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Anxious Loiterer

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                                                          Kalthazar was known for his steady hands. In every practical he had ever had, every dissection, every circumstance imaginable, Kal's hands were as steady as could be. They never wavered, whether it be from fear, apprehension, worry, or some combination. But as his hand stretched to the door, his fingers quivered just so as it reached for the knob. His excitement was hardly containable- no, it was uncontainable. He was smiling ear to ear, he knew; luckily, any of his friends (well, classmates more like, but Kat was there so in his mind they were all comrades just the same) would chalk his smile to his general dopy enthusiasm. He knew he was a naturally excitable person, as did anyone who had so much as spoken to him, so of course they would know he was hardly ever seen without a smile on his face. But this time was a bit different. His hand secured on the cold metal of the knob, and he flicked his wrist just enough to hear the satisfying click of the tumbler releasing. This was The Magician's House! He had spent entirely too much time with his back against the gate outside, prattling on and on about his life. All the glass and wood of this building knew more about his hopes, dreams, aspirations than even Kat If the outside of the house could converse... well, then he would assuredly not want to be there. He had visited the house on the hill commonly, having grown up in Nocturne. With no one else to really confide in, he had always found solace unburdening his soul on the off chance that the divine that supposedly dwelled within. This fact was, of course, not something he commonly shared. The town was known for it's fable; the illustrious Magician was intertwined deeply with its origins. However, that did not mean nearly so many people believed in his existence as you would think. For instance... He peered over his shoulder, shooting his companions his grin. Kalthazar knew that he was a in a group of nay-sayers, surrounded by a flock of nonbelievers. While it was not life or death that he keep his reverence to himself, he preferred it that way for the moment. His family did not even know he harbored such faith in the unprovable being, and they had been with him the majority of his life. That being, he would not just divulge such personal information to a group of people he had remarkably less affinity toward.

                                                          Navaro pushed the door with his shoulder. It came open easily, and the hinges emitted an agitating high-pitched squeal in protest. He took no time in making his way into the mansion. It felt like he was walking on air, his excitement making him practically weightless. The floor, of course, disagreed; it groaned angrily beneath his feet. His brown eyes raked over the scene. His dancing nerves quieted little by little as he peered around. He had been worried about this; somewhere in the back of his mind, Navaro had been nervous that seeing the inside of the house would be dangerously akin to a child seeing a beloved mascot popping off the costume head, revealing the sweaty middle-aged disappointment within. For being an immeasurably old house, it was actually in relatively good condition. The floor was only mildly warped, evening out considerably down the hallway that extended into the shadows past the stairs. Everything was shrouded in a thick layer of darkness, in fact. The only light that reached the wooden interior at present was the natural light that clawed in through the open door. In the dimness, Kal could see a set of stairs off to his right; the mounted five steps to a landing, then jutted off to the side and up the wall to the second floor. The top of the stairs puzzled him; the banister did not end at the end of the landing, instead crossing the entrance to the second floor. But that made no sense. Why...? Maybe it's on a hinge? Like a permanent baby gate? Navaro furrowed his brow, contemplating that. The house was a relic, and he somehow doubted that ancient baby gates were really all that likely. He shrugged it off, walking a little further into the entry way to allow passage of those behind him. He scanned the scene, a bit disheartened. There was not much worth a narrative that he could see. It seemed like just what it looked like on the outside: dull, abandoned, and despairingly lacking in any sort of supernatural influence. He rolled his lip in his teeth, pondering. This couldn't be everything. He had put too much time, too much faith into this building for it to just be over at simple appearances. No, this wasn't over. The sheer unabashed excitement he'd felt approaching the house was replaced with an unbridled curiosity, a powerful itch that could only be sated with further exploration.

                                                          Kalthazar put his finger through the dark tie around his neck, loosening it a tick as he turned to face the others. "So the entry hall leaves a bit to be desired," he announced, followed by a short chuckle. He reached his arms behind his head, stretching. "But there's gotta be something around here, right? C'mon, who's with me?" His eyes were as bright as his smile, and he searched each of them expectantly. His eyes stopped on Kat. Now there was a sucker. Kat was his best friend, and arguably lived with him with how often they saw each other. If there was anyone he could convince to pal around with him, it was her. He pulled his brows up, shooting her his best puppy-eyes. Please please please please please please please????

                                                        『 Company: WORDS cyno Location: WORDS 』
                                                        cynosural 『 OoC: WORDS 』

Anxious Loiterer

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                                                                  Maiya hummed softly in thought, her crimson eyes drifting toward the ceiling."Aloise and Damuron is fairly one-sided, isn't it? This was definitely not one-sided. He most certainly enjoyed this. Also I'm pretty sure he doesn't want everyone to know of his evening, so try not to mention anything to him about it. " The knife-thrower chuckled lightly continuing to work with her coffee. She seemed so tickled by the whole thing, as Alaizabel could imagine she should be. Maiya had been with the Cirque for longer than most could rightly recall, and substantially longer than her debt had ever required. To that end, it made her wonder just how long she had been picking away at the Ringmaster, chiseling down his tall stone walls in an attempt to find the soft, delicate intimacy that lay within. Alaizabel wondered if she would be able to keep at something for so long. She was a dedicated person, mind you, and typically had no problems maintaining motivation once she had set her sights on accomplishing a goal but... She somehow doubted she would have the same perseverance with a person. No, she would likely be more like Morgan in this situation; her barriers stretched into the sky endlessly, and she could not see herself taking them down for anyone in the foreseeable future. Her mind flitted momentarily back to the previous night, to Paul with his arms around her, to the farewell promise to see her tomorrow--

                                                                  Oh dear...

                                                                  The escape artist smiled, stifling a small laugh at the woman's enthusiasm. How could Maiya be so damned happy about deepening her relationship. In her (albeit exceptionally limited) experience, such encounters proved to make her tense, flighty and nervous despite the unabashed glee she had felt at the time. Perhaps people simply experienced this vexatious state differently. Still, it was nearly impossible for her to comprehend someone being excited to cross the romantic nail bed that lingered between two people... She brought herself back to the present, shooting Maiya a quick wink. "Not to worry, dear. Your secret is safe with me."

                                                                  Maiya began sifting through the cabinets with her powers, announcing, "I think I'll try. Between the two of us, I have actually practiced making food. I just usually make dinner of lunch foods, since I usually don't eat breakfast. Today is simply an exception." Alaizabel wouldn't stop her. The woman still had never managed to master the kitchen, having spent a majority of her life being catered to instead of instructed in culinary arts, and this was one area that she was not too proud to ask for assistance. Some day she would like to learn to cook. There was precious little that Alaizabel was not willing to learn, but she did maintain priorities; at present, cooking was relatively low on her list.

                                                                  As Alaizabel greeted Morgan, Maiya turned from her work. As she cracked the eggs for her dish, she spoke. "Ooh, I really like that color on you." She placed a lid over her pan, turning and busying herself with her coffee as Alaizabel greeted the Ringmaster. The escape artist looked between Maiya and Morgan now as she spoke. He looked down at his outfit, a bit taken aback at the woman's comment. She smiled. So, the illustrious Ringmaster had difficulty accepting compliments as well. Then again, she somehow doubted that he assembled the outfit fishing for compliments, or her approval for that matter. Alaizabel did have to admit, the color was fetching on the man, but moreover it was significantly less intimidating than his typical all-black garb. However, a simple change in attire alone was not going to raise his affinity with the fellow troupe members; it could make them approaching him more amiably, though, and he could use all of the help he could get when facing off with them. Maiya nodded as Alaizabel finished speaking. "If you still want to make toast, you can. It just doesn't sound like it's very filling." She looked to Alaizabel, then back to the Ringmaster fixedly. The escape artist dropped her smile, quirking a brow. It is more filling than the apple I was going to feed you, but power to you. she mused, deadpan as Maiya crossed to the Ringmaster. " I hope you like omelettes." She arrived at his side; Alaizabel watched as she gave the man a blatant once-over, stifling a small chuckle. Subtly did not seem like something Maiya ever prioritized, and it was never so evident as it was at this moment. "I think you should wear that color more often, it is very complimenting. However, as much as I like that ribbon, I think you might want one that matches a bit better." Maiya was touching him now, and Alaizabel looked away. She was working on gathering her necessary ingredients (which were thankfully countable on one hand). She crossed to the icebox, fishing out a small stick of butter. She placed it beside her other collected goods. Toast was about as straightforward as you could get, and whether Maiya wanted it or not, she had made up her mind. Today was a day for toast.

                                                                  "Do you think so? I suppose I was not vigilant enough to notice. I am sure Isabella would agree with you. At this point I am far more concerned with a meal than my appearance." She huffed a small laugh as the man replied to Maiya. She peeked over her shoulder just in time to see him run his hand along his hair self-consciously. That was something she had never believed she have lived to see; then again, she had never anticipated she would see him so close to another human body, much less in public. But there was something about Maiya that seemed to brighten him. Morgan had always been a sort of sink-hole for light, in her opinion; he was not a dark person, or a foreboding presence in her life. He simply seemed to absorb any light around him, while reflecting none of his own. But with Maiya there, chiding him for his lacking fashion sense, he seemed to give off a dim glow, even without any hint of outward glee. She allowed a small smile to grow across her lips as she looked back to her business. There was something about their dialogue that felt private. She had no reason to attempt to interject while they exchanged pleasantries. Still, she could not stop herself from peeking over her shoulder and observing. Maiya had, after all, divulged interesting information about their relationship to her. And observing them now, she nearly believed it. In a way, they were... cute? She supposed cute could be the word. They were together in their own world, just prattling on about clothing faux pas and omelettes. It was almost a peek into a slice of life novel; after this, the two would head their separate ways, him to his job, her to care for the children, and then they would come back together in the night and banter some more about the odds and ends of their days. It was all so quaint to think about. At the same time, it was plain weird. The Cirque members were anything but normal, and imagining them in such a way was more disconcerting than anything. Still, it was a fun little exercise, especially with people like Maiya and Morgan. There was something about their closeness, though, that tickled her mind-- Paull.

                                                                  She sighed. The man was like a plague on her consciousness. Was there anything that would not send her mind reeling with thoughts of him? Alaizabel did not regret the night. That was not the problem. It was just... She thought of how Maiya and Morgan stood behind her. They were close, so close, and completely calm within each other's grasps. She somehow did not even think she could face the man as she was now. She was too nervous! What for, she had no idea. It just seemed that she should not have let the night end. If they had just stayed together, she would never have had the opportunity to mull over their encounter, never had the chance to fret over her next course of action, his expectations of her, her complete and utter terror of the idea of pursuing much of anything in this vein. It had been such a wonderful night, one that still set her heart aflutter to recollect, but... But what now? The worst part was she was not even certain what to do about figuring it out. Contemplating it alone made it seem worse and never yielded any results. But who was she supposed to confide in? Surely not August, whom she had shut down so recently about the subject. Pyrrhus? No, the man had no interest in her love life, and their relationship was much different than that of a gossiper-gossipy. Taubryn would simply laugh, maybe even make matters worse (though she would never have confided in him anyway). Icarus? While that felt safe, she could not imagine unloading anything on him after the events of the previous day. It had to be someone with more experience, more acclimation to the romantic world, and someone who did not seem completely and utterly destroyed by Kimber's passing...

                                                                  Alaizabel focused back on the task at hand, placing her skillet on the stovetop and beginning to warm it. Whoever she decided to talk to, now was not the time to consider it. She needed focus, lest she fail in her task. From behind her, she heard Morgan comment, "I am sure both of your skills are adequate enough to create any form of food. I feel as though I have not eaten in months..." The thought of her being good at cooking was laughable. Given enough liberties in the kitchen, Alaizabel was certain to discover the art of lighting water on fire, or perhaps a way to spontaneously set the pan itself alight. But there was truth to the idea that Morgan had not been eating lately. It was not striking, but he was thinner, which was worrisome to say the least. It had been why she was initially surprised to see him- lately, he had only been taking meals in his own train car, and once he had infuriated the two women most likely to assist him, she imagined his supply line had run rather thin. The man was in desperate need of a good meal. She peered over to Maiya's preparations, then back to hers. Toast was a good companion to omelettes, right? She smiled. Here was hoping, she supposed. She allowed the buttered bread to sit on the heat for a short time, then deftly flicked the pan the way she had see Gustavo do it so long ago. It was surprising how easy it had been to emulate. Perhaps skipping stones does translate over to more useful tasks, she mused, smiling with a bit of a blush as the toast landed exactly where it needed to. "Not to worry, Maiya, the toast will be fine...." she muttered, concentrating wholly on her engagement.


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                                                                ✿ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Kitchenxxxxxxxx❀ ϻσσɗ: Strangely happy, but dreading cooking...xxxxxxxx✿ ωɪтʜ:Maiya & Morganxxxxxxxx❀ σσc:Let me know if I need to change anything!

