! I'll get you both! Making a fool of me!" It was clear that he was sick of the way that Taubryn had played the fool of the ex-Fire Breather. The illusions had still managed to affect him, and that was embarrassing. So, he would burn him down - burn them all down.

"Heh, it does not take much to make a fool out of...what did Morgan like to call the jugglers? A clod. Ah, yes. A clod," Pyrrhus mumbled low and threatening as he slowly spread his arms out to his side, his palms facing the rival as he slowly bent his knees. He grinned at the opposing fire breather, his eyes watching as the flames grew around the man and began to twist and morph. It was impressive, sure, and Pyrrhus was by no means a vain man. He knew that his talents could not match the other knowing that magma was beyond him. But that mattered little. So the man could make snakes. He had done it numerous times and even if he didn't have the ability to make it look fancy with magma, he still had one thing over this man. And he was going to use it to put an end to this slaughter. He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising slowly as the debris around them that had steadily increased with each of Rei's attacks began to crackle. Their scuffle had resulted in a number of items slowly catching flame, though with little sparks and embers here and there; it had not been a concern for the others. But for Pyrrhus, it was his weapon and while Taubryn had been busy distracting the fire breather, the scarred man had been building up the pressure around him. Turning to Taubryn, he grinned at the illusionist as small sparks began to crackle in his palms. "Taubryn, go to those fools. Drag them out of here kicking and screaming if you must. I have an idea, but things may get a little...hot in here."

He arched a brow at the warning that the other Fire breather had issued. The area getting a little hot was not terrifying by any stretch of the word. After all, since he too was once a fire breather, he actually enjoyed the heat. So, it was quite silly that was something to warn the blue boy with. Besides! It was only expected it would become a bit heated, Rei had been crafting a fire dragon of sorts, so it was to be expected that the heat was going to be turned up. The fire snake continued to grow, now it was the thickness of his own arm - about seven or eight inches in diameter. The snake's head began to shift and the fire creature began to shift into something more similar to a Chinese dragon. He smirked as the dragon began to move away from his arm, and began to coil around his feet while it continued to grow from the heat in the surrounding area. The fire monster appeared to try to roar as it's mouth opened.

Watching the flaming creature snake around the man hardly phased the fire breather as the sparks in his hands continued to crackle with life. This was going to be fun. He spared one final look to Taubryn before the crackling became a constant snapping chorus before bursting into two healthy flames in either hand. "Trust me. Go help the others. I'll take care of this guy." His eyes swiveled back to the man as the massive snake slowly formed into a dragon. Okay, a little more impressive, but still nothing compared to what he was about to produce. He had no idea what was coming for him. If there was something to be said about Morgan it was his attention to detail and the constant desire to see better, bigger, and new things. He had been planning on this spectacle for awhile now, but had always feared the power needed to create it. But now was as good as time as ever he assumed. There was nothing left. No more time. No more chances. It was now or never. With no warning, Pyrrhus drew his arms up over his head, the flames crashing together in a massive fireball over his head. Just then, he released the pressure he had been subduing and all around him, every piece of debris and wood caught flame, their tiny smouldering embers turning into massive flames that hungrily ate away at their source of energy. Tromperie's fire breather twisted his arms and thrust them back towards the ground, flames pouring out around him as he surrounded himself with crackling fire. The wall of red and orange rose around him, encompassing him as he kept his eyes locked on the man in front of him. "We have spilled enough blood tonight. Novalynn, release the boy! Pyrrhus, Taubrynn! Cease this fighting!"

The command from Morgan only spurned his wide grin further for two reasons; one, the Ringmaster was up and alive, and second, the demand was futile. "No chance, Ringmaster," he grumbled lowly, his head bowed slightly as his eyes darted to the scene quickly. Ava was in trouble. But it was too late. He knew men like Roland would not be stopped. Pyrrhus could only hope to cause enough of a distraction as he suddenly dropped to his knees, the flames curling in on him and swallowing him whole. "I'm sorry," he whispered before the ball of fire suddenly shot upwards and spread along the roof of the tent with manic speed before twisting downwards, forming into a twisted and confusing shape. The flames spit and hissed as they twisted and churned in on themselves before forming what appeared to be a massive beast before finally solidifying its shape, Pyrrhus' form missing amongst the hell hound's flaming body as Tromperie's massive flaming Barghest snapped its crackling mandibles at the dragon.

Rei's eyes transitioned from his own creation onto his opponents. He was fairly confident that in the battle of flames, he would be the superior one. After all, he had magma on his side. It always won in a battle of flame versus the red liquid. So, with lava on his side, he was absolutely certain he would melt his foe into nothing but dust to power the destruction that was within the tent. His eyes were lit with fiery passion as he slowly lifted his gaze, his ears turning out everything but the crackling and snapping of fire. Then, he saw it. The large flaming dog creature was definitely more imposing that his still growing dragon. After all, one of the downfalls to his lava manipulation was the fact that it took much longer to cook. Therefore, it would be a few minutes before the thing was such a size to successfully challenge a large creature such as what Pyr had conjured. His expression swapped from confident to afraid. He stumbled back a few steps as the thin dragon coiled with the same fear beneath his feet. He gulped nervously as he tried to take in what had happened. Did... Did he fuse with his fire? Rei contemplated as he continued to stare up at the beast. Now this was something he hadn't considered. "Oh boy." He muttered nervously before his gaze darted onto the creature he had crafted as he seemed to contemplate trying the same thing. But with magma... That would kill me... However... If he managed to buy enough time, then the fire dragon could bypass the creature's size. Or, maybe the snake can peel the fire off the creature...?

The panic upon his face began to disappear as he found himself stumbling into a plan. Rei extended his right hand out towards Pyr, the magma-creature sprung from it's position beneath it's feet and went straight for the beasts midsection where it began to wrap around Pyrrhus. Tighter and tighter it constricted, the flaming hound throwing its head back in response before a loud hiss filled the air as it wrapped its fiery jaws around the dragon, the intense height searing into the earthy composition of the magma. It was a bother for him to chew through the protective solid scales that surrounded the creature, but with the growing heat inside the tent, Tromperie's fire breather continued to use it to fuel the flames as they grew bright and blinding with ferocity. It pulled against the serpent, sparks jumping from the beast's maw as it shredded deep into the flaming snake just before shaking its head vigorously. Massive chunks of falling magma and coals rained down in the tent, exploding as it hit the dirt and tossing flaming debris across the tent. Above their heads, the canvas was beginning to curl and disappear under the ravenous flames that had leaped from massive beast, wires heated by the metal snapping with deafening cracks and lashing out like whips as they flailed over head. Whipping its head to the side, the beast took a hold of one of the metal supports used for the acrobats in its jaws, the flames melting away the steel before it snapped clean off from the construct. The flaming creature took a step before rearing up on its haunches and dropping the steel beam on Rei. Rei watched as the creature towered over him before knocking down the piece of the tent as they came collapsing down upon him. His eyes were wide with terror before he took a step back to attempt to dodge the object. However, his footing slipped and caused him to get caught beneath the beam.

He fell into the ground, face colliding into the dirt. The taste was horrific as it ended up within his mouth. "AAUGH!" He cried as he clawed into the ground. "KAT! HELP!" The red-head had been moving to the center of the tent when the cries of desperation hit her ears. Her ruby eyes bounced between Roland and the Ringmaster before she released an exasperated sigh. She glared at Roland as she moved around the obstacle before her gaze landed on Rei... Who was trapped under a beam. "Useless men. First Cannes, now you." She grumbled before manipulating the metal so that the man could wiggle through. It was pathetic. He was so useless he had to fight off an inanimate object instead of an actual person. At least Cannes was suffering at the hand of an opponent. Rolling her eyes, she spun around her blade as she looked up at the Fire Dog. "Let's get this over with." The massive beast loomed over the pair, its fiery body constantly moving and undulating with the churning flames as they wrapped around its carefully constructed form. Keeping up with the constant demand was extremely tiring and draining on Tromperie's fire breather and for each wavering breath he took, the fire would dim slightly before becoming bright again. It was difficult, especially with the damned fire snake consuming the fire around his body. Even with Rei momentarily indisposed, the snake had begun to eat away at the flames that surrounded him in order to repair its body. He had brute strength and a fiery personality that could overpower the idiotic man, but if the snake continued to repair itself, he would soon run out of flammable materials to consume. Searing eyes swept to the group around the Ringmaster as the damned alchemist held his blade up to Ava's throat, the silver shimmering in the bright light.

It would take a tremendous amount of effort and energy to project his voice, but the tent was burning quickly. The remaining members of the troupe needed to leave now. The hell hound breathed in deeply, sucking in both air and flames from the debris on the ground before issuing his warning with an impressive roar that rumbled through the ground and vibrated through the air. The snake around him continued to coil tighter and tighter with its slowly repairing body, constricting the protective cage of fire as it drained him. He needed more heat and flames, but feared that moving from this spot would only advance the slowly deteriorating status of the tent. The wires and remaining constructs were falling apart quickly, crashing down around the crowd in the tent with deadly precision as the debris barely managed to miss them. The steel beams were falling apart and toppling into the dirt and soon, the canvas tent would become nothing more than ashes around them. But he could not simply give up. They needed more time. Turning burning ember eyes to the pair below him, the fiery Barghest attempted to shake the snake from him as it tightened around his neck, its dragon maw closing around his throat. By now, it was hard to determine which was his own body and which belonged to the flaming dragon as it continued to slowly consume him. But that did not stop Pyrrhus as he reared his head back, his massive chest swelling as he took in air with a sharp whistling breath before spewing an inferno at the downed fire breather and red haired demoness, flames jettisoning from his mouth as though they were red hot liquid.

Interacted With↷

Beating Maiya up.