Anxious Loiterer

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                cynosuralcataclysm11▸LOCATION: Words cy||no ▸MOOD: Words



                                                      Presea watched as the girl's face morphed the way she imagined ancient gods in mythology did. Her anger was like grease fire, flaring up immediately and without restraint. "... and for you to speak of respect. HAH! How ironic." she snarled, venom dripping from her every word. To the Shadow Esper, it seemed a bit overzealous. She quirked a brow, unmoved by her dominance attempt. If Alencia was a roaring tide, then Presea was the serene night sky that watched, untouched and untouchable, from above. She tilted her head a bit, a devilish smirk passing her lips. "I don't imagine you're the sort of person to have been burdened with much companionship in their life, are you? I am not certain what you deign respect, but you clearly have none." The outburst was more entertaining than anything. Presea had honestly been just asserting her opinion; it was unbelievable that someone was more openly hostile than she knew herself to be (an now she could see why the others teased her so much- this was hysterical). If Alencia could not stand to hear the truth from someone she knew, what hope did the poor insignificant "dead weights" behind her have? It was certainly a shock to see the girl start beating her chest so quickly. She was an alpha personality with a sub-beta skill set; it was a shame really. In a lot of ways, Presea could see herself getting along with Alencia. They could both be brash, crude, outspoken, and tactless; but if the Water Esper was so threatened by her for simply disagreeing? Well, it would seem Presea needed to seek new allies. Better still, how about no allies...

                                                      Incredibly, Alencia was still rambling, looking for the world to be so incredibly self gratified that Presea was surprised she did not have a mirror in her hand, lest she be out of sight of herself and miss the praise she was certain to administer to her reflection. Narcissus seemed to have nothing on her... "As for the weakest mantle I am certain I could manage to fight for two people. After all, I beat your stupid band of bandits in our youth. And, I am certain you were the weakest of the group then. So I don't see why you feel you have any reason to chirp about how I want to carry the weight of our adventuring squadron." She paused now, her eyes cutting over to meet Presea's.

                                                      She gave a soft huff of a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "I'm delighted at what you consider winning if losing is sitting in the dirt, sobbing at my feet begging for our mercy. Perhaps we can overthrow a small monarchy on our journey.... fight for two people my left toe. And I seem to remember not needing to lift a finger to fight you myself, since the children handled it effortlessly- perhaps it is tactical leadership that you consider weakness. No wonder you are so intimidated by this man. He clearly has you at a disadvantage as far as intelligence is concerned." It was only fair that the woman dole out the exact same confidence and the other dished out. She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders with a sigh. "Also, by attacking my credentials, you do realize you are making my argument for me? It's sad, really- I expected more of you." It was remarkable- So easy just to get under her skin-! The idea that Alencia could fight for two was laughable at best. The girl had less battle proficiency than even the youngest of her Shadows; little Iliana would have been able to usurp Alencia's personally ordained throne with ease. She felt no need to defend her comrades- they were more than capable of demonstrating their strength in their own way, and did not need her help to spread the word of their power. The group was not there to have amiable comments about town. They were a group of thieves; people belittled them daily. It would take more than that to offend her or her lineage. Of course she was loathed to compliment the blue-blood (as if the aristocrat needed his ego stroked anymore), but means to an end and all that. At this point, it was anything she could do to knock the girl's ego down just enough for it to be bearable to those around her. Presea couldn't be bothered- if Alencia wanted to whip it out and measure it right here, right now, for everyone to see, Presea was game. It had been too long since she had been in a proper fight, and this could be fun... not to mention easy. Something had changed within her earlier, her vision still not adjusting back entirely to normal from how it had been dimmed previously. Every shadow near her was accented, the blackness swirling deeper than she had ever known before. If there was a time to trust in this... this gift or whatever, this would be it. Part of her dared Alencia to come at her. The prospect even had her blood roaring through her veins in anticipation.

                                                      Instead, she just went on. Presea gave a short pout, puffing the silken strands of hair from her gaze. "Unless you are more concerned with your own fighting abilities. Don't feel confident enough to protect someone else?"

                                                      This was starting to be less fun. If the girl could not even come up with better insults, this would stop being worth her time. Clearly she was confident enough to protect someone else- she was keeping Alencia from torturing Pretty Boy, after all, wasn't she? She had made a point to specifically ignore the woman when she spoke his name- no, it was his job to answer her. If he had wanted a mouthpiece, lord knew he could have paid for one and brought it along to serve, but Alencia was no such tool. She had issued a question, and if the man even had a single vertebrae, he would respond in his due time. Presea could certainly understand that not everyone warmed up to others immediately- hell, if everyone had not apparently overheard her name during the ceremony, it was very likely she would have just kept it to herself. She could not force him to be sociable, nor would she waste her time and effort. It was up to him. Regardless, the Shadow Esper rolled her eyes, replying, "Clearly I'm confident enough that I don't feel the need to boast at the top of my voice. Those who have nothing to say speak the loudest, little girl." Alencia was pathetic. Was this a hissy fit? That was apparently something very common to people who came from within town... Presea wouldn't lie- she had certainly thrown a tantrum in her time. But they were adults for crying out loud. If people could not converse without agonizing each other, without overblowing every. single. word., then how were they ever going to hope to get through the upcoming trials?

                                                      In the meantime, though, Presea was content to walk hurriedly along. She had always been smaller than most and had adjusted her gait to match those who were around her and, obviously, taller. With such short legs, she had learned to step quickly, taking two or three steps to her old mentor's one (Ravenor was a tall man, towering more than a foot over her). As such, her younger friends bantered about her amazoness stride any time they hustled. Alencia, however, seemed almost inspired, walking purposefully to catch up. The Shadow Esper resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. It was a walk, not a race, and there was nothing to prove in moving faster than her. But the Water Esper seemed to insist. Her fury was continuing to mount (though Presea supposed she had done nothing to alleviate any pressure on that front), culminating into a blaze behind her eyes. "You are annoying. Mind your own business." she spat.

                                                      She quirked a brow, no longer interested in pursuing the line of dialogue any further. "I believe you made it my business when you directed your previous inquiry at me. Or are is your memory failing you as well as your sense?" she chided, shaking her head and turning back to the Animal Esper. Talk about a serious superiority complex, She mused, noticing the girl still insisted on walking just a touch ahead of her. Was that really doing something to make her feel better? More power to her, she supposed. Far be it from Presea to invalidate what made another person happy. Or inferiority, depending on how you dice it... Rather than dwell upon the girl, she turned her attention back to her arguable captive. She still had a grip on his wrist, dedicated to keeping his right hand safe from the villainy of his nails. She looked up at him, a passive smile on her face. Apparently, smiles were inviting. She had actually required lessons on how to not appear distant and intimidating (Yandra was her primary teacher, and had gotten satisfying results, even if the smile nearly never reached her eyes). Despite her lack of understanding to the custom, she did have to agree that people tended to behave more amiable toward her if she prefaced her dialogue with a small, discreet upturn of her lips. To be honest, it always felt more like fishing hooks at the corners of her mouth, drawing them up with painful stabs at her cheeks. She didn't like smiling when she didn't want to. It felt... duplicitous, in a way. And it was apparently... embarrassing? She was searching his expression as he turned to her, his cheeks faintly tinged red. He looked frantic, nervous, and not in a way that she felt was inspired by her presence more than the commotion around him. As Presea spoke to the noble, Alencia's face contorted viciously, the snarl not contained to just her face, but her entire posture. "I told you before, his name is Alvain. Now leave u--"

                                                      Her attention was diverted by the Light Esper, who had also come to help. That was refreshing. Seemed Alencia was not only on her final nerve, but was eking at the others as well. Alvain jerked in her grasp- preying on her potential distraction from the mounting tension between Water and Light- but she wouldn't let him scratch. No matter how much he itched, it couldn't be healthy. No, nothing short of fire ants would see her relinquish her grip now (and to be honest, if the boy were covered in fire ants, Presea would leave his a** to get eaten. Ants were ungodly, outsider creatures that deserved to be washed clean from the earth in a world-encompassing, four-inch flood). She instead tightened her grip, darting her eyes between the two arguing. She caught a moment of silence between them, taking her chance to retort. "Now it is you who need mind their own business. I did not ask you- let him speak! His voice must be more pleasant than yours..." she remarked.

                                                      With that said, she would have been perfectly content to leave the argument at that. She had no business interjecting between two others' argument where she had honestly not been invited. In a flurry of frustration, Alencia shoved her bag obstinately at Alvain. Presea did not resist as he wrenched his arm away from her grasp, diving for the bag before sinking to his knees in the dirt. The way he clutched it, you would have almost imagined in carried something far more valuable than the Water Esper's dirty laundry and menial supplies. Presea pitied the boy. He was being assaulted on all sides, and she had done literally nothing but exacerbate the situation. Lord knew she would hate to be the center of attention like this. Presea darted her eyes around, seeking a safe haven from the commotion. Spotting an escape route, she almost extended him an offer of reprieve, but he then shouted, "Everyone just... shut up! Shut up!"

                                                      Presea reached out to the frantic boy, but pulled a hard stop before making contact. Now, she stood up straight, glowering down at him from where she stood (she idly mused how odd it was to see She wanted to be surprised by the outburst. She wanted to believe this was totally out of character for such a meek, nervous little man. But it made sense. Temper tantrums were common among the vetted aristocracy, and rather than stand up for himself and give that Alencia what-for, he instead rejected all help. Learn when to accept help, champ. she mused, pulling away from him. Without another word to him, she turned, pushing past where the rest stood and continuing down the path. It wasn't so hard to lead- it was a single road after all. She walked at a brisk but reasonable pace, staring cooly over the horizon.

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                                                      Presea had to admit, the clearing had been chosen aptly. The trees provided adequate cover in case of attack, the area was a large enough expanse of flat land to house each of the eight of them comfortably for the night, and the canopy of the forestry was just open enough that she would be able to count stars as she drifted off. She smiled, her eyes upturned to the rapidly darkening sky. The sky was a magnificent canvas of the gods, the gradient running from a warm dusty rose down through the rainbow, settling at a deep indigo nearest to the distant, unseeable arch at the end of the earth. It was one of her favorite times of day- the time when all light left the world, and everything in all directions was at the mercy of who and what lurked beyond the curtain of black that hung across their vision. As she looked around, though, she was met with a jarring realization: she comprehended the world was darkening around her, that the shadows of night were crawling across the land to where she stood. But around her, nothing seemed to lose it's clarity. Colors faded marginally, as they tended to do when light departed, but edges remained sharp, movement succinct and easily noticed in her eyes. So this was part of her abilities? She grinned, watching the Espers fan out across the campgrounds with vested interest. Not that was an advantage she would be downright grateful for.

                                                      The moment was short lived. Presea was uncertain where Alencia had gotten the notion that she was taking pointe, but the Shadow Esper did not appreciate being bossed around, much less by an irresponsible entitled Napoleon such as her. She lords over the group as if we were vassals to her land. She ought to learn her place. It is with a heavy heart that someone claims responsibility over such a group, one where someone is more than likely to lose their life... She downcast her gaze. Her fists curled aggressively, and she felt her nails like claws biting down on the soft flesh of her palms. Being a leader was more than glory and power. It was accepting responsibility for others' failings. It was taking every member of the faction into account when making decisions, when considering trials and goals. It was feeling each of their hearts beating in the palm of your hand, knowing that if even one should fail that it will stain your hand as if you had felled them yourself. Her crystalline eyes shot up, her gaze daggers on the Water Esper (who's back was thankfully to her), before shooting them back down. That petulant brat couldn't babysit, much less lead future guardians. And why did they need a leader? Working as a team, a democracy, seemed to be much more beneficial to their purposes. Not that anyone in this group would listen to her where politics were concerned...

                                                      With a small flip of her cloak's end, she turned the opposite direction of where Alencia was, deciding on a place to make camp for herself. She was not interested in another pointless, taxing debate over the obvious. What she wanted now was rest; the day had stretched from eternity to infinity in the past few hours of silent walking, and she wanted nothing more than to be left to herself for a while, do a bit of relaxing stargazing, and perhaps find a small furry creature with whom she could relieve her stress by means of capturing and taming. Chipmunks seemed to enjoy her presence, so she tended to have the most luck with them. To her dismay, though, it did not seem like the area was terribly overrun with fauna. She slipped her bag off her shoulder, rifling through it with practiced finesse and fishing out her blanket. It was a ragged old thing, littered with patches of mismatched cloth. The fabric was clearly well loved and old, but resilient despite it's age. She snapped the fabric, laying it carefully over the ground and plopping down on top of it. Presea took her hood in her hands, flicking her wrists and bringing it up over her head. Then, she laid back, bending her knees and looking up to the sky. The darkness was coming quicker than she expected- soon, she could count off a few of her favorite constellations and then she could--

                                                      "What in the world did I do with them?"

                                                      Be interrupted by a selfish, entitled brat who forgot his teddy at home. She glanced to Alvain (she knew his name, but he still needed to tell her for her to be satisfied), her eyes narrowed and irate. For a short moment, she contemplated asking him what he was missing instead of just watching him pat himself all over like a positive fool. She had to admit, his confusion was bordering entertainment value, though. She gave a short huff through her nose. Nah, he's got it, she insisted, still sour from his earlier spurning of her help. If he needs help, he'll ask for it. It was then that she noticed the scratching. It was irrational, unreasonable at best, how provoked she felt at the sight. If he somehow felt that he didn't need his own flesh, who was she to stop him from ridding himself of it? Yet, she could not stop herself. She sat up quickly, digging into the bottom of her bag and withdrawing a small box. She opened it, retrieving a decently sized black raspberry. If there was one thing she was good at, it was throwing. Years of practice with chakras had improved her aim tremendously, so hitting his hand was no difficult task. She pulled her arm to the side, then whipped the berry in the same way she would her weapon. She smiled in satisfaction as it sailed through the air, making a soft but poignant smack sound as it slapped his exposed hand. He was too much like Monalise to be left to his own devices. There was no word to describe how much Presea adored Monalise, but the girl was, quite plainly, a wreck. She could not manage herself- she was timid, flighty, dreadful with social engagements. While Alvain did not fit the mold to quite the extent her dear friend did, he was still close enough (from what she had seen) to tug her heartstrings, forcing her to act reluctantly in an attempt to watch out for his best interest. Please give me a reason, she thought, her gaze not leaving him. Give me a reason not to like you. I should have so many by now... But she couldn't find them. It was irritating. Of all the people in the group, there was no way she was exactly jumping at the idea of befriending the aristocrat first... he embodied everything she hated, after all, simply by existing. Of course, he had yet to really demonstrate that side of himself... but she knew he would. Still, for now, he was a carbon copy of Monalise, and that meant he had the potential to come into his own, and if she could help, she felt it her duty to assist (even if he did turn into a self-righteous, arrogant, entitled, close-minded, bigoted p***k at the smell of money- out here, she had the advantage, after all). All he needed was a push from someone who wasn't going to undermine any attempt with sarcasm and demeaning jabs. She was not the most apt candidate, per say, but beggars can't be choosers, she figured. Presea stared him down, attempting as best as she could to look convivial and helpful rather than intimidating and distant (she was partly successful, her small grin lending to her intention), and she lifted her hands. She faced the back of one hand to him, pointing to it with the other, and shook her head slightly. Her shoulders shook with a silent laugh. Maybe she was a pest, but he would appreciate being without the infection when his life was in danger.

                                    ▸COMPANY: Wordscy||no ▸OOC: Words

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                                                                  Alaizabel had sincerely not been expecting Maiya to hear her as she cheered herself on. But Maiya strolled up behind her confidently, chiming, "I am sure it will be great." She started, her arm twitching a bit as Maiya turned her attention to the stove. Well that had been awkward. She had not intended for Maiya to hear what she'd said; she had merely been musing to herself. Should she apologize? She didn't feel that she had done anything meriting an apology, but she had not been minding her tone. Perhaps Maiya had taken offense? She hadn't meant to be snarky or brazen- she had simply been excited about the prospect of toast. But it could have sounded sarcastic, she supposed... Her rumination ended when Maiya lifted the lid from her pan, a cloud of ashen smoke rising to envelope the telekinetic. Okay, Alaizabel at least hadn't screwed up that much. The woman was hacking, turning her head to cough away from the dark plume. With some pleasure, Alaizabel shook her skillet, flipping her toast from off the metal and onto a nearby waiting plate. The surface was golden, appropriately toasted on each side. If nothing else, she was proud of herself that she could outcook one person on the train. Beside her Maiya dislodged the mess from the pan, flipping it onto it's less blackened side and dousing it in a generous layer of cheese. Aesthetically, it now looked much more appetizing, but unfortunately Alaizabel knew the truth. She somehow doubted that the woman would offer it to Morgan; it seemed that Maiya had a meal at the very least...

                                                                  Or so she thought. Maiya turned sheepishly to Alaizabel, extending the charcoal. Her crimson eyes did not meet the escape artists, instead looking to the ceiling in thought (probably trying to determine where she went wrong- Alaizabel did not have the brazenness to alert her that her affinity for Morgan had been her downfall; she'd spent too much time publicly ogling him to get back to her cooking). "This one is a little burnt... Do you want it Alaiza? If you don't, I'll eat it..." Alaizabel looked, deadpan, between the atrocious excuse for a meal and Maiya. Of course she didn't. Eating that much charcoal could not be healthy... But she was a slave to her propriety, and so she smiled, nodding. She took the plate from the other woman, placing it on the counter beside her toast plate. In any case, she had been thoughtful enough to offer her anything, and that warranted some form of reciprocative kindness. "I'd rather give him something not quite so... crunchy looking... Don't want to come across as too poor of a cook..." She snickered lightly, looking to Maiya sidelong as she rifled through the drawer beside the stovetop for utensils. "Yes, that would not seem very feminine of you. I wish that I could offer some pointers, but I alas am lost to cooking... except, it seems, for bread... Would either of you care for some toast?" She did not wait for an answer. After fishing out the appropriate fork and knife for her meal, she plopped two more slices of bread onto her skillet, watching them carefully. If they did not want it, someone coming in here would be pleased to have it, after all. Besides, she was having fun exploring her more domestic side. This was the most cooking she had ever been able to do, and while it was menial at best she still took pride. It was fun, strangely. Perhaps she could find some new cook books in town if she visited...? Oh goodness, just what I need- a new hobby. she pondered, shaking her head slightly. What is next, needle point and crochet...?

                                                                  "I am working on yours right now! I promise, it will be one of the best breakfasts you've had in a long time!" she called. If there was one thing to be admired about her, it was that she seemed entirely undaunted by her previous failed venture. In any case, 'best breakfast in a long time' did not seem like a particularly high bar to surpass with Morgan at present. It had been a while since he had eaten properly- an apple probably would have been better than the nothing he had been subsisting off of previously. Still, it was endearing to see Maiya strive for such achievements as far as he was concerned. She was surprised she hadn't seen it before- the glimmer in Maiya's deep red eyes when she looked at him, the glow of her countenance when her eyes met his. Alaizabel felt her lips twitch a bit with a small grin; she chewed her bottom lip, removing the now finished toast from the skillet and placing it on a separate plate which she then placed on the counter behind her. It was charming to see them. Maybe there was hope for the circus yet. She peered across the room, eyeing Morgan carefully. He seemed lost in thought, completely in his own little bubble as he observed them; it made her feel almost naked under his scrutinious eyes, and she hastily turned back to her severely burned breakfast, taking it into her hands. She expected Morgan to make a remark about the failed first attempt, to chide Maiya a bit in his typical, superior manner. Morgan, after all, felt like the sort of man who would have enough sense to work his way around a kitchen.... right? But instead...

                                                                  "Perhaps... we should have meals together after performances... everyone." Alaizabel straightened, taken aback. The man paused his thought, waiting for... what, validation? Did he actually prize their input that much? No, likely he was waiting for Maiya to say something, not her. But when she turned, he was not only looking at his squeeze, but also at her as well. What a curious sentiment to express... she considered, especially coming from him. Perhaps he really was dedicated to reconciling with the troupe- that was favorable. He could have just as easily attempted to push the blame for his behavior off on circumstances or another individual rather than owning his share of the blame. But it seemed he was dedicated to righting his own wrongs. Still, with the troupe dinners? Of all things, that was his attempt- reinstalling a long-forgotten tradition? It was such an odd thing, a practice that they had long since abandoned once things caught up with them. It seemed so menial, but... Perhaps it would do them all some good? Perhaps the lot of them sitting around a table sharing a meal, a joke, a story, could bring them all a greater sense of solidarity than they had as of late. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded. Her ocher eyes looking to Morgan, warmth in them, as she answered, "Yes, I quite like that idea. Demonstrate some solidarity among the ranks in light of this tragedy. It could be therapeutic to some. Why not try tonight? If it is announced at roll call in the morning, people can make plans for the evening without issue." She spoke as she crossed the room, taking her seat at the table with Morgan. She was diagonal from him, leaving the decision to Maiya whether she wanted to sit beside or across from Morgan. She took her fork and knife daintily into her hands, taking to cutting the omelette into bite-sized, acceptable pieces. It was no easy task, as the charred surface resisted her with every careful saw and cut. She glared at the omelette. Her unyielding etiquette had never instructed her how to handle food that fought back. In her experience, food was cooked properly when you were expected to use manners... but what do you do when it is so difficult to cut...? She bided her time, glowering at the offensive eggs and taking a careful bite of her toast as she contemplated her conundrum.



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                                                                ✿ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Kitchenxxxxxxxx❀ ϻσσɗ: Strangely happy, but dreading cooking...xxxxxxxx✿ ωɪтʜ:Maiya & Morganxxxxxxxx❀ σσc:Let me know if I need to change anything!

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                                                          Navaro kept his eyes on Kat as the others filed in behind her, his brown eyes brimming with unshed tears. He was a weenie when it came to keeping his eyes open for too long- they had a tendency to dry out exceptionally quickly and then tear up. He knew how to work it... "You dragged me out of bed already. Might as well actually look around while we're breaking into mansions for a grade." Kat conceded, not meeting his eyes. Finally, Kal allowed himself to blink, beaming. Perfect. Even if the others turned tail and ran, he knew he could at least have her support ransacking the rest of the house for... well, pure curiosity's sake if nothing else. He could barely contain his excitement. What sort of entrancing mysticisms awaited them just beyond the door at the end of the hall? What intrigue and deep secrets did all of the glass and wood bar from their current sight? He was practically vibrating with anticipation.

                                                          Kat, however, seemed to hold no such thrill for the hunt. She skirted over to a nearby table (one that Kalthazar had incredibly missed entirely upon entering the mansion) and picked up a note. She skimmed in over, distracted, before announcing, "Culi left us instructions." His interest was immediately piqued. The threshold for his attention was very low at any rate, but instructions seemed... odd. Perhaps they were being told to do a photo scavenger hunt or something? With how immaculately kept this place was, he imagined that Professor Culi sent people up her nearly all of the time... He tuned in with particular focus as she began reading off the letter. Her commentary was definitely enjoyable. Something Navaro had initially adored about Kat was her openness and blunt witticisms. And in this moment, it seemed entirely apt that she announce her thoughts on the letter as well. As she revealed the contents of the letter, though, Navaro's mind reeled. Culi claimed they had been... chosen? By what means, a lottery? It didn't make sense. But then the fighter went on to announce a list, one that he was referred to as "mister" on to his surprise, no less. Culi had certainly pulled out all of the stops. He was grateful, in an odd way, to have been chosen among all of the people of the town, of the class, or out of whatever survey pool he had come out trumps from. But what was he being enrolled in? Apparently an opportunity to arrive before the magician "at his throne". His throne-- the magician... the magician was real? He was positively reeling at that line. He stood, rigid, his feet planted, as he stared at Kat. She wasn't pulling his leg, right? This wasn't all some big tease? He'd never told anyone about his visits, never divulged his faith to anyone... so how could it be a trick? In any case, this was the confirmation he had been seeking for so long. All around him the walls pulsed with his presence, beckoning Navaro further in, now with renewed purpose. "We are benevolently bestoying upon you the means by which you may unlock your own magical propensity!" Kat read the statement so callously, so without regard to it's deeper meaning. But to Navaro, that line stopped his world. Magic. They had latent magical abilities? Just meeting the magician had been enough to send his mind into gymnastics of Olympic proportion, but now he was going to....? This had to be a hoax, some cruel joke. He crossed his arms, digging his nails into his black button-down nervously. If it wasn't all a huge scam, he would get to learn magic. Honest to goodness magic! His heart beat a mile a minute against his sternum. She went on. She explained the group would need to "undertake trials"-- wait, what sort of trials? He should have felt foreboding at the idea, the letter an albatross to their upcoming ordeal, but all he could feel was the warm thrum of excitement coursing like ungrounded electricity throughout his body. "This is a Saw movie, isn't it? b*****d..." she remarked, clearly affronted by the letter's contents. No, this was anything but. This was a promise of bliss, of thrills and adventure the likes of which Kalthazar had only been able to dream of before. All he needed to do was learn magic (couldn't complain), succeed in the trials (couldn't be bad), and waltz on up to his idol and he would be a full-fledged magician? What were they doing just standing around here? All of this sounded like more than he could have ever hoped for, and they were just lolli-gagging in the entry hall!

                                                          Kat ceased her narrative, lowering the letter. She looked around nervously, though Navaro for the life of him could not think of anything to be worried about. This was good, right? Near the stairs, Kaine remarked, "Magic, huh? Interesting." The pre-med student glanced sidelong to the man as he ran his hand along various surfaces, seemingly surprised each time at the cleanliness of the abandoned manor. He sure didn't sound interested... but perhaps that was just the way he spoke. Something about Kaine had never really set right with him, but far be it from him to push anything. Besides, he barely knew the kid; he needed to get to know him better before making any lasting judgements. From what the letter said, he had been chosen, too. That made all of them comrades in arms, and whatever differences they had need to be put aside for the greatest good. Still he seemed less than enthused at the prospects his friend had laid out before them. He raked his glance across the room, taking in his companions' reactions. He noticed Kat focus fixedly on the door. Her eyes narrowed a bit. [******** son of a b***h. The door." Through the small crowd, Navaro zeroed in immediately on the closed wooden door. It took very little time to discover the problematic lack of doorknob on its surface. Of course, the lack of a doorknob was only symbolic he was sure, and Benji made short work of his theory by fussing unsuccessfully with the door. He pulled away from the stubborn wood, silently frustrated at the predicament. After a moment, Ivy followsed up on this, confirming that it was, in fact, held fast. As she spoke, she wove her way to the back of the room where he and Kat stood, taking a place between them. "It's closed tight. We're gonna have to look through the house for another way out. Maybe they're just... silly puzzles or something? Culi's an... eclectic guy, right?" Her uneasiness was unsuccessfully masked behind her soft smile, her eyes darting back and forth between the crowd around her. Navaro reached out a hand, running his hand down her back in an attempt to soothe her, if even only marginally. Eclectic was a word for it. It definitely made him wonder; what sort of trials would they be? Puzzles, assuredly, but maybe combat? Magic battles could be badass. Potentially even against magical creatures? Now that was something to get fired up over. But as he searched the crowd, he simply could not find anyone to meet his enthusiasm, so he kept it majorly to himself. In any case, something in his mind lead him to believe they weren't going to be able to find another exit just as simple as that. "Well I guess if this is the way he wants us to go, we're going. There's got to be another exit in this place. An open window or a side door or something. We'll find it." Kal nodded a bit, looking to the door behind him. Where did it honestly lead? Following any logic, it would lead to a lounge room, or a dining room or something domestic as that. However, if the letter was to be believed... Presently, Lana walked past him in nearly a daze, pushing toward the door at the end of the hall. Well that was unexpected.... His interactions with Lana had been sparse and painful, limited to her getting mad at him and him being absent-minded and touching her. But in those few interactions, he had never taken her for the sort of person to heedlessly throw herself at the unknown. As though hearing his dissension, the blonde halted a few short steps away from him, turning back to meet his (and the others') gaze. She looked uncomfortable, uncertain about her actions. He smiled encouragingly. It was nice to see her take some initiative, even if it was only by a few steps.