Abagail & Apostle
With her position being somewhat close to the entrance of the tent, her ocean blue eyes darted around the area as she tried to perceive what was going on. There was too much chaos. Especially with the smoke shifting around the tent, the numerous cries and screams of fear and pained all seemed to be simultaneously erupting. It was really a terrible sight. And, it was her fault. If she had been able to assist the Morgan and freed him when he requested. Then, no one would have died. Her lip quivered with the realization as she looked to the floor. Yes, that is correct. Because you are useless. Besides. What does it matter? You're alive, who cares of the rest. Apostle hissed in her mind as her gaze dropped to the floor. Though, despite the mental reprimanding and the clear insecurity in the girl - her eyes kept searching the scene. Her eyes drifted across the numerous dead bodies. None of them were people she was introduced to and actually met. But, they were people, and they had names. The worst thing was that she knew their names. Their names had been discovered by Katarina and Cannes who had gone on adventures. Abagail looked to the dead body by the door - Flynn, the juggler. Aloise and August, the acrobats. Her eyes continued to move back around the tent, but she had only been able to see a portion of those who had been murdered. Some of the remains were laying beneath the smoke cloud. However, just as her eyes were easing by the scene she had watched as the knife plunged into the dirty-blond haired man as he put himself between her father and the Ringmaster. As her eyes moved, she found that there was another voice nearby that had been spouting forth the names too. It was not just her mind and thoughts. No, there was someone near by.

Leaning forward, she turned her head to the source of the sound. Her eyes landed on a tall man who was sitting on the ground knife in hand as she watched his blade go into him numerous times as he spoke names. "Rylee, Flynn, Rhythm, Aloise!!" Abagail's jaw dropped open as she took in the sight. It was perhaps one of the scariest things of them all. Watching as someone had enough dedication to stab themselves numerous times in the chest without faltering. It was something she knew she could never do. But... What she didn't understand was why. Why was he stabbing himself so many times? It would not do anything to defeat Liesel! The man had whispered a few more words that Abagail could not hear. Then, lastly, she heard a shout from the brown haired boy. "Rendez-vous en Enfer, chienne!" Her eyes widened as she watched as he seemed to slit his own throat before a moment passed before he pushed them apart - with Liesel toppling forward, and the man falling back. His legs gave out beneath him and then he collapsed onto the floor. However, there was something strange that had happened. That much she could tell. Instead of him being riddled with cuts, slices, and blood dripping off his body - it seemed his wounds had healed. And where Liesel should have been fine - she was not.

She blinked as she attempted to take in the scene. It took a moment before the gears of her mind began to turn and pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. He was Damuron, the doctor capable of wound transference. It was for that reason he had stabbed himself to wound - or perhaps kill the other woman. She swallowed nervously as her hands began to fidget and shake. A hand reached up and scratched at her neck as she stood there and observed the situation as the brown haired man slumped into the ground. She could help him; it would make up for her failure to help him earlier. But, what good would that do? After all, when it came down to it, wouldn't it make her Father become more furious? She would have to leave with him, after all, he is her father. Her hands moved to her side as she continued to move with anxiety as she contemplated the choices. However, her right hand brushed against the heavy object in her pocket. Standing stiff, her ocean eyes bounced back over to Morgan as she saw the table suddenly turn. Now Roland was occupied holding the Ringmaster's daughter, and Morgan was alive and well. In her chest, she felt a flicker of hope. She could repent for her own terrible choices. Her legs began to carry her without her consent, and the voice in her mind began to scream. You pathetic girl. You are making foolish decisions! Apostle hissed in her head as she approached the bloodied man on the floor. Though, before she completely closed the gap to him her hands fidgeted with her dress as she began to regret what she was doing. The flame of courage was diminishing. Her gaze darted to Roland as she paused before taking the final two steps to the fallen doctor's side. "E-e-excuse me!" She spoke quietly as she turned her head towards the exit. "Aah. Uhm. Do you.. Do you need help?" Abagail questioned as her ocean gaze fell to the floor of the big top. A hand nervously reached out towards the lanky doctor as she waited for his response.


Interacted With↷

xXx Fox Trot xXx

Offered asssistance


Color Key↷

██ - Rei General ██ - Rei Talking ██ - Rei Thinking
██ -Katarina General ██ - Katarina Talking ██ - Katarina Thinking
██ - Abagail and Apostle General ██ - Abagail Talking ██ - Abagail Thinking ██ - Apostle Talking ██ - Apostle Thinking

[Scrivener_Lost]

Cannes

Everything hurts...I can't breathe...I can't breathe...please...please please! He was begging, but he didn't know what he was truly begging for anymore. Release, salvation, death. Anything would have been better than the torture he was experiencing now. Tears continued to bubble over his lids and pour indiscriminately down his face, but he wasn't truly seeing anything as he lingered between the plane of unconsciousness and awareness, a sort of fuzzy veil of diminished senses falling over him. His feild of vision was dark and he knew he was going to die. He was going to die in the hands of his girl, whimpering and begging as nonsensical moans and gurgling replaced words as they poured from his mouth alongside frothy saliva as it dripped down from the corners of his mouth. Everything hurt. Everything. The pressure that had built up in his head and his chest was agonizing. He was sure his head was going to split into two. His skull was going to fracture and explode while his ribs punctured through his skin like some sort of demented pin cushion. Every slowing beat of his heart, every rattling gagging breath, and every futile attempt to pry her fingers from his throat was met with resistance that only added to the slow and miserable death that was falling over him. He couldn't think, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything as his muscles stripped him away from his own body, taking control as they seized with the final moments of his pitiful life. ”Don’t you fucking die on me yet.” Suddenly his lungs were able to draw a breath and he did so with a sharp wheezing gasp, his vision clearing slightly as she screamed at him with a voice that sounded miles away. His mouth opened wide and hungrily as he gasped for breath. He had no idea why she had released his throat or cared, as long as he could suck in the sweet sweet air that filled his lungs. His whole body quivered with the effort of pumping the oxygen through his body, his focus slowly returning as the girl held him with a wavering but solid grasp. His fingers and toes tingled as the tears started anew, warm salty trails replacing bitter cold streams as he released a shaky moan. ”You don’t have my permission to leave yet, do you hear? You haven’t earned a reprieve. Come on. Snap to.”She shook him harshly, his head snapping back and forth with the motion as the rest of his body remained like a doll in her control. N-noo.... He simply had no strength to fight back against her, even with the hungry breaths he was taking, it was not enough for him to find his own strength yet as he remained limp in her grasp. He could feel her adjust her grip and his head rolled forward, pale eyes trailing up to her face with blurry unclear vision. But as his consciousness began to return, he could see the agony in her eyes as she glared at him. He couldn't look at her eyes. Wouldn't look at her as he focused instead on the bright pink foam that had flecked her lips and cheeks. She was severely injured, drowning in her own blood, and she still had the strength and ferocity to hold him despite his pitiful weakness. He knew very little about the condition of the human body, but seeing that wretched mess on her face as it dripped down and stained her clothes, he could only assume she would not be long for this world. It was kind of pathetic really. A w-waste of a pretty...face...

”You killed my team. You hurt my friends.” Yes. He had. He had taken out nearly the whole team save for the silver haired acrobat. He had massacred his own kin; acrobats, fliers, dancers, he had struck them down all for the sake of the common goal. To get to Morgan. The Ringmaster had brought this all upon them, so he could not understand how she was not blaming him instead. Morgan was the cruel centerpiece of his massacre. Everything had to happen because of him. Because of the Ringmaster, all of this blood had been spilled. ”Why? Why would you use these gifts for pain and…and murder." Was that not obvious? Gifts, she says...He flinched obviously as she pulled him tighter and for the first time since she had given him the chance to breathe, he could feel the ground beneath his feet once more as he scrambled to find footing. But he did not pull away from her. He remained solidly trapped in this widow's web, her eyes focused entirely on him. His knees shook as she spit red frothy saliva onto the ground. How is being forced to live a life of unending death at the hands of such a cruel man worth these powers? He could slowly feel his strength seeping in between the pain. His throat was bruising and it was agony to draw breath. His face was throbbing in pain, his nose still leaking plentiful amounts of blood onto his lips and into his mouth, staining straight white teeth. Everything was throbbing and even more so was his head. "You….I could have learned from you. We can….we can save you from this…? You’re far more skilled than I’ll ever be….” "Khh! Save me! How rich! His brows pinched together as he wrenched his eyes shut, his lips pulling back in a smirk as he sneered at her, white teeth outlined by bright red. Save him? The mere thought that he could be saved was enough to send another chuckle rolling up his throat. Even though it caused him a horrid amount of pain, the idea was so garishly foolish that it could not be help. "T-there is no...salvation... He managed to choke out, his hands slowly rising to her wrists. He wrapped his cold thin fingers around her hands. "N-not for me...not for you..." He had studied the troupe for a long time, this poor girl included; he knew well enough her hatred for the Ringmaster. It did not take a genius to see the spite and coldness in her when he was around. Morgan had ripped her from the orphanage she adored and from a town she loved. ”I-I…..I don’t want to have to…..” But that was just it. Morgan pushed on others a fate worse than most understood. Even if she lived, this girl would be burdened for years to come with the remnants of this circus. She did not want the responsibility of training new acrobats, and honestly, Cannes could not blame her. Training people to become the picture of elegance and poise was no easy task. He knew it well enough. But that was the lot she had drawn in life, just as it was his to make sure that Morgan paid for ignoring him and every other miserable beaten down soul. He loved the Ringmaster. Adored him. But never would his affections be returned. And that was a fate worse than death. As she shifted her grip, she moved her hand to his jaw and forced him to look at her. As his eyes met with hers, he could feel as the tears in his eyes slowly trickled to a stop. This girl wasn't going to let him go. There would be no saving his pathetic soul. No one was going to come for him this time. ”I can’t let you….” He was going to die...