                                                          Navaro wanted to follow her. He wanted to get on with the adventure and move through the door and to the magician as forthright as possible. And he had full intentions of doing so. He opened his mouth, intending fully to ask Lana if she was ready to proceed. He was distracted, though, by a voice from above. "Welcome to our Master's tower! I am Remi," From where he stood, Navaro could still catch the visage of three people that had seemingly magically appeared at the top of the stairs (in hindsight, it was very likely that this was entirely magical....). The speaker- Remi?-, was a tall man with pale hair. He spoke confidently, as a preacher to a flock; every fiber of his being screamed with superiority, and he looked down at them with a holier-than-thou expression. "...and these two beautiful ladies are my sisters Ellie," He gestured to the smaller of the two women. She was a terribly cute thing, wasn't she? Ellie seemed to encompass precisely what it mean to be "lolita". Her chocolate eyes were outrageously large, complimented by the warm brown ringlets that framed her face. She was smiling deviously, looking down her nose with an impressive amount of judgement in her seemingly innocent doe eyes. Remi gestured now to the woman on the other side of him, announcing, "... and Ophelia." Now she was a sight. Her hair was as green as Ivy's eyes were. Her face was decorated in what Kal could only imagine was an intense amount of intricate makeup that simulated feathers running down her cheekbones and to her jaw. It was an incredible visage, and it took all he had to keep from staring. "And you are blessed to be the few chosen to be within our presence."

                                                          Navaro quirked a brow inquisitively. Who the hell were these guys? They were past the banister, which already put the student on edge. It had been closed off- no, was currently closed off, so either they had been there the entire time, or some other nefarious dealings were afoot. The crew seemed... off. Even just looking at them, Navaro felt an undeniable sense of unease wash over him. Something about them was not right. Wait-- Within the house are a few more, such as myself (let us call them the Magician's Assistants- oh, how quaint!--

                                                          All feelings of foreboding left him at the recognition. Instead, it melted away, making way for a brilliant grin. His eyes brightened, and he took a step back to be able to more properly see the newcomers- erhms, the strangers; he doubted they were newcomers, being who they were. "Wait, so you're the assistants?" he inquired, his voice betraying just a bit of his overwhelming excitement. Oh now this was too cool. These would be the people- people? Somehow that felt like the wrong term- that would be teaching them magic, right? He looked them over as though stats would appear above their heads. What sort of magic did they practice? Were they good teachers? Hell, was he even good enough to be here? He needed some sort of leveling system or something to guide him, but he would get to that later. Kal pointed to himself with his thumb, his chin upturned as he looked up to them. He looked vastly more confident than he was. To be honest, the assistants felt like producers, and he was flopping a major audition. Ignoring that, he introduced himself. "I'm Navaro. Nice to meet you guys." He peered over his shoulders, looking to his compatriots. It wasn't his place, so he wouldn't speak for them, but he could certainly ask questions on their behalf, right....? He launched himself into the first inquiry he could imagine. "So hopefully you guys are allowed answer me here... But you're actually teaching us magic? Like, god's truth I-can-shoot-lightning-from-my-hands magic?" He was trying to keep the mounting elation out of his voice, attempting to keep himself on an even keel so that he could at least pretend to save face. But this... was harder to do than to say, it would seem. He kicked himself mentally. He should have doubted it outright besides! People would think he was stupid to just go along with it. Navaro wanted it to be true, though. People told him all the time that he was too trusting, too gullible, but... was there really that much wrong with having a little faith? He darted his eyes between the three, his anticipation high.

                                                        『 Company: WORDS cyno Location: WORDS 』
                                                        cynosural 『 OoC: WORDS 』

Anxious Loiterer

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            User Imagexxx┣▇▇▇═─ 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▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇


                                                                                      The doctor closed the gap between the two of them as Paul replied, "Mornin' Doc." He looked almost as disheveled as himself, but that was to be expected. After the evening they'd all had the previous day, he could hardly expect anyone to be chipper and well-kept this morning. But he had hardly expected the man to be out and about this early in the day- Damuron knew that the man had an inclination toward the bottle, and the recent death of Kimber would have, in his mind, been a perfect excuse to dive right into the drink. But for as exhausted he looked, he did not seem hung over, so there was that to his benefit, at least. The doctor, however, did not exactly seem to be an aspiratious paradigm as far as uniformity and presentability were concerned. He did not really have room to judge anyone on their appearance today. Instead, he just observed as Paul's face fell from his relatively chipper greeting to frustration as his eyes cut to the tent. "Well, I was working on that." He pushed aside the flap of the storage tent, allowing passage. Damuron ducked inside the tent, eyes zeroing in immediately on the subject of that- it was an ancient gramophone, an intricate relic of an earlier time that seriously betrayed its age. He all at once understood the source of Paul's frustration. It looked like it could be a nightmare on the repairs front, depending on just what sort of abuse it had undergone. Paul sighed next to him, the emission of a man who had hit a brick wall. The dull, unfinished wood glared back at them, as if daring them to make any further attempts; it was almost as if the gramophone was content to retire from music projection, and did not want to be repaired. If objects could be sentient, Damuron was certain that this instrument would tell them just that. Despite that, though, he could see why Paul would be interested in servicing it. The music player could be positively gorgeous with the correct varnish, and the addition of some charming records would be wonderful around the Cirque. The gramophone would be absolutely welcome in the kitchen, playing lightly int he background as the troupe went about their meals and discussions. "You're welcome to take a look at her. Maybe you'd be able to see something I haven't." Paul offered, pulling his chair back into the tent behind him. It kicked it into the air, dropping it carelessly besides his work desk. Damuron chuckled, pulling a bit at his collar and loosening it around his neck. He didn't know how much he could reasonable offer- he had sharp eyes, that was true, but unfortunately he was not terribly familiar with much about gramophones.

                                                                                      Regardless, he nodded a small smile on his lips. "Sure, I guess I could take a look. Dunno what I can really find, but..." He shrugged, crossing the room and stopping before the music box. It was then that Paul lifted it, placing it carefully, and pulling the bottom off. Within the confines of the wood, an impossible bounty of gears and machinery wove together like an intricate life system, a network of cogs and coils and magnets each working in tandem. Paul explained, "So I've got just about the worst of it fixed, I think. Now the only problem is something in the main coil, that thing..." He pointed to the large metal coil in the center of the device, glowering slightly at the offensive piece. "That thing is what is supposed to go and say how fast the top bit spins. but instead, it'll spin too fast, then stop for a second so's it can catch up to the rest, ya see?" From there he wound the machine slowly. The gramophone did not disappoint, malfunctioning just the same way that the assistant promised. The click cut sharply through the air, and Damuron winced a bit at the attack on his ears. The clicking ceased as Paul swept a collection of clutter from a nearby chair, offering it to the doctor. Damuron obliged, nodding his thanks as he took the seat and looked into the inner chamber of the box. "Ya see? That'll mess the music all to hell. It's no good."

                                                                                      Damuron nodded again, this time denoting his agreement. The clicking was unpleasant to say the least, and wound the music much too fast. It was lucky for Paul that he actually recognized this problem. It had actually been the same issue his mother, Dawn, had needed to remedy on the old family gramophone all of those years back. "Have you checked the magnets?" he inquired, rooting about a bit in the inner workings of the music box. There was one placed above and below the massive coil, both pushing and pulling the metal of the swirling device as it spun the record above. In his experience, one magnet had worn out, causing the other to push massively harder than it's partner, which accelerated the coil in a similar fashion. "I don't really know how to test that kinda thing," Damuron lamented, pointing to the two magnets so that Paul could see where they were. "But if one isn't working as well, that could cause the coil to speed up like that. Maybe replace 'em both, kinda a hail-mary to fix it? If that doesn't work, I regretfully don't know much else, but that's worth a try if you haven't checked it out." He placed the gramophone on the table, pulling away from it and peering over to Paul. Hopefully, between the two of them, they could figure out something to fix the music box. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to help repair it so that they could enjoy the gramophone for it's intended purpose.

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                                                                                  ✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: -------------------- ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Ava --& No one⋯

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                                                                  Maiya took the plate of toast, crossing the room and setting it down on the table between them all. The chair across from her shifted of it's supposed own volition (obviously Maiya's telekinesis, lest they have a poltergeist o the train that loathed the prospect of toast in the morning) a tick closer to Morgan. Maiya's mug followed, placing itself on the table before her and the Knife-Thrower took her seat. She spoke as she moved, "I think that is a wonderful idea. Plus, it would be a great time to inform people that we plan to celebrate Kimber's life, instead of mourn her loss. It'd be a good way to get everyone in the same track." Alaizabel's eyes widened marginally. It was unusual for the man to suggest such a gathering. Morgan had always seemed the somber sort, similarly whipped by the tradition of funerals as Alaizabel was; he had appeared the type to believe there was a symbolic, if not potentially religious, sanctity to a proper funeral proceeding. Taking such a positive view on the subject of death, at least the celebratory aspect, had not seemed within his character until just this moment. It was a pleasant surprise, though, and would assuredly suit the excitable harlequin more appropriately, power that be rest her soul. While Alaizabel had not known Kimber so intimately as others, she had never appeared to be the type to strive to inspire tears, but rather mirth among the ones she loved. Yes, a celebration of her life, rather than mourning of her death, was assuredly more appropriate for Kimber's lifestyle and beliefs. It was instances such as this that assured her of how many were so wrong about Morgan among her ranks. He was not a heartless leviathan barking at them from on high, devoid of care or appraisal of their livelihood. He knew each of them, likely better than they realized. They were each in the palm of his hand, and while he had a horrible way of showing it at times, he worried over each of them as though they were his flesh, his blood, his kin. The fact that he knew the exact circumstance in which to determine a festival rather than a sullen progression like a funeral attested to just that. She felt her lips upturn a bit, then took a small bite of her omelette that she had finally hacked away. Yes, there was much more to Morgan than many gave him the opportunity to divulge. Perhaps she had simply been lucky to be privy to that other side from the start, when she'd first met him. It was a very few amount of people who had gotten to see him interact with Ava the way that he had... assuredly that had marred her ability to be fearful of the man, when she could still see him dancing dolls before an entirely uninvested child. She forced herself to swallow the charred omelette piece, debating in her mind how much more she could eat. It stabbed at her throat on the way down, regardless of the amount of chewing... She peered down her nose at her "breakfast". This is going to be... unpleasant...

                                                                  Her first indication that something was amiss was the mischievous simper that fluttered across Maiya's face. Of course, she needn't have bothered pondering the look; Morgan immediately flailed in his seat, his stricken face betraying the woman's expression. She immediately spoke, not giving him the chance to respond to her obvious touch. She lifted some of the bread to her mouth, saying, "Alaiza made these too. I brought the whole plate in case you wanted one." Maiya took a bite, shooting her gaze back and forth from Morgan to her before speaking again. "This tastes, great, by the way." She said, munching contentedly on her toast. Morgan nodded his agreement, swallowing his mouthful before responding. "It does. All of it. I thank the both of you." he affirmed. So that was why he hadn't spoken, Alaizabel mused. His mouth had been full. The poor man had been half starved for so long, and it showed as he ate carefully, mindfully not allowing his hunger to replace his manners.