"We have spilled enough blood tonight. Novalynn, release the boy! Pyrrhus, Taubrynn! Cease this fighting!" Cannes' eyes widened as Morgan's voice powered through the smoke, blood, and pain; bright violet orbs darting in the direction of the Ringmaster and his command before returning to Nova's face. This...this is unreal... He could hardly believe what he had just heard. If there was any single one person on this planet that should desire to see him slaughtered before the masses, it was Morgan. He had every right to want his troupe to decimate them and yet...He wants a ceasefire. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he gazed at the girl in front of him, his eyes wide as he waited for the woman to drop him upon Morgan's command. For every lingering second that she held him, though, he could feel a renewed sense of panic. He knew she despised the Ringmaster; he had studied her just as well as the others. But surely she would not disobey the man! Doing so would result in terrible punishment. He had seen Morgan unhinged and turn a tyrannical hand to those around him. A failed mission. A poor performance. An annoying pest. On more than one occasion he had been the target of the man's wretched anger and hatred; the sensation of Morgan's hand against his face or neck had become commonplace before he had fled from the man. Surely she would not make herself such a target by ignoring him, right? "H-hey...hey...you heard him, right? Y-you heard Morgan...you...y-you wouldn't want t-to make him angry, right?' He patted her wrist, his jaw aching with the effort of talking whilst she held him in a vice grip. His eyebrows peaked high on his forehead as he gazed at her with begging eyes. "You should let me go..." He muttered quietly. "Quickly now...the tent is burning..." His eyes rolled up to view the tent directly above them as angry tongues of flames trickled across the fabric, eagerly consuming the fabric like a hungry beast.


Interacted With↷

Quote:

Novalyn; fighting



Roland

"Shut your filthy mouth you disgusting creature! I do not need your pity! I do not need your sympathy!" Roland screamed, the motion pulling on the loose skin and sending nauseating waves of pain through his face. How dare he talk in such a manner. Roland did not need pity. He had worked for far too long and fought against the damned name that Morgan and his family had left him with, wallowing under the boot of the others success as he struggled to carve a path of fame and glory for himself. But he was always in their shadow. Forced to scrounge the earth for what meager existence he could conjure for his name. He hated it. He wanted to make sure that Morgan would forever feel the sting of contempt that Roland held for him. And he most certainly did not need this rodent to pity him. It was a useless emotion, pity, and one that only the weak had. No. Roland did not need sympathy. He had gone beyond the need for such a crutch. He was beyond pity. Where was this pity when Morgan stole from me, cheated me out of my fame and glory!? Where was the pity when my shoppe was left to rot as he ripped every sliver of success from me? Where was the pity when Master called me a failure? There had been none. He worked hard, studied even harder, and sacrificed everything he had to become the best alchemist in all of Europa. But it was a fool's errand with the von Faustus name constantly casting its wicked shadow over him. Every single time he would be within arm's length of creating a new and wonderful potion that would help the masses, there would be Morgan and his kin to take it away. The wretched man was always a step ahead of him, no matter what corner of the earth his mad desires took him to. For each time he would see Morgan's laughing face as he scoffed at him, pushing his nose to the dirt and mocking him for his insolence; Roland kept track. For every joke and jab, every mocking word, every hearty laughter that pushed him further and further into the pit of madness, Roland would exact his revenge on the man twice over. It mattered naught what the man's assistant rambled on about. His ears and mind were closed. He would not be swayed no matter what was said. No. His anger was far too great. His entire life had been devoted to this moment and he would not let some Romani scum deter him from it now. His shoppe, his lab, his wife, his child; nothing was as important as this moment now. He would not stop until Morgan was begging him for death. He would rend this man and his pathetic existence from the world twice over before he would be freed from the maddening pit of despair. He didn't want to hear anyone apologize for Morgan. The man deserved no sense of reprieve or empathy. The Ringmaster had brought this upon himself and Roland would make sure to remind him over and over again until he greeted him in Hell himself. "You do not want it, but you need it. Don't hate...p-pity..." The words seared through him like a heated dagger and he felt his muscles quake with anger. He did not need pity! The Assistant clutched his chest as his knees gave out and Roland watched as he took his final breath, bright red staining pale lips as chestnut eyes slowly grew pale and ghastly. To watch as this man's life was lifted from his body was truly sweet, but it was not enough. The assistant was a meager taste of the delightful nectar of satisfaction. He truly wanted to see Morgan deteriorate, but this would be a good start.

"PAUL!" The sound of the wretched she-beast's cry was purely euphoric. "Paul, no, please. Please Paul, you mustn't- you cannot do this- you- I-I-!"He had found what made her crumble and he had crushed it. The tide of battle had turned and despite the loss in his own team, he would be the victor. He was going to crush Morgan underfoot and no one would be able to stop him now. He let out a breathy laugh, the sound wet and full of bubbles as blood continued to pool into his mouth and down his face from the impressive wound over his face. For as much pain as it caused, he could only feel it as a dull throb now as the sweet adrenaline fed by the woman's agony made it possible for him to continue on. His eyes swept to Morgan, his gaze falling upon the young woman that held him securely in her arms. Dusty golden eyes moved to him, their bright color once dulled now slowly growing back into their vibrancy as life continued to envelop him. It was a minor setback. The man was still weak. He was by no means surprised by the sudden turn about. Morgan was a wretched creature and was a master of trickery; one would expect him to be able to find an escape goat from his predicament. In the end, however, it would be Roland with the last laugh. He stepped forward, the sound of his boots pressing into the mud created by the assistant's blood squelching loudly as he reached for Morgan's beloved daughter. His fingers wrapped around her forearm and he pulled her violently to her feet as the Ringmaster attempted to sit up. She released a scream and he replied with a scoff. "I am done playing with the lot of you! It is time to end this!" He turned the woman so she faced the Ringmaster, her back pressed against him as he secured his blade in his hand. With his left arm secured around her shoulders, he raised the silver blade to the woman's neck. This was it. Morgan would give into him now or risk losing the thing he cherished most. The girl squirmed pathetically in his arms, small tight sobs escaping from her as she struggled to fight against him. He pulled her back a few steps before his eyes fell upon the Ringmaster as his hands beat against the dirt. That's right, Morgan, feel the frustration and agony of helplessness. Wallow in that pit of agony knowing that you cannot salvage your predicament. Write in the empty sorrow as I tear from you everything you took from me. The Ringmaster was slowly rising to his feet and suddenly, Roland felt a small flicker of panic fill him. He was recovering much too quickly. Something was wrong. "Release my daughter." The words that had trickled out of the Ringmaster's mouth brought with them a sudden new wave of fresh fear. His voice had twisted and warped like two leviathans combating for supremacy; one the voice of Morgan and the other, a voice from something out of the pits of hell itself. He had never heard something so terrifying and horrid before. It was grating and sharp like metal screeching upon glass and yet, it still retained the deep silky voice of the Ringmaster. The alchemist stared on as the man lumbered forward, his visage twisting with a dark and wicked look. Demon...demon... "You are in no position to make demands, Morgan!" He screamed, hardly away of the pain the motion caused. This was the true face of the Ringmaster; a manic, demented, and sinful creature that wanted nothing more than to see the world crumble under the rule of his sullied kin. His breath rattled in his chest nervously, his eyes darting to the ground for the one weapon that would protect him against this creature. The dagger, the dagger, the-! But it was gone. Missing.

"Roland, you have won," the devil hissed, his voice slowly returning to the original tone. But he would not be taken for a fool. This was only part of Morgan's trickery. There was no way the man was going to concede to him! The idea was foolish. Suggesting that Roland had been the victor while Morgan remained standing was nearly as insulting as the man laughing and spitting in his face. His panic elevated and he responded by pulling Ava closer and the blade higher against her throat. All he needed was for Morgan to make one move. One move and he would end this miserable little fight here and now. One. Move. But the Ringmaster appeared to sense this threat as he remained cautiously back, his strangely tinted eyes turning calm and pleading. However, from the corner of his eye, he could see as the she-devil rose to her feet, her dress splattered with crimson the acid burns as she turned her eyes on him. " ...Roland.." No, no, no! I am surrounded... A dark chuckle escaped her lips and in her hands, his eyes fell upon the dagger. He hissed under his breath as he tightened his grip once again. He was being backed into a corner and panic was gaining a firm grip. Crimson eyes swept the tent. Liesel was dead. Cannes was struggling to remain alive. And as a massive inferno began to consume the tent, he could only guess that Rei was still busy. He had no one to command. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the blade dancing precariously at Ava's throat as Morgan took a step towards him, crimson eyes snapping back to him. "We have spilled enough blood tonight. Novalynn, release the boy! Pyrrhus, Taubrynn! Cease this fighting!" He looked from Morgan's face to his teeth, the sharp fangs glimmering in the light of the fire as it became a halo around them. The Ringmaster opened his arms, the bright red scars fresh from the carvings he had commanded earlier. He was truly a demon. There was no way he could possibly be alive now. The holy dagger had meant to prevent him from healing and yet, here he was. Standing and calling to the alchemist. He was beginning to feel lightheaded, his brain throbbing with agony as his vermilion gaze went back to bright cold. Morgan was trying to reason with him. "Roland...let us settle this...just the two of us. Call off your brood as I have." His expression fell as he stared at the man. He was truly trying to reason with him! It was insulting. Truly and horrendously cruel of him. It was laughable really. And Roland responded as such. He took several sharp breaths before he released an airy scoff. "You...you truly think...you can reason with me!? I have survived for over a hundred years on my anger alone! And you think...that I would simply roll over upon your command!? He watched as the Ringmaster's face twitched with annoyance and- was that pity!? The alchemist shook his head, blood splattering Ava's shoulders and hair. "You stole from me. Ruined my life. Every city and village always spoke of your name! Every chance I had to become something, you were there to take it from me! And you would dare to try and reason with me?!" Morgan reached out to him and Roland stepped back, dragging Ava with him. "Roland..." "No! Not this time. You will not steal this from me! I will see you to hell if it is the last thing I do!" There was no going back. This dream of his had turned into a nightmare, the fantasy tainted by the wretched devil that continued to sully this world with his presence. No longer...no more will I allow you to sit comfortably in your own skin...no longer will I let you run freely on this world with no chains to hold you back. Victoria's death was not enough to sate your blood lust so I will give you more to consume! The manic jester's grin returned and for the first time since he had fought with the Ringmaster, pure terror entered those beautiful golden eyes. "I hope you enjoy my gift, Morgan." And with that, he pulled the blade along the woman's throat.