                                                                  "Th-thank you. I am pleased you like it." She looked at the two while she attempted to saw a manageable piece from her burnt omelette. It was easier said than done; she had been lucky to find weak spots on the prior couple bites, but the eggs seemed to be rebelling against her cutlery; for a brief moment, she entertained the thought of an egg army, standing with linked arms against an onslaught of vicious, ravenous silverware. The thought shuffled off as quickly as it arrived, and she was left wondering about all of the strange places her imagination took her. She looked back up to Morgan and Maiya, trying to mask her internal confusion. Morgan went on, "I feel like you do not give yourself enough credit. You clearly learned how to do that from somewhere. Imagine it is in your realm of possibilities to learn and improve skill sets if you so desired. The same goes for you, Maiya," A small pink blush rose to her cheeks, hidden quickly as she dropped her head to pay attention to her now very interesting charcoal. The compliment already meant a lot, as she did not receive them terribly often, but coming from Morgan.... she held the man in very high regard, so any small amount of praise stroked her ego massively. She tempered herself- toast was not exactly a difficult creation, and did not deserve such high praise. No, what she needed to do was take a further page from Gustavo's book- erhm, cook book, that was. He was an incredible chef, but not much of a teacher by way of lacking attempt. She had simply gleaned knowledge from observing; but, perhaps with a bit of practice, she could actually create the extravagant, splendid dishes she had been so accustomed to in her youth. She grinned, victorious over her breakfast as she took another semi-remorseful bite. That settled it; Alaizabel was buying a cookbook.

                                                                  She was torn from her reverie as the Ringmaster's voice rose, "Would you cease your infernal touching?" She stifled a laugh as readily as she was able as Morgan violently scooted his chair away from hers, practically inhaling the eggs in front of him in his panic. He had lasted much longer than she had expected, and Maiya seemed particularly gratified at the length of time she had been allowed to touch the Ringmaster. She was a particularly intimately forward individual, a trait that Morgan very clearly did not harbor himself. She was very similar to him in that way; not that she had ever really had any sort of relationship, but she did not fancy herself to be the very affectionate type, at least not publicly. Alaizabel was known to run her hands through her dear friends' hair or the like, but nothing so... unsatisfactory as touching beneath a table. But this was Maiya, and she doubted it was anything particularly problematic that she had been doing. In all likelihood, she had probably just taken his hand. But the way Morgan skirted away like a frightened mouse was positively hysterical, certainly something she could look back on for a small laugh when she had a bad day. After he calmed a bit, he turned his eyes to the window, then back to the two women. "Hmm... that's right. A celebration of life as opposed to a funeral... I think it would be suiting for Kimber. She enjoyed her life in the circus quite a bit. I am afraid I do not know much about such a thing however." Alaizabel nodded her agreement, grinning as she chewed the glass shards of egg in her mouth. It seemed like a great idea, to be sure, and the troupe would probably adore the idea of having any sort of celebration and pick-me-up. It was an apt opportunity to bond, if nothing else.. "I have only ever had funerals. And most of them I did not attend myself," he mused quietly, his gaze exposing his solemnity. He was being so... open to them, so honest. It was not that unusual, she supposed; but in light of recent affairs, it was just a stark contrast to how he had been conducting himself lately. His voice was so quiet, so sincere, as opposed to his booming voice, and he was so at ease, not the coiled viper prepared to lash as he had been for the month prior. This was what she had missed. The safe sanctity she could occasionally find in small pockets around the cirque. It was moments like this that made her believe they could right all of the wrongs, that soon following this she and Morgan could sit in his office and collaborate over Poe and Shelley and Wilde, that she and Maiya could finally find common ground (without Alaizabel concerning herself over the sincerity of Maiya's flirtations) and perhaps even become friends, and she and Paul could---

                                                                  "And what do you think? Would a celebration of life be more fitting?" His question could not have been more apropriately timed, pulling her from her rumination and back to the present before she returned to the place in her mind that set her heart to beat on warp. She noticed him attempt to slyly float his hand beneath the table, extend it out, then fall back to his side a bit, taking Maiya's arm with it. Of course she did not see they were holding hands- both of their grasps were beneath the table. But it was hardly as subtle as the Ringmaster would have liked, she was sure. As such, she would take due caution not to notice how their arms both met in their angle, how blatant the display of affection was to any onlooker. The gesture, regardless, brought a smile to her lips. She gave up on the omelette now, placing her silverware on the napkin beside her plate. She took up the toast in her hand, then looked back to Morgan. "Absolutely. I, unfortunately, did not know Kimber terribly well. But what I did know of her definitely supports the idea of a celebration, rather than a somber gathering such as a funeral. And I know a multitude of other members would be certain to enjoy themselves." She smiled lightly, placing her cheek in her hand and leaning on her elbow. It was a strangely open gesture for her, considering she usually sat with her hands in her lap at a table. She took a bite of the toast, chewing it thoughtfully. "We need someone to give a toast," she said quietly, her eyes unfocused and staring at a saltshaker at the end of the table. She wasn't really looking at much of anything, contemplating instead potentially changes they could make to the ceremonial proceedings. "After all, there is typically a eulogy at such gatherings, but at a 'celebration of life', such a speech would have no place." She cast a sidelong glance to her two companions, her eyes searching them. She was honestly shooting the breeze, uncertain if she sounded like she had actually contemplated this or if she should have just kept her mouth shut. She gave a soft chuckle, closing her eyes. "And, of course, we will need plenty of liquor. I imagine all of us know exactly what sort of gala it will be with our rowdy members..." She bit her lip, contemplating it. Plenty of people around the circus drank, and she knew people would be appreciative of the opportunity. She decided not to consider specifics....



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                                                                ✿ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Kitchenxxxxxxxx❀ ϻσσɗ: Strangely happy, but dreading cooking...xxxxxxxx✿ ωɪтʜ:Maiya & Morganxxxxxxxx❀ σσc:Let me know if I need to change anything!

Anxious Loiterer

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            User Imagexxx┣▇▇▇═─ 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.
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                                                                                      Paul appeared less than amused as he spoke. Apparently he had checked the magnets, Damuron surmised, and had come up wanting. That was unfortunate. Damuron was not terribly skilled as far as engineering and repairing mechanics was concerned. He could reset bones, he could combine chemical compounds to create medicine to cure ailments, he could mend the mechanics of life, but blood and flesh did not translate into oil and steel, unfortunately. However, Paul's sour expression uplifted a bit, focusing on the gramophone. It was just when Damuron was starting to feel uncomfortable, beginning to formulate an apology, when Paul looked to him with a massive grin. "Doc, you're a bloody genius, you are." he announced, his excitement pitched plainly in his voice. He launched himself from his chair, crossing the tent with unmatched enthusiasm.

                                                                                      Damuron arched a brow, tilting his head curiously. "I.. am?" he replied, watching Paul throw a seemingly miscellaneous chest near the desk wide. Paul dove in, elbows deep, rifling through the apparent junk and unrelated mechanisms in search of... well, something specific, he was sure. Oh dear... The doctor only felt his concern increase and Paul went about his business silently, purposefully, while he stood idly by. There was not really much that Damuron could do to contribute, and instead he observed as the mechanic dislodged a collection of flat wood from the chest and went to cut them precisely. For the life of him, he could not determine what the man was doing, but hell if he was not entirely stoked about it. At least Paul knew what he was doing; if Damuron had needed to contribute again, he would have assuredly made a fool of himself. But at least one of them knew what was going on. It was interesting to consider, but he imagined this was likely how others felt whenever he worked in his domain. Paul was a mechanic, and understood the inside of a machine with the same prowess that Damuron understood the inner workings of a human body. The awed intrigue he felt watching Paul work was likely similar to someone who did not understand mixing compounds watching the doctor create medicine. It was interesting to watch other's in their natural element, despite feeling so outrageously lost. He always enjoyed seeing people involved with their interests; it was an invaluable window into their soul to watch someone get quite so bright eyed and thrilled as Paul seemed to with his machinery. He smiled lightly. It was sort of seemed to be equivalent to how he felt when he got to actually bird watch in the forest during set-up. Now, Damuron stood, peeking over Paul's shoulder. "What did I say...?" he muttered as Paul took to drawing on the wooden pieces he had extracted from the box.

                                                                                      Abruptly, Paul turned to him with a brilliant grin. He pointed to the gramophone, pridefully showcasing his handiwork. "I'd had the magnets in the wrong spot! This whole time, its all it was." he exclaimed, shoving some random piece of wood into Damuron's hands. He took it, quirking a brow and turning it over in his hands. What even was this...? Whatever it was, Paul seemed positively giddy about it, so he held onto it aptly. Paul groped across the table, taking a screwdriver into his hands, and pulled his chair back to him deftly with his foot.v"Doc, can you hold back that coil, so's I can get at that magnet?" he inquired as he worked. Damuron nodded, moving forward. He oriented himself so that he could hold the coil, but not inhibit Paul's visual space.. or at least, inhibit it the least physically possible. It was an awkward angle, and he thought he understood what Paul was asking, but his uncertainty took physical form in his apprehension, how softly he held the coil in place, as if waiting for Paul to snap at him that he was wrong. "Yup, that's it. Thanks." he assured, continuing to work, his face furrowed in in focus. His wrist flicked deftly, securing the magnets carefully in place. It was, all things considered, a quick fix, seeming even elementary in its simplicity. If Damuron had had any sort of aptitude for it, he could have likely done it himself in just a touch longer time. All things considered, that was just fine by him. Damuron was simply glad that he could contribute, and it was all the better that Paul did not have to exert as much effort.

                                                                                      Looking pleased, Paul withdrew his hand from the music box's interior, smiling. His eyes betrayed his nerves as he extended his hand to the crank, then withdrew and instead spoke. "Well, this is it Doc. Moment of truth. Here." He gestured anxiously toward the handle, then took a seat near it. "Honor's yours, Dam, give it a go." He turned his attention away from the doctor, fitting the coil with a glare sharp enough to kill a man. Damuron's eyes widened, and he looked to Paul with concern. He had done... he had done literally nothing. How long had Paul been working on it that he was just handing over this honor? But the man seemed resolute, content to glower at the malfunctioning device. The doctor really did not feel he had earned such an honor, seeing as how he had simply said the first thing that popped to mind and it just happened to possibly work, but perhaps Paul wanted to observe what else could possibly go wrong as he cranked it...? Following that logic, it made a lot of sense to have someone else crank the gramophone. He sighed quietly, preparing himself for failure, and reached out. He wrapped his hand anxiously around the slick wooden handle, drumming his fingers on it insecurely before pushing it forward. There was very little force required to crank the handle, and it glided smoothly as it pushed forward. The coil spun within the gramophone as they watched, mercifully silent as it spun in place. Damuron breathed a sigh of relief, a smile pulling at his lips.

                                                                                      He removed his hand from the gramophone, leaving it to wind down of its own accord, and turned to face Paul. "Well congrats, Paul," he said warmly, looking the man over. "It works great. You should be proud- was this a full restoration?" he asked, leaning casually on the bench behind him. He thumbed to the gramophone, saying, "Thinkin' about putting it in the dining room? Could be fun to have a little musical undertone to the conversation." He gave a soft laugh, peering back at the gramophone. It was a lovely little relic, clearly with a lot of love put into it. He idly wondered how long the man had been picking away at the project. Damuron had never had the patience for some things. With nature watching, you just sat there and did nothing as the world turned around you. But when things had an end goal, Damuron was oddly impatient. It was why he wasn't quite so avid a reader as people would expect. He enjoyed a good page turner as much as the rest of the world, but if it didn't captivate him almost instantly, he was likely to just drop the book in favor of some more immediately gratifying task. If he'd had to do a restoration, he had no doubt he would be the type of garbage person to abandon the job halfway through, or pawn it off on someone else. It was admirable that Paul could dedicate so well to a set task; that sort of dedication to one thing was something Damuron hated that he so lacked in certain regards. He was worried about failing, about coming up short. It mournfully debilitating, keeping Damuron from branching out quite so much as he liked, but on occasion he was willing to hack away at a skill. Like archery. He had, originally, been positively awful at shooting a bow and arrow. However, it was a skill he was invested in, something he longed to acquire, and thusly he pounded away at it for months, years even, until he was the archer he was today. It was a strange internal system for him deciding what was and was not worth investing time in, and to some an entirely ludicrous one, but at least he made sense of his own convoluted value system.


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                                                                                  ✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Storage Tent⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: -------------------- ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ:Paul⋯

Anxious Loiterer

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            User Imagexxx┣▇▇▇═─ 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▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇


                                                                                      If it weren't for the fact that the sun had indeed gone down near six-thirty, Damuron could have soundly assumed that the day was never intended to end. He was fairly certain that he had been condemned to hell in the night, doomed to spend the rest of eternity hurrying from place to place, a frantic hummingbird of panic fluttering about the circus grounds. It had all started with Paul. Thinking back to it, the event in the storage tent felt like a far off dream that he had had prior to his condemnation, a blip of a previous life before the hell of the day. It had been so calm, so relaxed to be in the company of the other man, who seemed entirely content with just watching a coil spin in place. Damuron hadn't minded. Paul had seemed pleased, and what more could the doctor ask for than to make others happy? And having the gramophone fixed seemed to do just that for the mechanic. His chest swelled with a small amount of pride; he never had been terribly good with machinery, so it meant a lot to him that he had even marginal success in the field. But it had not been long after that when the other cirque members had gotten up and about, and role-call was upon them. Damuron had cursed silently; he had usually been so good with time management, and always made it a point to make it to both the shower and kitchen before role call. Alas, today had been... well, odd to say the least. Had he woken the way he was accustomed to, he would not have had the problem he faced. Then again, had he woken the way he was accustomed, he would not have had his arms around Ava, would not have watched her shimmy into her costume, would not have made a complete and utter fool of himself in front of her, and then would not have sought solace in the company of a man with a gramophone problem. He had simply used up all of his time elsewhere, and he supposed that was fine. After all, he could shower following the performances, and could eat during some of the destined downtime that would sprawl before him during times when the troupe members were occupied. That was something he tended to enjoy, right? He could, for the time being, ignore how sticky his skin felt (he recalled his fever despairingly, lamenting the fact that he was likely sweating all night and now had no time to wash up), could ignore the agitated grumbling sounds voicing themselves from his stomach. It would only be a short while...

                                                                                      Disregarding his plight, Damuron moved directly to role-call. Morgan loomed beside his assistant, alighting his gaze upon each member of the troupe in turn as Paul announced their presence. The man seemed tense-- well, more tense than was typical, but somehow not in his usual manner. It did not seem as though it was simply his state of being (after all, one could argue that the Ringmaster physically embodied tense, transcending the word from simple adjective to something more akin to a personality trait) more than it seemed to be caused by something. Something tangible and in front of him. He felt the man's eyes bore down on each of them respectively, and Damuron idly wondered if x-ray vision was among his many hidden talents. It was almost as though he intended to discern their physical status with a simple glance. As his name approached (it had been years and the order had not changed; it was no difficult task to memorize), Damuron tucked his arms behind his back. While he doubted the bandages were that apparent, he did not want to run the risk of being singled out among the crowd, especially for the wound he had taken from Flynn (the man had not since approached him about it, only serving to further vindicate Damuron in his actions). Despite his good intentions, he imagined Morgan would, in his present state, not take lightly the fact that the doctor had been injured and simultaneously been air-headed enough to let it get as far as it had. It was a chastising he did not have it in him to endure at present. Mercifully, Paul skated right past his name and continued through the pecking order without any incident. "Aloise Genevieve Le Fevure." Despite himself, Damuron's heart skipped a beat. Goodness, her name was as beautiful as she. It had been inhumanely long since he had gotten to speak with her, but it seemed that now was not the time either. She was the tail end of the calling order, and Morgan gave no time to think between call and announcements. "Everyone is accounted for. Good. Listen up--" But he did not. He looked down the line, his gaze meeting Aloise's for a moment. She was hardly demure, but shot him a knowing, winning grin, her emerald eyes twinkling a bit as they caught his, then looked away in a fashion that made him believe that she was as innocent as she made the public believe. But he knew her better. He felt his cheeks flare for a moment, his gaze skirting down the lithe curves of her form, then back to her eyes. They were trained on Morgan, hanging on his every word- oh how she did long to impress the Ringmaster-, but he prayed they would flick back to him. Just a few moments of her time, just the sound of her voice tinkling like a sweet bell in his ear would get him through the day-- "And last.... Everyone will be required to attend a group meal tonight." Good feelings gone, Damuron's head whipped to the Ringmaster sharp enough to pull his neck a bit. A group meal...? What are we doing that for...? He had just been contemplating asking Aloise to eat with him tonight, and the idea of the rest of the cirque being there made the gesture far less... well, necessary, for one. But all romantic business aside, it had been a decent length of time since they had done the group dinner. The tradition had died just as unceremoniously as it had been revived, it would seem. Times had simply caught up with them, and the extra hours in the evening were reallocated to serve more pressing purposes (for some, showers and so on, for others a trip to the tavern, and for others still, they slept). But... Damuron downcast his gaze as Morgan spoke, "Keep your smiles. Do not falter. And be safe." Safe... he mused, scuffling his feet a bit as the other members shuffled away. They were dismissed. Safe... unlike Kimber. Of course they were having a group meal. It was likely an attempt to collect their bearings collectively. It was actually a very smart move on Morgan's part, and while he had an unwavering confidence in the man's intentions and dedication to his troupe members as people, he highly doubted that the idea had been the Ringmaster's. Morgan cared for them all, each individually, as much as a family, but as such, he had been blinded lately by some panic or other. In the man's frantic state, he could hardly imagine him volunteering to host a gala even within just the troupe. He seemed solely dedicated to tightening his reigns, his noose, on each of them, fool-heartedly convinced it was keeping them safe. From what...? Damuron was still too nervous to ask. It was not his place. And with the reinstallation of group meals, he hardly deemed himself necessary. Someone had beaten him to the punch. Besides, the doctor reasoned, straightening himself as the members filed away. If there were anything to worry about so much, Morgan woulda told us by now. He's a decent fellow, got his head on straight. He wouldn't keep us in the dark about anything that important... after all, what would he even be protecting us from? But even as he thought it, something didn't sit right. "And be safe..." he had said. Safe from what...? You?

                                                                                      The rest of the day had been filled with such madness that Damuron had honestly believed himself damned for a time. The performances had been fine, exquisite perhaps, even despite all of the madness from the day before. And the audience, while depressingly sparse, had been splendid... well, for the most part. Like sharks swirling around a bleeding animal, hecklers and vultures personified swooped onto the scene. The attempted to unsettle Maiya during her act, diverted Pyrrhus's attention while he manipulated his flames, and seemed to attempt to incite chaos wherever they went. It was a welcome reprieve when they arrived at Alaizabel's tank. Damuron had been able to sit back. He, after all, had known what was coming. A few of the children had zeroed in on her stunt as the subject of their terrible game, and as soon as she dropped (looking particularly panicked, but Damuron was not worried- it was part of her show after all), the small crowd took to tossing small pieces of metal and coins at the glass. It tink'd on impact and just as he'd hoped, one coin bounced from the glass just as she "lost" her lockpick. The children's' faces had blanched instantly, their hysteria surpassing the supposedly drowning woman in the glass coffin. It was not until she appeared behind them (a much harder feat to disguise with such a small crowd) that they realized they had been duped, and had quickly sprinted away from the scene. The doctor laughed lightly, patted her on the back with thanks, then took off to the tent. After all, the acrobats were starting soon.

                                                                                      Watching their performance had been the embodiment of everything he had ever imagined reading Dante's Paradise Lost. Anxiety coursed like fire through his veins as the four spun through the air, flipping with the grace of dolphins in water between each of them. Their act was so in sync, so death-defyingly spectacular But for how long? As he watched from where he stood behind the curtains, he felt his pulse drumming in his ears, his hands clamming up, his core shaking ever so slightly. Even his legs felt tensed, prepared to jump if need be. The fliers were nothing more than bombs, from where he stood, each with a timer over their head. How many seconds were left until one went off, until one hand was just a hairs-breadth out of place, until one of them plummeted to the unforgiving ground below, until that person's absence had a domino effect and took out the entire rest of the performers? And until the tent catches fire- buck up you're being dramatic! He swallowed nervously as the act concluded, and he felt his pulse regular itself. Perhaps if they had not all seemed so jovial, so enraptured with their own performance that they could convince even the other troupe members of their delight. But at the same time, perhaps it was just that insurmountable enthusiasm that found each of them, safe and unflattened, firmly on the ground following the show.

                                                                                      It was after what seemed an eternity of nerves that no amount of therapy could repair, the show was finished for the day. The doctor wasted no time ducking into the train, bee-lining directly for the shower. He had been running like a mad-man all day, staving off harassers and monitoring safety. He had entirely forgotten about his gifted sprain until he had needed to use it so avidly, but he could manage. The pulsing stab was infrequent and manageable, and felt soothed beneath the warm spray of the shower. He got dressed slowly, relishing in the quiet and the serenity that his room brought. He was still shaking, but he had a suspicion that this had less to do with restlessness and more to do with starvation. A small headache was forming at the base of his skull, and he felt momentarily dizzy as he stood from where he had been laying on his bed before resigning that he did in fact have to attend the dinner. But first... he took a quick detour to deal with his arm. It was fortunate that the girls had not hounded him as they had promised, but he would not so blatantly betray their trust by forgetting it yet again. Given that it was already on the mend, there was not much he needed to do to upkeep the treatment. A simple switching of the bandages and some antiseptic and he was good to go. He left the infirmary, pulling his sleeve back down over his arm. He was wearing a pair of nicer slacks- black, matching his shoes, but nothing too fancy. His white button-up shirt was tucked in (which was uncustomary- Damuron tended to be relaxed in what he wore, but this felt like more of a special occasion than most), and he wore a simple black coat over his arms; the edges were trimmed in a dark green. He didn't commonly sport coats either. All of it was stiff and awkward to him, but... he was going to try the whole 'upstanding doctor' thing that he had never seemed to have a knack for. Had he stayed in the normal world, he imagined he would have been required to figure it out or fail. Here though... well, for lack of a better phrase, they were stuck with him, profession appearance or not.

                                                                                      He ducked out of the train, entering the tent that had been erected. He smelled the meal before he saw it. The whole tent was a blissful cloud of smells- including that of two people. He had been momentarily distracted by the divinity of the scent of warm bread, but his eyes seemed to zero in on the two people before him rather than his impending meal. He would have been much more interested to inspect the dishes, to get a heads up on the others and take the best seat closest to the best spreads. Instead, he trained his gaze on Morgan and Maiya, sitting awkwardly close to each other at the center of the table. He averted his gaze, stepping out of the way of the threshold. His arm raised reflexively, taking a place at the back of his head and itching nervously. He had honestly not expected anyone else to be there yet, and was not entirely prepared with what to say. "Oh! Hi! Um, hello! Um..I can... I can go if you want? I mean, no, um... Right."

                                                                                      Strong lead in. Now hit 'em with the funny stuff.

                                                                                      He was a wreck, wasn't he? Normally he was not so graceless with his dialogue, but today had really been a winner as far as speaking was concerned. Driven by his blundering uncertainty, Damuron took the seat at the end of the table furthest from them, yet still sat on the same side... as a gesture of solidarity, he supposed. Whatever the two were up to, he did not want to interfere...


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                                                                                  ✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Food Tent⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: -------------------- ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ:Morgan⋯

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                                                                  The two continued speaking without her, going back and forth about their plans, what to do with Kimber's celebration, and the like. Alaizabel, however, withdrew, choosing instead to observe them. The two were so enraptured with each other that she felt nearly foreign, as if intruding on the conversation would be invasive at the point. It was refreshing to see them like this, with laughs in their chests and smiles on their lips. It was as if the cirque of months before had resurged anew. Though, to be sure, Morgan had never been particularly part of that image, but she would certain not spurn the man's appearance. Nor would she reject the woman who had suddenly become so candid with her. Maiya, like Morgan, was an unusual presence in Alaizabel's morning, but she had been enjoying herself. Perhaps it was time to start fresh, even with something as tried and true as the people who had been around her for so long. There was a phrase for it, she was certain; something about cataclysmic events inciting unforeseeable change? Regardless, she enjoyed even just being like this, casually observing as the two continued their exchange. It felt warm, comfortable- such a feeling was rather unusual amid the campgrounds as of late. Her lips upturned gently at the corners, her ocher eyes sweeping lazily back and forth between the two before her. They seemed so at ease, so positively content to be in the other's presence. For a half moment, she was abundantly aware of the emptiness of the wooden chair next to her; it seemed mournful, basked in the sunlight with no one to share the warmth with. It was an odd sensation, feeling a strange sense of solidarity with an inanimate object, but in that second she could feel it. Would it be all that odd for someone to be in that chair, sitting so close to her that she could feel their presence? Would it be so odd for her to enjoy such an intimate affair? She momentarily contemplated how unbecoming it could be to lose yourself in a daydream about another person without their permission, but how was she exactly supposed to go about inquiring for such permission...? She bit the inside of her lip, ruminating for a moment more before Maiya's voice broke through her consciousness. "I think that sounds wonderful, Morgan." The Knife-Thrower paused for a moment, her gaze wandering between the two. Whatever it was she was looking for, it seemed she found it. She looked back to Morgan with a smile. "I guess we should be getting ready for roll call soon, right? I suppose I better go put my face and performance outfit on." Alaizabel quirked a brow, looking her companion over. That was fair; not everyone was so nervous that they finished their preparations prior to eating, though with the rate that people were trickling into the kitchen (or rather, not), she imagined that not many people would be enjoying a morning meal, instead opting for making better and more complete preparations. Maiya had the right idea, though. The woman stood and turned, walking away toward the entrance, and Alaizabel took that as her cue to depart as well. Morgan collected a majority of the dishes, but Alaizabel made certain to retrieve her own before he could collect them. It was only polite that she monitor her own messes, after all. She crossed the kitchen, tossing out the remnants of the charcoal omelette that she had neglected to finish (more like been unable to, but that was not the question). She moved past him for a moment, slipping her dishes into the sink as well, before turning her attention to him. She felt herself start a bit as he faced her, giving a small but distinct bow. "I thank you." he said, his voice low and sincere. With not so much as another glance, he turned away, departing to prepare himself for role call and leaving Alaizabel bewildered in his wake. Had he... thanked her? For what? She gave a short huff of a laugh and muttered, "Of course, Morgan," before leaning against the cabinet. Perhaps she was simply still too shocked to imagine Morgan being closer to his normal self... She hadn't enjoyed such a calm conversation with him since... well, since she had given him her Edgar Allen Poe anthology, and even that had begun as a heated exchange. With a small spring to her step, she turned back to the sink. No one else was going to do these dishes, and she was already prepared for call... A bit of manual labor wouldn't kill her. It was, in fact, odd for her to do her own dishes; she had been so accustomed to others doing them for her, picking up after her, cooking for her, but since she had taken to her own devices previously, why not continue the day in such a way? She picked up the first plate, took a sponge in her hand, and began work.