Interacted With↷

Quote:

Morgan
Alaizabel
Ava; killed



Liesel

It had been on the cusp of her sixteenth birthday when her father had taken her to see a play in France. It had been boring at first and she had nearly unwound the entire length of lace around her dress before the damned thing turned interesting. She had never been one to sit patient for very long and to think her father would assume she would sit like a proper lady through such a droll affair had been laughable. The moment that Edmond Dantès had been arrested on the eve of his wedding, the entire play took a dark and more intriguing turn. For the rest of the performance, she sat transfixed on the drama as it unfolded before the audience, the agony of Edmond clear on his face as he was taken away from his beloved and had his entire life turned upside down. The Count of Monte Cristo had captured Liesel's interest the moment the plot began to delve into the world of revenge and madness. It had truly been a splendid thing to watch, the actors portraying the desperation and clever mind of the Count as he carefully orchestrated the revenge of a life he had been forced to forgo. It had been brilliant. Long, but brilliant. Though, as many things had been in her life, the memory was quickly forgotten and only brought back to life the night that Roland had offered her the chance of a lifetime. "Come with me and I will assist your revenge against the mad Ringmaster." Just like poor Edmond, she had been plucked away on the eve of her wedding and forced to watch as the life she had dreamed about was shattered like glass upon marble. She knew nothing of contracts and promises; whatever her parents had sworn to the heavens, she knew not. All she cared about was holding Jean in her arms and building a life together with the rich tailor. And like Edmond, the moment Roland came to her, she was more than happy to oblige by his dark obsession and work with the alchemist in order to achieve one beautiful goal: to destroy Morgan von Faustus. The man was a wretched creature, a leech on the happiness of people as he swept across the continent and forced people to work in his joke of a circus. And like Edmond, she was willing to give everything and work her fingers to the bone in order to make that sinful man feel the same pain he had forced on everyone else. With Cannes, Katarina, Rei and Abagail; each fed by their own wishes and desire to see Morgan squirm under foot, they fled the Cirque with Roland's assistance and disappeared where they would carefully plan and hone their skills in anticipation for the day they would wreak havoc on the man's life. Like the play, waiting and training had been absolutely droll. It took Roland years to come up with a foolproof plan. She could remember the days and nights he spent obsessing over pieces of paper and parchment as he muttered to himself late at night about the powers they would have to overcome. Day after day, night after night, Roland's troops simply had nothing more than to share their stories of hatred and disgust of Morgan, fueling each other to push their bodies to the limit. And like that day, just before her sixteenth birthday, she watched in glee as the plot took a turn when Roland approached them with an order: "We will break him into a million pieces and watch as his troupe falls apart from underneath him. Go. Let us take the first step." And that had been the beginning, the night that they murdered the Damsel.

Watching Morgan deteriorate after that was like drinking the sweetest of nectar. Who knew that all it would take to send the man plummeting into darkness was the death of one or two of his kin. It was pathetic really. But fun. She had brought it upon herself to enjoy her tasks fully this night and though she had accomplished more than her fair share, being able to stand here and watch as Morgan's troupe littered the ground like garbage, bleeding and suffering like insects, was just as pleasurable as watched Edmon accomplish his lengthy task of revenge. Though their acts achieved little subtle nuance, it mattered little in the grand scheme of things. Morgan had been broken and as they picked off the remaining performers, it would only be time before they left this tent with the bleeding man in tow. However, her resolve was tested when Roland cried out, his hands rushing to his face where Liesel watched as a sickly amount of crimson spilled from him. Her eyes dashed to the blonde woman, frowning slightly as she pressed her lips into a thin line. She has to be stopped, Liesel thought to herself as Roland stumbled about in agony. The moment she had shouted her warning, Roland's attention instantly shot to the Ringmaster as he abandoned two vials of his smokescreen potions and took off. The alchemist was heavily injured and bleeding that amount so quickly would surely put him in shock before he would be able to wrap this fight up. She released a bitter sigh. It was no wonder why Katarina despised the man. He was not talented like they were. He was merely the mastermind, not a warrior. "Stupid man," she grumbled as she slowly strode forward. Her injuries were minor, troublesome, but minor enough that she would be able to handle what pathetic mice might come at her. She would have to step in if she wanted to see Roland's plan to completion. One step. Another step. A third. "Liesel~" Her eyes widened as she froze. He's still alive?! How could that be possi- She turned slightly, her gaze shooting over her shoulder where the man was slowly approaching her, the madness practically dripping from him as he locked his eyes on her. "You forgot something, dear...." A mad creature, no longer simple prey, as he had been twisted and transformed into something more. She had been simply toying with the man, knocking him around as one would a annoying pest. But now...those acid-colored eyes were boring into her, pulling from her every shred of courage and strength she had not to let fear overcome her. But it was difficult. She had seen madness in men before. Morgan. Roland. And now, this pitiful man. Shimmering gold, deep blood red, and now absinthe green; these were the colors of men who had simply allowed their souls to be taken by hatred and darkness. How can he possibly be standing? He was walking straight towards her as though he had barely known the concept of pain. But when he raised his knife overhead, she felt her confidence slide back in. Tch, a knife? A child's- Her thought was left suspended in midair as the blade bit deeply into the man's own body. A wretched gasp escaped her as she remained frozen on the spot, her expression falling into one of utter shock and awe. He stabbed himself!?

"Kimber." Her mouth fell open as the knife sank into the soft flesh of his belly again, bright red liquid spilling audibly over the dirt. "Icarus-!" "You're mad!" "August!" With each bellowed name, the knife plunged into the Doctor's own body, carving deep into the skin and muscle as it shredded through his flesh. She could not move. She could not breathe. Her entire body had become chilled to the spot as though someone had turned her body to ice as her mind struggled in vain to comprehend just what was going on. The man had simply gone berserk. "Rylee, Flynn, Rhythm, Aloise!!" With each sound of the knife sinking further into the man, she felt her stomach churn violently. She had seen death and destruction by her own hands that had been more violent. But there was something about the seething darkness in his eyes that made this all seem so...horrid. Lost within the shock and terror of that he was doing, she had not noticed how close he had come to her. "And me. This is... this is for me." Her eyes widened and her pupils shrank in fear as she turned quickly, her heels digging into the dirt as she lunged forward to flee. NO! "Rendez-vous en Enfer, chienne!" His arm wrapped around her waist as he pressed himself against her, her back arching in fear. Blood. So much blood. Suddenly, it was pouring out of her for no reason. Surely, it must have been an illusion. Before her brain could register the pain, she felt as her bruised but healthy skin split apart as though a knife had been dragged across it. Her hands jumped to her belly and her throat, the edges of her flesh pronounced as deep gouges formed without warning. With each surreal addition, layer after layer of impressively deep slashes, her body jerked in response as crimson pooled in the back of her mouth. What is going on!? Her lungs were expanding, attempting to draw in air, only for her mouth to fall agape, a sharp whistling sound coming from her throat which was quickly replaced with the bubbling sound of liquid mixing with air. Her fingernails pulled against the flaps of skin at her throat and only then, it dawned on her. There was a cry behind her and she was shoved forward, her knees collapsing beneath her weight as she landed on her shins, her arms falling to her side as warm copper dripped from the corners of her mouth, her eyes rolling up to the center of the tent. "If all you wanted was a sound ********, all you had to do was ask. This is a little extravagant." And here she had thought, that no matter what sort of crude thing he could say to her, the woman's reply would have always been the same to him. You are not man enough for me. In the end, her greatest folly had been to underestimate him. The pitiful Doctor whom had been so helpless and pathetic had been the one to take down the strongwoman. As her lungs attempted once more to pull in breath, a faint smile crossed her lips. I'm not upset...because in the end...I get to return to you...Jean... A rattling moan escaped her as her body swayed for a moment like a pendulum to a clock before falling forward into the bright red pool that surrounded her.


Interacted With↷

Quote:

Damuron; killed her.



Color Key↷

██ - Cannes General ██ - Cannes Talking ██ - Cannes Thinking
██ - Roland General ██ - Roland Talking ██ - Roland Thinking
██ - Liesel General ██ - Liesel Talking ██ - Liesel Thinking

[secretshades]

◆ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Big Top xxxxxxxx◇ ϻσσɗ:Pain pain painxxxxxxxx◆ cσϻpaɴʏ:Tunnel Vision scoped in on Cannes

Shaking the beast did little to bring him back. Her anger had gotten the best of her, she’d admit. There wasn’t much she could do at this point but calm herself and hope Cannes didn’t die in her hands. She had let go of his windpipe, holding up most of his weight from his shirt against her frail arms. Everything ached and burned around her body. Even the small weight of this fail man caused her bones to rub broken ends, and pressure strained muscles. The gasping sounds was satisfying, in a sick way. Like a fish out of water, his saliva coated lips widened, sucking down oxygen in gulps. The shaking commenced once more, and she winced, feeling blood leaking out between her gritted teeth. He said nothing as the color returned to his face, and his heartbeat accelerated under her hands. The lack of air had made him weak, and he did not fight her as she pulled him closer once more, using his weight against hers to steady himself.


Blood speckled her face from her violent coughing fits. Nova had never learned to swim, having lived in a small cottage in the country, and then in an orphanage, but often she had wondered about drowning. When fish mongers set up stalls at market, they’d talk about losing sailors to the sea, and how dead mens body’s floated swollen and disfigured in the ocean’s toss. This must be what they felt. The inside of her body was noticeably hot, and her breathing bubbled like soap. It was a thick moisture, heavy, and hot in her lungs. The ocean was more unforgiving than her body, though. Cold, and choking, the water would flood into the sailors lungs,, choking the life from them. More and more, her body was becoming fatigued under the labor of her one working lung. The flow of crimson life seems to never stem as she coughed more thick red from between her stained lips. Her clothes were blotched and streaked with wounds and blood from her dripping nose and mouth. She would perish soon. She would not go quietly, or alone into this dark night, though. She’d take this one with her. And eye for an eye. A life for the many lives he had ended.