                                                                  Alaizabel had a bad habit of getting caught up in menial tasks. Perhaps it was the soothing repetitiveness of scrubbing the utensils that distracted her, or the fact that she had nothing to distract her from her own ruminations, but time simply got away from her. By the time she had finished, role-call was upon her, and she did loathe being late so. Instead of running the risk of delaying, Alaizabel simply shut her eyes, feeling a familiar tug in the base of her belly, and abruptly felt the sun on her cheeks. She opened her eyes, satisfied. It was a particularly frivolous use of her power, to be sure, but she was not too concerned about it. The proximity of her teleportation was directly related to her exhaustion, and given that she had no grandiose plans for embarking on distanced travel in the near future. A few quick pops around the cirque grounds would not strain her too terribly, and her act was just that. Alaizabel took her place in line. The day had been surprisingly pleasant so far, and she felt arguably untouchable. Today would be, had to be, better than the previous. It would be--

                                                                  Terrifying. Role-call commenced, and all at once she recalled that it was not Morgan who announced the role. No, Morgan stood idly by, looking for all the world as if he had not had his levitous morning with Maiya and her, in fact nearly looking as reproachful of the troupe as ever before. He fixed each of them with his glower in turn as Paul ran through the list. Paul. Alaizabel had overestimated her fortitude. She found that she could hardly even look at the man, instead shooting her gaze between Morgan and the ground, the sky and the other troupe members. She occasionally peeked at him, her eyes shooting from beneath her lashes; she was being childish, and she hated it. No one was allowed to hold such sway over her. And he... well, he seemed entirely put together. She straightened herself, hoisting her shoulders up and feeling the rigidity return to her form. Paul could conduct himself. So could she. The viscountess was inferior to no one, she assured herself, and would not show such unbefitting cowardice in the face of, of all things, a man. There was nothing to be so frightened of. Nothing to be-- "Alaizabel Cyril Conway." Her fixed frame remained steadfast, her poise and posture unmoving, her hands clasped just so behind her back. Here, her tension showed. Her hands held each other fast, their grip on each other vice-like, white-knuckled and ever tightening. She had become quite adept at focusing all of her tension on the one piece of her body, for all the world seeming entirely composed and demure. It had been a small game for her as a child to find the various ticks of nobility, where they held their tension- a tapping foot, a nervous scratch, a flat smile (likely social suicide, but some were not as adept at presentation), or commonly her own hand wringing (she had noted that Morgan and she were alike in this respect). Such a distraction had allowed her to keep her wits about her when she was particularly nervous in a crowd in her youth, taking solace in the fact that she was not the only one quite so irate, so distracted, so anxious. She discovered upon joining the cirque, however, that the general public did not go to such lengths to hide their true intents; they opted for a more direct demonstration of their emotions, leaving her the odd, passive outlier among the ranks. Still, the propriety was like a leaden sinker around her neck, and was not so easily abandoned. So as Paul spoke her name, she did not relish in her own head, did not allow herself to consider that she still so adored the way his accent rolled her name, did not consider that she could likely approach him after this, engage him in quick dialogue about Oscar Wilde or something of the sort, did not entertain the thought of their kiss--. Instead, she kept herself contained, within herself, and bade her time until call was ended.

                                                                  "Everyone is accounted for. Good. Listen up," Her gold eyes lifted from their blasé passivity, focusing on the source of the voice. Morgan spoke calmly, succinctly summarizing the plans for the day. The roster had been cut down, and the troupe would only be expected to perform their first show. That was a pleasant thought, though the cost of such a reprieve was harsher than any would have liked. In addition, the acrobats' show would be significantly lessened, considering that they were now missing their senior-most member. She narrowed her eyes a bit at the mention of a moment of silence. Yes, that was the least they could do for her in light of her passing. Kimber... "And last, everyone will be required to attend a group meal tonight." Alaizabel focused again, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Yes, he had solidified that the event was to transpire. That was something to look forward to. He went on, "Keep your smiles. Do not falter. And be safe." Alaizabel watched as he turned, flicking his wrist dismissively toward the troupe and sauntering away. She watched him go, even as the other members began filing out of line. Keep your smiles... that never seemed to be his concern before. she mused. She knew full well he likely meant the statement in reference to performances, but something about it seemed deeper than that. In his strange, distant way, he was telling them to keep their spirits up, not to wallow in misery and give a powerful performance to the memory of their fallen comrade. She offered an agreeable grin, shoulders shrugging slightly with a laugh. Yes, she would smile. She could be the pillar the other more effected members needed to survive the day.

                                                                  "And be safe...."

                                                                  Alaizabel shivered a bit as she approached her tank, her apprehension evident in each careful gesture she made. Be safe, he'd said. That was laughable. Nothing about anything the members of the cirque did was ever considered safe. Just taking into account her itinerary for the day, that much could be surmised. Her entire act revolved around synthesizing the horror of drowning publicly. She preyed on others' fear of seeing her fail in order to mystify them, to horrify them enough to praise her for the mere act of staying alive. It was unscrupulous when taking that light. And it put her in a significant amount of danger more than she would typically be comfortable. So for there to be quite so much stress on them this day to "Be safe", it was only natural for her to feel entirely out of her depth as she stood over her tank, staring into the aquatic prison below. Simply gazing at it now, she felt the water press aggressively against her, resisting her escape efforts, tugging her down. Her lungs were malfunctioning, starving already for oxygen. This was Kimber's pain. She'd have been so alone at the end, so abandoned-- why wasn't anyone helping her? She had never done any trick before, and certainly never considered asking Morgan for permission. It seemed like the easiest trick she could imagine, relying solely on the skill that she had honed since she was a child. Teleportation was essentially child's play, after all. All she had to do was drop in, fiddle around for a bit, and pop out, right? It was rudimentary, infantile, and somehow outside of her realm of capability. She couldn't summon her strength, couldn't draw upon the familiar leaden feeling in her stomach that drew her out of place. The lock pick was entirely useless, and she cast it aside. She was not strong, but perhaps the glass was weaker than she believed? She threw herself against the walls around her, holding her breath desperately. Her lungs burned, her mind reeled, her chest heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe she couldn't breathe she couldn't breath she couldn't get out out outoutoutoutoutout-- Alaizabel drew a deep breath, recoiling physically from the tank and descending the stairs. She crumbled to a sitting position near the bottom step, dropping her head and curling in on herself. She sucked in the nectar of life around her greedily, as if she really had been back at the botched exposition. Morgan had saved her, forbidden her from the trick for the rest of eternity (which knowing him could have been a legitimate time restriction as opposed to a hyperbolous threat). Alaizabel had failed, had been a mockery to the troupe, and could have died easily, her body floating aloft in the waters, still and unseeing as the masses panicked around her. It made so much more sense now why he had been so enraged at her earlier demonstration, so against her performing the now perfected trick. He actually cared about their lives. He had wanted to avoid the very catastrophe they had been privy to only the day before. And now... now she was yet another threat. She calmed herself, drawing breath through her nose slowly. Composure was key, she knew. When she lost control of her emotions, she lost control of her powers. When she lost control of her powers... Acta est fabula... She calmed herself, resigned. Alaizabel was so well known for her composure. She had a reputation to uphold, people to monitor, a cirque to support. There was no way she could let the ones around her down. She would perform, and she would perform tremendously... perhaps not without fear, but despite it. It had been over a month since she had begun performing this bit, and without a single error. No reason to believe it would be an issue now.

                                                                  It was not. Her trick went off as it ever had, and while her stomach leapt as the trap door went from beneath her, she had no issues during her performance except for a dull occasional ticking that she was unaccustomed to. She ignored it, though, conducting herself just as she ever had. Her appearance was a bit of a trick in an of itself- she could not appear in plain site, lest the audience recognize that her trick was less of a trick than a potentially demonic power. Yet she could not appear so far away that it would take a significant time to reach the crowd. She peered out of the tank carefully, squinting her eyes specifically during a final scream of terror so that she could see outside. There. Her free ticket to the perfect escape took form in the illustrious Doctor Damuron Hayes, standing toward the back of the small gathering with a look of smug excitement. It was probably entertaining to know the twist ending prior to the surrounding audience, she imagined; Alaizabel felt a similar pride when she introduced an acquaintance to a particularly awe-inspiring novel. She focused, then abruptly the air could reach her and she was behind the man, shouting her final lines. As the sparing crowd applauded, she beamed. That was it. She was finished. Alaizabel was surprised, however, that her appearance startled a small group of onlookers toward the front of the tank, who all sprinted away quickly as soon as they saw her. Before she could inquire, Damuron gave her a small pat on the back and a grin. "Thanks for that. Gotta run. Good job, Alaizabel!" He dashed off desperately, leaving her in the dust in confusion. Why were those children so terrified? And why did he look so very pleased about it? She stared after him for a moment before deciding that some things were best left unknown...

                                                                  The day was over almost as abruptly as her part of the show, and it was time to prepare for the dinner ahead. The issue with her trick was always that she remained a sodden mess for the rest of the afternoon, leaving her to shiver and suffer silently for the entire time between her show and the reprieve of the train. Luckily, her fellow troupe members tended to take pity on the frozen girl. Being that she was so unclothed on top of being drenched, she was typically allowed to shower ahead of others. She desperately needed it, too, considering that the weather outside was declining into lower temperatures, taking with it any shred of willingness Alaizabel had to venture outdoors at odd hours. Her trips to the roof would dwindle to naught, and she would resign herself more and more often to Pyrrhus's room to read and relax in the warmth that his very being exuded. In any case, her shower was over quickly, and she hurried back to her room to prepare. The dress was a bit nicer than what she commonly adorned around the camp grounds, but Morgan seemed to be taking the meal relatively seriously. In kind, she would take her appearance seriously as well. It was a fetching color, one that she did so admire, and was surprisingly easy for her to slip into of her own accord. She gave a small twirl in front of her mirror, satisfied. It had been entirely too long since she had be able to wear some of her nicer clothing (relics, now, from her earlier time as a noble which were simply unnecessary and unappreciated in her typical company); she often just wore a simple button up and a plain skirt around the grounds. The old cloth felt like home against her skin- not the oppressive, inflexible tyranny of the beau monde, but the warm, comforting sensation of familiarity and intimacy. The dress had been with her longer than the Cirque had, that was certain. Her mother had even stitched the lace on the bodice herself, the dusty rose fabric chosen with a great deal of agony when she was seventeen (the dress had been gifted to her by a potential suitor, one that she had turned down ultimately, for a gala her family was giving for her birthday). With her dress chosen, Alaizabel fixed her attention on her now dried hair. For the most part, she allowed it to remain down. She had a hat... somewhere that she knew matched it, but with the overhanging tent in place around the table, she hardly deemed it necessary. Instead, she simply pulled a few strands of her hair back, expertly braiding them into place behind her head. It was a simple look, and that was all she needed.

                                                                  With one final glance to be sure that she was indeed presentable, she took to the train. It did not take her long to find the exit she was looking for, and dismounted the steps carefully. She had evidently beaten the vast majority of the party-goers to the event. Near the center of the table, Morgan and Maiya sat together with nearly the same lack of gap between them that they had exhibited this morning. Alaizabel smirked looking at them. She could have expected that from them. What she did not expect was Damuron to be sitting off to the side of the table by himself, looking for all the world as if he had seen the unseeable evil alive and well within this tent. She quirked a brow. Even if they were conducting themselves as they had been at breakfast, the most apparently terrifying thing to expect would have been her touching his leg, or them holding hands. None of this was strictly speaking unbecoming. Even Alaizabel was fine with that sort of affectionate display, so she couldn't imagine that Damuron was that squeamish about it... especially with all that she had heard about him and that tramp acrobat. That was something she had never been able to wrap her head around. What was a sweet, tender, sincere man like Damuron doing with a libidinous seductress like Aloise? If she could have even feigned interest in the doctor, she would have in an attempt to alleviate the horrifyingly ardent grip that Aloise had over his heart. But alas, she did not, and could not help him in any way. She instead offered a small, comforting grin to the man, mouthing a 'hello' before proceeding down the table. Even if she attempted to make conversation with him now, she knew that he would be too nervous to get out much that was actually comprehendible. Alaizabel was not the sort of person who could comfort the doctor, and at least she knew it. Instead, she maneuvered to sit across from Maiya, taking her seat carefully across from the two. The portrait of lovers before her was one meant to embody awkwardness. Morgan was not quite so invested as Maiya, who she could gather had her hand yet again on the Ringmaster's leg. She stifled a short laugh, smirking knowingly but saying nothing. She placed her hands in her lap, looking down the table carefully. The spread looked fantastic for the Cirque's standard. Obviously it would be no extravagant feast, but Alaizabel recognized and appreciated all of the endless effort that the chefs put into the meal before them. It was splendid. She turned her attention to the two before her, a small grin on her face. "Hello Morgan, Maiya," she greeted cheerfully. She intended on assisting to keep the mood light tonight by any means she could. She was by no means insincere with either her greeting her or smile- Alaizabel was happy to be there, and simply felt no need to restrain that in current company. The place was supposed to be a safe room, right? And for the moment, it was that. For the time being, she could be open with those around her. She sat stalk-straight in her chair despite this, minding her manners impeccably. "I do hope that your day was pleasant." She peered down the table, quirking a brow to Damuron. "Although you must still explain to me what that business with the rascals by the tank was about." she insisted, looking over him carefully. She turned her attention back to Morgan and Maiya. "How were the shows?"