When his breathing slowed, she took the time to speak to him again. At her words, his lips parted into a bloodied grin. He was sick, certainly. The physical state of the rival acrobat’s body was far from perfect, too. Now that some of the blood has dried, she could see the bend in his nose where it had succumbed to the pressure of her repeated bashings. A swollen crease in his lip was filled with dark blood as well, marking the split where knuckles met flesh. " T-there is no...salvation... N-not for me...not for you..." Nova tried not to let his words turn her stomach. She knew this from the very first moment she laid eyes on Morgan. There was not pleasant way of repaying a debt such as hers. She would serve eternally until her name was cleared or her death caught up with her. His hands were frigid, curling around her wrists and fingers like death himself trying to pull her grip away from his face. The heat from her injured hands was cooled considerably by his icy touch, and for a split second, she felt herself relax one arm, just slightly. She released her iron grip on his jaw, staring deeply into his violet irises, searching for any sign of humanity.


Morgan’s call caught her attention, but she didn’t even manage so much as to turn her head before her own shook in disapproval. She couldn’t release him now. This was priceless quarry, worth of the hunt and worthy of the kill. There was nothing she wanted more than to choke an apology from his thin, fragile neck, to have him froth and writhe once more under the pressures of her strong hands. ”I cannot. I will not. She was resolved now to see this through, still staring and his hands wrapped around her own. She had released his jaw, but her firm grip on his shirt remained, her weakened body doing all it could not to keel over on top of him. ”I’ve no will to follow orders. How could he possibly want you to live through this? After all you’ve done?” August’s body still swung from the rafters, and Aloise was crushed against the ground still, unmoving and cold. ”You owe me a debt of life now. But one will not suffice, you see. We’ll burn together in this tent, you and I. “ Cracked edges of a manic smile peeled apart her face as her limbs began to tremble. ”I have never sworn my allegiance to Morgan or his travelling band, but I will die a slave to this circque long before I see anyone else murdered by your hand.” Morgan’s anger didn’t scare her. In fact, what worried her more was that he was willing to let go of the fact that now, his prized Tromperie Fliers had been reduced to one sniveling, small, maladjusted woman who lived to make him miserable. Nova was all they had left. Their only hope for vengeance, and rest in whatever life lay beyond.

Nova tore her gaze from Cannes’ face to look over her shoulder, catching few words of the argument in the center of the tent. Before too many words could be exchanged, though, blood was dripping from Ava’s neck, a thin line cut across her. Nova felt her stomach curl in on itself, her head tipping forward once more to spill more blood from her lips. The world spun as she tried to anchor herself with the body of the small man before her, holding fast and plating her weak feet in the dirt. Ava…the only person here who took me in and helped me up. Compassionate enough to apologize for the way her father approached me.... Ava had defended her against Morgan’s tirades more than once. She had raised a hand to her father in Nova’s defense, and spoken out against him. She made sure I was looked after for the first few weeks, and that I never spent time alone… Ava was the closest thing to a friend she had here. She had welcomed her, and introduced her to everyone. They were around the same age, and she had a heart of gold…and now…..


Nova’s vice grip returned as she swallowed a hard lump in her throat, looking back to Cannes. She opened her mouth once more, quietly singing a sea shanty to try and ease him back into a cooperative state. They would burn here together. They would all pay for what they had done tonight, she’d make sure of it.




" Aiolios"






◇ σσc

[Promise of Bliss]

xxx┣▇▇▇═─ Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr
xBruised and broke her, he struggled closer.
tab tab tab tab tab tab tab xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTHEN HE STOLE HER
xViolet wrists and then her ankles. I will hear their voices
xI'M A GLASS CHILD. x I'M A GLASS CHILD. xI'M A GLASS CHILD. x I'M A GLASS CHILD.x I'M A GLASS CHILD.
x▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇x▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇x▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇


It was honestly incredible to him that he was even maintaining consciousness. Then again, even as he sat there, Damuron could feel at least trace amounts of his energy returning to him. He was no where near top form, nor would he be within the foreseeable future of the evening, but at the very least he would not lack the strength to move for too much longer. Well, not physically anyway. Mentally and emotionally, though, there was nothing for him. He sat on his knees on the ground, his head bowed into his chest as burning tears overflowed, carving small rivers into the dirt that had caked on his cheeks. They had lost so many... and how many more were slated to die? He wanted to look up, to take a perfunctory headcount and attempt to strategize how to defend the very few of his loved ones that remained, but he couldn't muster the courage. Yes, that was it. He was afraid. Seeing all those he cared for so tremendously die so systematically, one after another, would have been taxing on even the most fortified of souls, the Alaizabel's and Morgan's of the world. But Damuron... he was weak. And he knew it too. So much carnage, the devil's sick of sin splayed out among the blood-soaked dirt, between the two rivaling cirques, puppeteered to nauseating perfection as they played out a competition long since established. While it had been the enemy to set the stage, it was Morgan who had cast the roles, allowed for the stage to be filled with those marked by the blind script. It had been the Tromperie to provide the roles of the fools, and it would be the Tromperie who continued to suffer for their foolishness. Damuron had half a mind to believe that if he even understood what he was fighting for, if the plight outside of 'Morgan is in trouble' had been explained to him, then he would have been more able and willing to carry on from here. But right now, he simply felt lost, vacant in purpose and mind. He had betrayed himself, he had killed a woman, he had failed his friends, his lover. Not to mention that he had completely failed to offer any sort of assistance in the actual rescue. No, Damuron had contributed to nothing more than the despairing mess around them, and the blood-soaked shirt that clung to his skin was only further proof of his misgivings. It... should have been me... Damuron was fully in command of himself, but simultaneously lacked any control over his body. It felt as it he had wholly gone numb, as though the shock from earlier had subsided just long enough and was now resurgent with a vengeance. His skin crawled, flashes of cold flickering across them as he trembled. All of this time... all of those people... why...?

"E-e-excuse me!" Damuron's back straightened as though he had been tugged upward by a string. The voice was light, clearly less insidious than neigh any he had heard that evening, but he had simply not been expecting any voice, far less one that sounded almost... shy? He turned his absinthe gaze to the speaker as she darted her eyes betwixt the hem of her dress, the floor, and the exit. She was a petite thing, no taller than Nova he imagined, with soft cerulean eyes, short silver hair, and a certain caginess about her that made Damuron instantly pity her. And she did seem a pitiful sort. She was just at his side, shifting anxiously as she spoke. "Aah. Uhm. Do you.. Do you need help?" There wasn't an ounce of dirt on her. Her white dress was pristine, her skin unmarred by the surrounding battle. As she extended a placid hand toward him, he almost felt that it would be a shame to sully her skin with the slickened, bloody touch that he would offer. But she was being so kind, offering to help him stand. It almost felt too kind to pass up; she was a ray of gentility amid a sea of agony and grief. He gave a small sniffle, feeling the trickle of tears still streaming down his cheeks. A rough, guttural and mirthless laugh escaped him like a sputter from a broken engine, and a mirthless smile came to his lips. "Y-yes." he said softly, turning his broken smile to the girl. "I absolutely do." Carefully, the doctor slipped the knife in his hand back into his boot, taking explicit time not to nick his leg as it slid with a sharp slink back into its sheath. Damuron's hand quaked as he moved to wipe it on his pant leg, attempting to clean off some of the lingering blood from his hand before extending it out to accept hers. It was almost smaller than he had thought, his tanned flesh making the placid tone of hers all the more intriguing, ominous even. He wanted to only use a bit of her strength to stand, to majorly pull himself up, but he seemed to be a bit more woozy than he had anticipated. He tugged on her arm, then stumbled a bit, heavily landing one hand on her shoulder to steady himself. "Oh, s-sorry, um.. miss." He panted, attempting to center himself. The ground was trying its best to greet him, gravity exerting as much effort as it could on his frame, but he would not have it. He still... well, he wasn't sure what he needed to do, but this girl was certainly garnering at least some of his attention.

He leaned away from her, looking down to meet her gaze. Taubryn, he recalled, always had an affinity for referring to Alaizabel as 'Mouse', but Damuron had never seen it. This woman, however... her meek demeanor, her shifty feet, even the color of her hair lent itself much more properly to the title. "Thank you." he said, genuine gratitude evident in his voice. She was clearly not of their troupe so... "B-but.. who are you? And why are you helping me?" Weren't they on warring sides? Had she not just seen him mercilessly cut down her comrade? His eyes were finally starting to dry, it appeared, and it was with stark clarity that he looked now past the petite framed lady and onto the scene toward the center of the tent. It should have been elating to see Morgan on his feet- for all of his cuts and tatters, he seemed to be in moderately decent condition; as a doctor, Damuron was less than convinced by that- he had not seen him up close, but the sheer amount of blood had been telling enough that the Ringmaster should not have been on his feet. He would have to get him to the infirmary quickly upon their return to the train (then again, who didn't that apply to? The doctor would be busy...). But his expression was almost more concerning than anything else: his brows, pinched in righteous fury, but his eyes, shining like brilliant coins, told a different story, one of chilled terror. "Release my daughter," And with that, Damuron knew why. The shout was more powerful than the doctor had expected, but following the Ringmaster's gaze, he couldn't say that it was unwarranted. There, the other ringmaster stood, a stomach-churning slice down his face and a sword tilted precariously at the throat of Morgan's daughter, at Ava. She was horrified, and rightfully so as the man held her roughly in place. "No- Ava-!" He took a half step, teetering before he found himself relying again on the shoulder of the smaller woman beside him. He gasped for breath- damn it, if moving was so much effort, then what could he do? He needed to intervene- to do something! His green glass eyes lifted again in time to see Alaizabel- Yes! Alaizabel! She can do something!- step up to Morgan's elbow. Her ocher eyes were of a different quality than Morgan's. There was no fear present, not even in the deepest depths of her soul. It seemed that there was nothing left at all, in fact, but a barely tempered frigid inferno within her. She held her dagger-- wait, that was not her dagger, had she found another?-- at the ready; her gaze, though, was doubly as sharp, prepared to rend mountains if they were to intervene in her plans. She muttered something to the Ringmaster, something that Damuron wished he could hear, but woefully did not. Strike quickly, Alaiza! he pleaded. Strike quickly, strike true! She did not move, though. Poised, coiled like an alerted snake at his side, Alaizabel held her position as Morgan continued. "Roland, you have won," He was attempting to placate the man. What was he thinking!? Damuron took a cursory glance at last around. Bodies littered the ground, pairs and trios locked in combat still despite the altercation of superiors in the midst of the tent, and even Maiya was collapsed a small distance away, clutching to a nasty gouge in her shoulder. That wasn't something he could fix right now. He needed an out, someone to transfer that to in order to salvage her shoulder. Taking a chance at resetting it would be dangerous, especially for someone who threw knives--! Maiya, please... Please be safe. The brilliant, bubbly, vivacious woman was a light to the cirque- for her to be so injured, so bloodstained, and for him to not be able to help--

"We have spilled enough blood tonight. Novalynn, release the boy. Pyrrhus, Taubryn! Cease this fighting!"

A cease fire? Of the bargaining chips he had imagined Morgan going to, a complete call-off seemed like one of the less reliable options. Roland, for his position of supposed power at present, seemed much like a cornered animal- and a weak one at that. He was bloodied, damaged, frightened, and yet he still did not look the be the type to accept peace treaties, much less from the person that he had set so obviously out to kill. If anything, the man's grip on Ava tightened and he manically darted his eyes around the tent. He was losing. And even Damuron could see it. With the rejuvenation of their own Ringmaster, the tide of the whole battle seemed to be turning- Liesel was slain, Cannes was occupied by a supremely badass looking Nova (Damuron cheered internally for her, though she looked about as stable as Maiya looked or he felt; another person for the infirmary), the firebreather was-- catching the tent. As Pyrrhus's arms lifted, he mumbled something beneath his breath, then collapsed to his knees before the first consumed him. "Pyrrhus!" But the inferno only grew, captivating not only the firebreather and the area around him, but the ceiling of the tent, forming into what seemed to be an infernal hellhound. But where was Pyrrhus?

"Roland... let us settle this... just the two of us. Call off your brood as I have."

Frantically, Damuron looked between Morgan and the blazing conflagration. "Hate to tell you that some of 'em didn't wanna be called off..." he muttered. Just the two of them? What was he thinking?! Morgan couldn't stand up in combat int he state he was in... though it was sound to say that Roland likely could not either. Either way, the tent was going up faster than a dry field struck with lightning, and Damuron hardly wanted them to be within the blaze when this place went down. He pulled himself upright, steadying his feet before looking over to the white-haired woman at his side. "You don't have to be so afraid of me," he assured, side-stepping so that he stood between her and the exit of the tent. He held out his hand. "C'mon- let's get out of here before the whole place goes up in flames!" At least Damuron could save someone, anyone amid this chaos. Even if he wasn't entirely secured on her allegiance, she had offered him help where her 'friends' would have cut him down. She was untarnished by battle, clearly uninvolved in the majority of the bloodshed. That alone meant that she was worthy of salvation, right? The other members of the Cirque were all capable- if nothing else, Alaizabel could certainly pop them all to safety with a whim, right? Morgan would save Ava, Taubryn could take care of Pyrrhus (wherever he was... if he was... now wasn't the time) and Nova, who were near to him, Maiya could still stand and surely would evacuate, and Alaizabel was capable of leaving whenever she desired. This was what he needed to do. "You... you truly think... you can reason with me!?" Just as Damuron had suspected, the vermillion-eyed man was beyond reckoning. He had made his choice, and with it, the doctor assumed that he would be felled quickly. The beast of a man prattled on with all of the impetulence and dignity of an obstinate child who'd lost their favorite plaything. Damuron's gaze flitted between the girl and Ava, feeling the sweat begin to trickle down his brow as the heat started to mount. They needed to hurry- the blaze was licking eagerly at the kindling of the tent. "Trust me? Please!" His eyes peered past her once more, and his stomach dropped, terror-stricken. That jackal's grin, the mad fury twinkling in the man's blood-stained eyes.

"I hope you enjoy my gift, Morgan."

"Ava!"

He turned his gaze away pointedly as he knife began to move, feeling his chest lurch at what he knew was going to happen. Ava... no... no, not--! She had just wanted her father... she had been innocent in all of this! Why... why her... why any of them?! A tremendous moaning of infrastructure nabbed his attention, and his head turned reflexively to the ceiling just in time to catch one of the supports careening toward the ground, a veritable flaming guillotine as it swung toward him and the girl. "Look out!" Without thinking, Damuron wrapped his arms around the lithe woman, using all of his available energy to tug her backward with him and away from the inferno. He kicked off just in time to evade the flames, falling to the ground with her still in his grasp. He released her gingerly, setting her beside him as he pushed off the ground to sit. He looked around. Everything beyond was hidden now, marred from his view by the licking flames and mounting pillars of smoke. Damuron gave a harsh cough, bringing his sleeve up to block his mouth as he looked back sidelong to the girl. "C-c'mon! We should get out of here!"


Cynotastic



✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Big Top ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻσσɗ: Desperate, panicked ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: {Abagail} ⋯

[Promise of Bliss]

·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´

Were it not for the fact that the sniveling coward of a man had immediately taken a hostage, Alaizabel would have been at Roland's throat in an instant with her new weapon. As it was, though, Alaizabel managed no more than a few short steps forward before he took the Lion Tamer hastily into his arms, reaching around to place the sword he held precariously in front of her throat. Alaizabel stopped mid-stride, the knife at the ready; she daren't move closer though. She would not be responsible for Ava's death-- no, Ava would not die. They couldn't let that happen. Instead, she trained her furious glare upon Roland, her lips pulling back into an uncharacteristic snarl. Was there no unbearable low to which the loathsome man would not stoop? She felt her fists, balled around a dagger as one was, tremble as she stared at Roland with enough intensity to set him ablaze. Intently as she was staring, it was only distractedly that she even noticed the Ringmaster finally returning to his feet, his guttural thundering only momentarily drawing her eyes away. "Release my daughter," As Morgan climbed to his feet, Alaizabel tilted up her chin pridefully. Shaking as he was, her ringmaster was returning to the fray. And with him, with that horrific timbre that she had heard only once before, he would reign hellfire down upon her enemies and smite them into nothing. And she knew this to be true. There was no doubt in her mind. It was because of his pride, the legacy of autonomy that Alaizabel did not move to assist him in standing. He would not have allowed her to help under normal circumstances; why would he yield to her efforts now? No, he had something to prove by mustering the strength to stand on his own, and the unabashed horror that splayed across Roland's face at the sight was like ambrosia to her. She looked sidelong to Morgan, drinking him in. Beaten, battered beyond anything that would reasonably allow him the ability to stand, and yet there he was. The bloodstains marring him somehow did not phase Alaizabel as they had before. She had become desensitized to the gore and macabre of the surroundings; what she did find distasteful was his lack of poise, though it seemed a bit much to expect of literally any of them at present. She doubted that even she could have mustered any semblance of beau monde decorum through the carnage and burns she had endured. Still, it was like seeing someone from behind a two way mirror, observing someone who shouldn't have been observed- Morgan was not meant to be seen like this, and it took every ounce of focus she had not to be actively bothered by the sight of such a strong man still reduced to a heaving and frazzled sack of nerves. It was to her advantage that fury was an excellent focusing agent, and even more to her advantage that Roland's shrill scream cut through her attention. "You are in no position to make demands, Morgan!" Alaizabel scowled, her shoulders tensing as though she were preparing to strike the very air in front of her down. He was accurate, and Morgan was not in such a position, but then again, neither was Roland. Why now...? Why had her powers chosen now to flee her? If only she could have flitted behind him, Roland would have been made short work of with her newest weapon. It would be a simple task, and none-too-taxing at that rate. So then why instead was she trapped? Never before had she felt so wholly betrayed by her own nature and power. It had always been there, always reliable since she was just a child... so why had it fled her now? She had thought it was to do with Morgan's condition, if only temporarily, before she had set her sights on Roland. But he seemed... well, too daft and flighty to upkeep such barriers around her. Someone else was at work... if she could just find out who...

"Roland, you have won," The words met Alaizabel with the same burning sensation as though she had been doused again in acid. He was obviously placating the man, attempting to win the life of his daughter back, and the Viscountess could not fault him for such a venture. But still, the sentiment was nauseating. He had won? As though the lives of her comrades, as though Paul was just a trophy sacrifice for some grand game that the two of them were engaged in. There was no winning in this. There was accumulation and suffering, and there was a woeful and unavoidable unrest that would remain in their wake for time immeasurable. But there was certainly no victory in such carnage. Regardless of her belief over the phrasing, Alaizabel bit her tongue. This was not the time or place to undermine Morgan; she had never done it before, and she would not start now. Despite all of his damage, it seemed that the illustrious Ringmaster was at last resurging to assume command, and Alaizabel would give it gladly. She had not wanted a legion, or to administer orders; for the most part, she had avoided that. And it was a lucky thing she had. If this death parade had been her doing... Alaizabel shuddered to think. But no, this was not solely her responsibility. Each of them, alive or not, had walked into this tent with one foot in the grave. It was only a matter of which of them had clambered out, kicking and screaming... And who fell with a knife to the back... She stepped pointedly, threateningly forward, taking a place directly at the Ringmaster's elbow. A knife to the back... her fist tightened around the blade, the blood still slick across the metal surface from where it had pierced and slain... She growled, a low throaty sound escaping her. "We have spilled enough blood tonight." Alaizabel's ocher eyes flicked to him momentarily, her mouth dropping open as though she wanted to contest. Despite the impressive slash wound that Roland had incurred, he was not quite bloodied enough for her liking. No, if it were Alaizabel's decision, she would have strung him from the back of the train, allowing his body to be dragged along the tracks; slowly it would crawl at first, but as it gained speed the wooden braces would tear him to shreds, would see his blood splayed out over the tracks for miles and miles until he was nothing but a stump of meat attached to a rope. That would have sufficed for the rest of the night's bloodshed. Still, that was hardly a succinct matter to discuss, and Morgan seemed quite assured in his statement. She snapped her jaw shut, instead redoubling her glower on the man with the hostage. Disgusting vermin... No, even half a face was too generous for him to maintain. "Novalynn, release the boy! Pyrrhus, Taubryn! Cease this fighting!" Morgan's eyes slid across the entire congregation, his snarl set with fury only rivaled by her own. Why would they stop fighting? What would possibly warrant such a departure from the established atmosphere? His words? Morgan had lost control of his own people, and it didn't take Pyrrhus beginning to spitefully conjure a fireball above him nor Novalynn continuing to sing softly to her victim for Alaizabel to see that. They were renegade. If Roland were not her sole fixation at present, Alaizabel doubted that even she would have bent to his command... then again, if there was one thing Alaizabel was rigid in, it was hierarchy... it was perhaps just fortunate that she did not have to make such a decision. As long as Roland held fast to Ava... he was safe from her at least... but for better or worse, the second the Lion Tamer was released, Alaizabel would spring. If she was to be Morgan's fangs, she would have to be just as a snake- coiled and prepared to strike the very second opportunity allowed. And she would be certain to make that happen.

"Roland...let us settle this...just the two of us. Call off your brood as I have." What a foolishly naive notion. Alaizabel did not take to thinking so illy of Morgan's proceedings on a regular basis, but there was no way that he had honestly conjured such a plan and believed it to be executable. Roland, loathed as she was to admit it, held a position of power here. With Ava in his grasp, and the obvious knowledge of who she was and her importance, there was nothing that Morgan could use as leverage to make such an all-or-nothing barter worthwhile. Yet still he would try. Be it through sanctimonious fool-heartedness or altruistic idiocy, Morgan was willing to use his life as a gambling chip in order to save Ava's. Alaizabel wanted to respect that choice. Still, she knew that there was no way Roland could take the bate. No matter how crazed with power one could get, a tiny sliver of self preservation could always remain, which was just enough to solidly crush any hope of diplomacy that Morgan had vied for. Distantly, she heard the crackle of flames, and was minutely aware of the growing heat around her. Had Pyrrhus caught something with his flames? She did not have time to check- she needed to be prepared.

As though to prove her suspicions, Roland gave a harsh scoff of a laugh, seemingly as impressed at his flagrant foolery as she had been. "You... you truly think... you can reason with me!?" "Apparently," she muttered to herself, her auric gaze impatiently searching the small area around Roland. A weak point, somewhere that she could slip in and take him out before he had the chance to strike back, or worse strike down Ava. But there was nothing, especially not with the human barricade of Morgan between her and him. Alaizabel had dabbled a bit in knife throwing once upon a time, but it had been a deplorable mistake. For all of her grace and natural talent with a blade, it seemed that any sort of control or mastery she boasted ended the moment that the blade lost physical contact with her. Pitiable as it was, she could not trust her aim with a projectile, much less one of the length that she held now. If only Ava were a few inches shorter, or Roland a few inches taller, or better still if Roland had not been such an overwhelming coward and had finished their fight with some degree of pride instead of abandoning combat with such deplorable means and then stooping to such spineless tactics as hostaging. It was to his advantage that Morgan stood as a blockade between her knife and his throat, or she would have made certain to make Roland particularly short-lived and significantly less problematic. "I have survived for over a hundred years on my anger alone! And you think... that I would simply roll over upon your command!?" The rival ringmaster leveled his glare at Morgan before shaking his head. Alaizabel took an unbecoming sense of glee at the sight of his skin hanging loosely from his face, slapping listlessly against the exposed sinews beneath. The blood didn't even bother her; the fact that he was so damaged was a delight. She wanted him to hurt, and that surely did. "You stole from me. Ruined my life. Every city and village always spoke of your name! Every chance I had to become something, you were there to take it from me! And you would dare to try and reason with me?!" As he spoke, Alaizabel's eyes widened a fraction as she registered what he was saying. That was it. The dispute's original was at least made clear to her. No, she could not hold her tongue any longer. Alaizabel shouted, "Is that what this is about?!" Turning her shoulders to face forward and finally abandoning her fencing stance, Alaizabel's fury shown in true form as she fixed her fury on Roland. "Some sort of century old popularity contest!?" Her blood was boiling, and it had nothing to do with the mounting temperature in the tent. Her whole body trembled with rage, her cheeks flushing to a brilliant scarlet. Her voice quivered with emotion, pitched shrilly in a mixture between pure wrath and disbelief. "You are telling me... all of this carnage.. this death... was because people do not like you enough?! What sort of petulant child are you!?" Was this how he intended to remedy it was a more pressing question in her mind. If he wanted affiliation, if he wanted recognition and allegiance... why did he kill for it!?

Morgan reached out, as though he were going to coddle the whelp who had decided to relish in his own obscurity for 'over a hundred years' rather than simply move on to make a name for himself. It was detestable, but not more so than the atrocities he had perpetuated on this day. He responded as Alaizabel would have expected, heaving Ava back with him as he pulled away from them. "No! Not this time. You will not steal this from me! I will see you to hell if it is the last thing I do!" With any help from me, the last thing you do will scream for mercy. I assure you that. She flipped the dagger in her grasp, steeling herself. Now. It would be now. His guard was lowered, he was desperate. If he was going to slip up and give her an opening it would be right as the maniacal grin faded onto his lips. Beside her, Morgan physically tensed, but she did not look to see his expression. Her gut knew what was coming, knew there was nothing to stop it, but damn her if she was wrong that the distraction would not create an ample opening for her to strike. His voice escaped in not more than a hiss, and yet Alaizabel would attest that his statement was the only sound, audible well above the shouting and fighting, above the crackle of flames and the distant song, above even the sound of her own blood thrumming in her ears as she prepared. "I hope you enjoy my gift, Morgan." There was nothing but that vision, the sight of a rapier- a puncturing weapon, not meant for the task it had been assigned- tugging gracelessly across Ava's throat. It was sickening to see, especially in such an artless killing and in such a vetted comrade. Ava and Alaizabel were never terribly close, but still, the vision arrested the Viscountess momentarily. Even prepared for it, she was in shock; She had known Ava all of her time in the Cirque. She had watched her grow, watched her train with the lions, watched her flit around the cirque with a convivial grin and a sassy attitude that won the hearts of everyone while simultaneously sitting the girl in a camp of her own beside the eminent Ringmaster. But in this moment, the realization struck- prepared for the fatal maneuver or otherwise, Ava was dying, and Alaizabel could do nothing to stop it. She could do nothing to save the little girl that had darted up to her, asking to play dolls as her exhausted and incredibly disheveled father made strange, clearly not princess voices in an attempt to placate her. She could do nothing to save the girl who's chair was so sacred in the Ringmaster's office that literally no one else was allowed to sit within it.

No, that wasn't strictly true. She could kill Roland. He shoved the Lion Tamer away from him, taking a jarring step backward. "Not this time, Roland!" She cried, and Alaizabel kicked off the dirt with every intention of finishing what she had started. He needed to get what he deserved. He had taken too many precious things from her, from those she cared about. He needed to be made to suffer a fate with impossibly less kindness than death would afford him. She wanted him to rot slowly. She wanted to sit him hovering over a pike and watch as he was slowly, painstakingly impaled the way that Vladmir had done. She wanted to see him bleed, allow him to heal just enough, and then see that he bled again from a new slew of wounds. She wanted him to experience pain insurmountable. More than anything, she wanted Roland to suffer as she would, and now, as Morgan would. He would not get away. If there was a god, Alaizabel had a few grievances to air. One of those was the he was clearly batting for the wrong team in this current venture. As she was just closing the gap between her and her prey, a captivating moaning sound came from above. She stopped, her eyes darting up just in time to catch the flaming beam as it descended from the top of the tent. With a grunt, she spun around, back the way she had come and out of the line of fire. It crashed to the ground, sparks flying in her vision. She lifted her hands to protect her eyes, but the heat wafting from the conflagration sent agonizing waves through her open burns from before. She took a few more steps back, hissing in agony. "Damn-!" He was getting away, she didn't have time for this, he was getting away--!

The beam settled at last, though the inferno blazed brilliantly from its fuel source. Still, there was nothing to be done for it. The quickest way from point A to point B was a straight line, and if she could hop the beam, she could reach Roland with hopefully enough speed that he could not escape the tent. She took a deep, steadying breath. Now- it had to be--! Taking off in a sprint, Alaizabel headed for the flames, preparing to leap. It was almost more painful than the acid burns when Morgan's elbow connected soundly with her solar plexus, the Ringmaster having put out his arm just in time to catch her like a clothesline as she moved to pass him. With a wretched cough, Alaizabel crumpled to the ground beside him, heaving in an attempt to recover from the blow that had sent her reeling. The coughs were labored, scratching at her already damaged throat. Barely able to gather the air for it, Alaizabel wheezed, "Th-that b*****d is escaping... and you choose now to turn on- on a comrade?!" With the intensity of the sun, she wheeled her piercing ochroid glare on Morgan. With those eyes, she could pierce armor, let alone the flesh of one crumpled Ringmaster. "Rather than knocking me down, I would expect for you to stand! If you are so inclined to do harm, assist me in ending on life that need not burden our oxygen supply longer!" Her fury was giving way to desperation, and she plead, "Please, Morgan! We may yet catch him!"




Aiolios

Quote:

Quote:

Quote:



·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·.¸¸.·´
✿ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Big Top xxxxxxxx❀ ϻσσɗ: Desperate, agonized xxxxxxxx✿ ωɪтʜ: Morgan xxxxxxxx❀ σσc: KILL ROLAND 2K15

[sunriseparilla]

TA U B R Y N ↺ M E L E A C H L A I N N

"The Illusionist"

✱ ✱ xThe city looks so pretty, do you wanna burn it with me?
xxx▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
Let's watch this city burn

xxxFrom the skylines on top of the world
'Til there's nothing left of her

░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░

And the other fire breather didn’t disappoint. As the flames continued to climb higher up the man’s arm, the sinking feeling in his stomach continued to grow. Could they do this? It was one thing to mess with the man’s head, he was good with messing with people’s heads, but physically? He was barely even above average. Pyrrhus was different, he knew how to fight with his gift/curse. He would probably only slow him down if this continued. He glanced briefly at him from the corner of his eye. He wanted to help him somehow. But at the rate he was going, he wasn’t going to be able to do much of anything. He was still rattled by Rhythm’s fall and his worry over Ava was starting to nudge itself further and further into the front of his mind. At best, he was going to be a distraction again. Well, since he was pretty much grasping at straws, he supposed that was better than nothing. He swore softly as he tried to conjure up another larger illusion. Still nothing. He had figured it would have faded after a few minutes, but he was apparently wrong. So this…whatever this was, was a long term thing. For as long as the person doing so willed it. A little like his own illusions but up to a point. Damn. And he didn’t even know who was causing it. It was a little (incredibly) late but he now severely regretted not pinpointing the source of his problems sooner as the fire shifted and took shape, forming a large dragon.

Sweat started to drip down his face at the heat and he wiped some away with a sleeve. Though he couldn’t help but laugh as the other man continued on to shout threats about ‘how serious he was’. He fought to bite back a chuckle, ultimately failed and said, “I agree with him. It certainly doesn’t take much to make a fool out of you. You do such a fine job of that yourself.” He looked to Pyrrhus and caught the grin he shot at him. Taubryn snorted softly and smiled back, even as the bad feeling in his chest grew into a gaping hole. “It’s always hot where you’re concerned. Why would it be any different now?” Oh he heard perfectly clear what he wanted him to do, but he refused to budge. He would not leave him so long as he had a choice. He had already left one dear friend behind, he was not going to leave another. He shook his head, adamant on staying and trying to help even if it wasn’t much. He couldn’t just leave him there. Alone. His gaze drifted down to his hands and his brows furrowed in confusion, “Pyr…” he said carefully, “just what are you planning to do?”

His eyes suddenly widened in surprise at the sudden burst of flames and he looked up to meet his friend’s eyes. Was he planning to take that flame dragon on by himself? With nothing but the flames in his hands and the absolute grace of the gods? He supposed he really shouldn’t have been talking, as he did the same thing not more than a few minutes ago, but this was Pyrr. This was someone who had a better head on his shoulders. He opened his mouth to tell him what a completely ridiculous idea that was but then shut it again just as quickly. ‘Trust me’ he said, ‘trust me’ his eyes mirrored. Trust me…He searched his face for any sign of a doubt, any sort of hesitance but there was none. Probably because there was none to be found. Taubryn closed his own in response. Dear, brave, stupid Pyrrhus. What could he say to that? He didn’t want to leave him to fight alone, but neither could he deny that request. Not when he looked at him like that. And it didn’t even seem to matter what he could have or would have said, as Pyrrhus practically bathed himself in his fire.

Taubryn took a few steps back to avoid being accidentally burned as a wall came up and blocked him from his friend. Whatever he was planning, it was big, much more grand than what he was originally thinking. He practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of Morgan’s voice. Cease fighting? He looked back at their Ringmaster and a wild burst of happiness darted through him. He was alive. A little more demonic looking for wear but still alive and still breathing. He was right. He had been right all along. He knew that Morgan was too strong to give in to something so silly. He was their Ringmaster for a reason. It was over. He turned back to the inferno in front of him, “Pyr!” he yelled over the flames, “Did you hear him? We can stop! We can leave!” Don’t do anything foolish, he pleaded silently. Don’t be like Damuron and risk your life for nothing. Don’t hurt yourself any further. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t…don’t leave me…His pleas were ultimately unheard as the fire completely consumed him. “Pyrrhus!” he cried to deaf ears, his voice drowned out by the roar of the blaze. He took even more steps back, covering his face with his arm to try to lessen the heat.

Through the fire and crackling embers, he saw it. It was magnificent, a hound both terrifying and beautiful in its fire. If he didn’t know that Pyrrhus was inside it, he would have admired it so much more, but the fact that it practically was him made it hurt. Try as he might, he couldn’t see him any more. Not one hint of the man whom he had grown quite an attachment to. Taubryn let out a sound, soft but filled with despair, and turned away, the sight too much. He knew, deep inside, that it would be the last time he would see Pyrrhus. He took a shaky breath and looked around the tent. He would gather them all up as best he could and leave, just as Pyr had told him. He would not let his efforts go to waste. That was the very least he could do. But suddenly, at the sight of Ava, caught so helpless in that monster’s grasp, he could swear his heart stopped. No. No! Not her. Anyone but her. He ran. Though right at that moment, a falling beam crashed into his path. He swore violently and tried to go around but in the end he was too late anyway. His feet faltered and he stopped, just a few feet away from the group. The world slowed to a halt as he watched her body fall, blood dripping from her neck.

Ava…Ava…he wanted to scream. He wanted to yell and cry and tear that man’s eyes from their sockets. He wanted him to know just what he had taken from him. But all he could do, was stand there in silence. All he could do was watch. And he didn’t know which was worse. His mind reeled, refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing, but at the same time it was breaking. His mind. His heart. The walls he had built up over the years were crumbling, letting the world know exactly what sort of agony he was in. He never knew just how much he could hurt. Not since her death. He felt like the breath was taken from him and nothing would bring it back again. Anything and everything else he could have handled but this…this was something he wasn’t sure he could be strong enough to. Ava was stronger than he was and she was able to pull him together when he needed her the last time. She was one of the very few constants that he could rely on and knew would always be by his side. Look where his idiotic faith got him. Look where his trust in others got him. Now who would be there to pick up the pieces? Who would want to?

"Ava look!", he said, waving a little to catch her attention. She looked up from where she sat in front of the mirror, trying to figure out how to make the tophat sit on top of her head without falling over her eyes. He hrumped, drawing a laugh from the child. "I'm Morgan watch me dance." She giggled at his antics and he couldn’t help but smile as well in response. He’d never admit that he loved hearing her laugh now. What was once an annoying sound had become so dear and precious. They were in Morgan's office. After raiding his closet, they were currently playing dressup. It was a much more successful venture on his part though, seeing as how many of the clothes were much, much too big for her. "Brynn! He doesn't dance like that! He tries to make me dance proper like this!" The child spun with her arms held out as she made her way through the steps of a very bad waltz. A short laugh escaped him and he waved his hand, creating a pink unicorn to dance with her. The hat slid down over her eyes again while she laughed and laughed.

We can help, Brynn, but not if you just hide here...

I'm not going to let you keep hiding.

She couldn’t be gone. He shut his eyes and opened them again, wanting once again for this to be another cruel nightmare, much like many others he had had before, but there she still laid. Blood pooling around her. She couldn’t be gone. He…he l-l-lo—he lo…He loved her. Ah. That was it. That emotion in his chest that he refused to acknowledge. That he tried to hard to avoid having. Attachments, fondness, care. They were all words that should have meant nothing to him. He knew everything was going to end eventually. He knew from the moment he had met that woman. Nothing good could ever last no matter how much he wished it. But then this cirque happened and a little bright light came bouncing into his life. He loved her; nothing could happen to her. They were supposed to be together for centuries. It was an unspoken promise but it was a promise nonetheless. He could feel his legs starting to grow weak and he almost fell to his knees, but the sudden roar made him snap back to reality. He blinked and came back to himself.

Pyrrhus. That was right. He had a job to do. As much as he hated leaving his sister behind, there was nothing he could do for her. A final look and a final apology. He silently thanked Pyr for continuing to be there to pull him back, however unintentionally, even while he fought his own battles. Continuing his quick look around, he saw Alaiza with Morgan and Maiya. Good. She would be far safer with those two than with him, so she was taken care of. Damuron was…with a woman? Where had she come from? He could have sworn that she wasn’t there before when he was fighting with that other one. Whatever. He had no time to debate the appearances of some random girl. Finally that left…Nova. She was with one of the enemies, her hands wrapped securely around him. From the looks of it, she wasn’t going to last more than a few more seconds. Quickly, he rushed over to her, careful to avoid any of the flames and parts of the big top that had fallen. He could hear her singing softly. Thankfully it wasn’t directed at him and it was soft enough so that he could focus on the noise of the tent instead of being pulled into her song.

As gently, but with as much urgency as he could, he touched her arm, “Nova,” he said, trying to reach her through words alone, “Come on, little songbird. Let him go.” Taubryn moved his hand down to cover hers still gripping the man’s shirt, “You fought so well already. There isn’t much time left, we must leave.” She was so weak already, but it still took him a bit to pry her fingers off of the man. She really had a good hold on him. When she faltered and fell backwards against him, he caught her and wrapped secure arms around her frame. Pity and sadness settled in his chest at the sight of her, bloodied and so beaten up. It reminded him of just how much they all endured so far. He adjusted her so that he could safely slide his arms under her knees and lift her up. His other arm he used as a support against her back. With all the bruises and cuts she sustained, he tried to be as gentle as he could in his movements. He straightened up and looked around for an opening.



x ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░

Let's watch this city burn the world
Let's watch this city burn the world
Let's watch this city burn the WORLD




〈 location 〉 ㄨbig topxxx 〈 company 〉 ㄨEveryonexxx 〈 ooc 〉 ㄨ done x_x let me know if i need to change anything




Cynotastic


secretshades