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                                                                ✿ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Dinner Tentxxxxxxxx❀ ϻσσɗ: --- xxxxxxxx✿ ωɪтʜ:Maiya, Morgan, & Damuronxxxxxxxx❀ σσc:Let me know if I need to change anything!

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                                                      The boy wasn't terribly bright. Alvain started by simply staring at his hand, looking convincingly as though his hands had never been exposed to sensation in his life. His face was lit with an idle curiosity for a moment, then panic swept across his features as he brought his hand to his chest, cradling it as if it had been burned. She rolled her eyes. He could not be that much of a puss... it was a berry for goodness sake! Surely nobility was not so pristine that they could not touch potentially common fruits. Then again, it would not be the first time nobility had surprised her with their uppityness. Even when being robbed at knife point, some had the audacity to demean their station, their physical cleanliness, their heritage. One such occasion had actually won her the very cloak she wore. Ravenor took as kindly to being demeaned as Presea herself did, and had ripped it from a noble's back in a carriage heist. There was a reason she cherished it so. She gripped the collar of her cloak affectionately, a small smile meeting her lips at the memory. Then she shot her gaze back to her original focus. Presea watched with a distanced intrigue as the Animal Esper patted himself down with near violent enthusiasm, searching distraughtly for the source of the impact. She quirked a brow, her expression otherwise flat of affect. What was bugging him so much? He was practically ravaging his own body as if there was something tugging at his skin. Now that Presea could understand panicking over. But a raspberry seemed like overkill... Suddenly his motion arrested. Ahhhhh he found it. she mused, stifling her chuckles carefully. "What a timid little thing...." she remarked softly, smirking. It was oddly endearing, but also worrisome. She would have to monitor him in combat so that he didn't get decapitated, or worse be disabled. The last thing she wanted to do was shuffle around a cripple as though he were worth her time... As she contemplated this, his eyes raked the clearing in search of his apparent assailant. Is all this strictly necessary....? In her opinion, it took him entirely too long to zero in on her (who she would have imagined was an obvious culprit when you connected the dots...). It was for moments such as these that she was certain she would be grateful for her dark vision well into the future (well, that and being able to see impending danger, being able to ascertain visages, having the ability to navigate more easily at night... okay so this was a very small reason to be happy with it, but regardless). As he met her gaze, he ripped his hands away from each other. So he did connect it, which was a testament to the intelligence she was so doubting he had. His face lit up immediately into a vibrant blush, which was only more gratifying because she could see it in its entirety without the darkness inhibiting her. She couldn't resist a laugh- a short, quiet bark before her hand flew to her mouth as if she could pull the sound back. She shook silently as he turned away from her indignantly. What a troublesome guy... she thought, leaning back casually on her hands and observing him for a moment more. He spun away from her as if she had let fly a love letter rather than a stray piece of fruit. Blue-blood could be so self-important at times that she didn't entirely doubt that was the cause, but she had yet to have her suspicions about him confirmed. While she often loathed it in herself, she was finally grateful she tended to give new people the benefit of the doubt... though it wasn't exactly difficult to lose that benefit; this was no three-strike policy. Just one snide comment, just one duplicitous glare, and she would not restrain herself so. Just give me a reason, Pretty Boy...

                                                      But it was then that he turned his back, and the show was over. Lazily, she peered around the group. Nothing that anyone was doing seemed particularly striking; gathering fire wood, hunting animals, all of it seemed so unappealing at the moment. She listened carelessly as the group talked among themselves, separating off into their desired groups. It was no surprise to her that she had been left behind. There were precious few who honestly wanted her around in most instances, and even fewer who were likely to speak with her ever again. She downcast her eyes, for a moment oddly solemn in light of this thought. But she shook her head, flopping down on her back atop her blanket. This was fine. This was preferred. She did not take interest in free help, and if no one would even bother to ask, then she certainly would not volunteer. She was just fine lying back and waiting for the stars to peek out from beneath the blanket of day, stretching to awaken themselves by shining their twinkling rays toward the earth below. Yes, she was perfectly content to stare at the sky all evening, mindlessly reaching into her box of berries and munch contentedly. There were plenty of small bushes with safe berries around these parts, and she was not concerned about replacing them prior to their arrival at the castle. She, for one, knew full well that she could subsist on fruit for as long as it took. The others... well, they were hunting. And that was fine for them. Across the field, she heard Evelyn chirp, "Hey, Xeniel, can you help me get some firewood?" Presea closed her eyes, wrinkling her face in distaste. Xeniel did not seem like the sort of person Presea would be around alone voluntarily. Something about her was offputting... It bothered her somewhere inside that she could manage to find it in herself to offer Alvain, the embodiment of everything in this world that she could not trust or allow in her airspace, a sort of truce, maybe even kindness, but she could simply not abide the woman's presence at all. It was very unusual for Presea to be unable to tack down just what she didn't like about someone, so the difficulty she faced when confronted with the Fire Esper was disconcerting. "Xeniel's gone." Alencia replied, and Presea was honestly just impressed she could make a simply statement like that sound like an attack. The woman was needlessly confrontational... which meant a lot coming from a woman who had been called overly confrontational for as long as she could remember.

                                                      It was nearly as if the woman appeared on a cue, like the sky opened up and deposited her in the field at just that time. Be it divine intervention or otherwise, it was at this time that Presea lifted her head a fraction, her eyes following the sound of crackling underbrush signally the arrival of another person. The dark haired girl proceeded almost meekly, making herself as little of a threat as possible. Smart move... Presea removed her hand from where it had strayed, releasing the handle of her chakra slowly. "Hello, Espers!" she called carefully, awkwardly. Presea propped herself up on her elbow, eyeing her warily as she continued. "I am Celeste. The true Esper of Fire. Xeniel has forsaken our gods, and paid the price." Presea's eyes widened considerably, and she sat up rigid. Paid the... price? She scowled. Savages... Killing someone for the sake of a religion she was still not entirely convinced of did not appeal to her in the slightest. Sure, people could manipulate elements. Sure, tattoos sprouted on each in tandem. But gods? Still not totally conceivable. It was nearly so far fetched to her that someone would fake this predicament. It was absolute hell to endure such a ridiculous trial already, and she could hardly imagine what was in store. Besides, it was just bad form to go around flaunting a power you didn't rightly have.... and pathetic... no wonder she had the bad feeling about her. Regardless, she doubted that murder was entirely mandated despite that... religion. Bunch of rabid cultists, the lot of them...

                                                      Presea lost interest, choosing to eavesdrop on Alencia's assault rather than condemn the poor girl to two hostile interrogations. While the Water Esper and she seemed destined to be at odds, she was certain the hot-headed woman would do a fine job of questioning the new comer and validating her claims. The woman demanded her marks, her powers, her usefulness. Presea nodded from where she laid now on her side, content to munch her meal in silence. "That story sounds even more false than the woman wandering into the forest and simply offing herself." Alencia spat harshly. Presea let out a hum of agreement. The noise wasn't likely to be loud enough to reach anyone, but she felt it necessary to chime in just a bit, even if only for her own validation. She couldn't help but agree, after all. Perhaps Alencia felt a similar distaste for the congregation at large over the city of Yelaria. The theological paradigm they had all become so accustomed to unsettled Presea at a core level, and she could only hope she was not the only one so very dissatisfied by the entire mess. "Absolutely pathetic. Claim that you're the real Esper. Ridiculous." Alencia crossed the field, and from the sound of her footsteps, she noted she was moving toward Alvain. Presea's eyes shot open, and she glared out into the forest before her. Just what she needed... impending verbal abuse hanging overhead like a lurking vulture. With a quiet sigh of discontent, she shot herself upright, leaning her arm casually on a propped knee and leering over the scene. If anyone started making too much of a fuss, she supposed she may have to police the children around her...

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Anxious Loiterer

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            User Imagexxx┣▇▇▇═─ 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▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇


                                                                                      "Good evening, Damuron."

                                                                                      He offered a polite bow of his head, smiling, then looked back to his taken interest. You see, Damuron was particularly invested in the tablecloth at present, running his hand carefully over the course tan fabric lain over the old wooden table. It was probably one of the most uninteresting pieces of fabric that he had seen in his life. There was nothing particularly taking about this fabric. But by goodness, he was dedicated to memorizing the stitching, dedicating the fabric's sensation to his mind. Anything was safer than launching himself between the Ringmaster and Knife Thrower's erhm... interactions. There really wasn't anything terribly intimate about what was going on. It was likely just the shock that Morgan was even there, let alone sitting with definitive closeness to not just a human, but Maiya no less. Something about it just screamed do not involve yourself, and he was inclined to oblige his intuition on this. "I appreciate you help today," It was not in the cards for him to escape, it would seem. He looked up, meeting Morgan's gaze despite his fidgeting. He.. appreciated...? Was it so common for Morgan to thank someone? Some part of him wasn't so sure about that... What was uncommon was his proximity to the Knife Thrower, but if that had anything to do with the man's changed demeanor, Damuron was certain he would not be the one complaining. But how did he respond to that? He donned a smile, about to reply, when the tent's flaps snapped quietly at the next person's entrance. Denizens on high seemed to smile on him as if making amends for the earlier nightmare, as Alaizabel strode confidently through the door. She descended the stairs with the practiced graces he would expect of an aristocrat, donning a dress that, while not as incredible as a gala of the elite would require, made him feel a tick underdressed despite his coat and slacks. It was no comment on the other cirque members, he was sure; Alaizabel did come from wealth, and quite honestly was apt to enjoy the finer things. Given the availability of such splendors, Damuron would surely relish in the same pleasure. It was a rare opportunity that anyone in the troupe was able to dress to an occasion, and the escape artist clearly seized the opportunity immediately. As her eyes met his, she quirked a brow; clearly she did not understand why he was off on his own. Damuron felt it rather rude to point, so instead opted for a small shrug and a quick dart of his emerald eyes in their direction, then back to her. She smiled in response, mouthing a small greeting. For how very distant people insisted she was, Alaizabel still was rather thoughtful. Rather than pester him, she simply greeted him and trekked to the other end of the table, having seemingly no qualm inserting herself into their lives. He, of course, was not, and would likely have fumbled all over himself had she struck up conversation with him at that very moment. "Hello Morgan, Maiya." She greeted them both politely, folding her hands on her lap, while the doctor collected his bearings. She seemed so cool, so regal and relaxed. If Alaizabel could do it, he could too, right? "I do hope that your day was pleasant." There, now there was another person. Another confident person, no less, who could manage a conversation in awkward circumstances with practiced finesse. No need to be so finicky--

                                                                                      "Although you must still explain to me what the business with the rascals by the tank was about."

                                                                                      She had to call him out, didn't she? Damuron lifted his gaze, meeting hers for a moment. Rascals...? Oh, right, that. He mused, momentarily allowing the memory of children dispersing in panic to play in his mind. He gestured flippantly, waving off her concern. "Ahh, they weren't anything special," he explained with mirth. "Just a buncha bratty little no goods from town. They were trying to heckle you during your trick. They got their comeuppance when you actually dropped your lockpick. You shoulda seen their faces. Priceless." He leaned back in his chair and crossing his legs, leaning his arm on the armrest of the chair. "After all that work, and they were so distraught to get what they were aiming for..." Petulant halfwits... The dolts took into their own hands the life of a performer, then panicked when they got their wish? It was pathetic, but also disturbing. The brats couldn't have been more than twelve, any of them, and they came to the cirque... to watch people die? The thought was too terrible to even entertain. If Damuron could help it, he never wanted to see another person die again. If asked to explain it to someone, he would likely be unable, but the horror of watching another person's life pitter out before you... he couldn't imagine someone desiring that just idly. Oh please, Dammy-- That was different and you know it. he threw back savagely. He managed to keep his entire exchange internal, focusing harshly back on the present to remove himself from the line of thought. It was increasingly common lately, and he had zero desire to continue entertaining the disembodied voice haunting him at present. The broken mind-trick had done nothing but get him in trouble lately, between his literal drop-down fight with Taubryn and his misunderstanding with Nova. Come back later, I'm busy...

                                                                                      Alaizabel and the others were thankfully oblivious to his momentary reverie, as she had pursued a separate line of inquiry in his silence. Damuron gave a small sigh, relaxing into his chair. He was just glad to have not missed anything directed to him.... explain that away... 'Don't mind me, just arguing with my dead father...' That was good dinner conversation. It was just as he gave a soft chuckle that Nova entered the scene. His eyes widened at the sight of her. She was not normally so well adorned, generally clad in modest dresses and simple skirts. Apparently Alaizabel had not been the only one to consider tonight special. The robin's egg dress made Nova's already bright eyes pop intensely, her outrageously long hair knotted elegantly to the side of her head. Again, Damuron felt underdressed. She surveyed the table silently before electing to take up the chair beside Alaizabel. He took his lip between his teeth, giving a small sigh. It made perfect sense that she didn't want to associate with him. He'd been an insufferable a** the last time she had seen him, even pushing her so far as to slap him in the face. His cheek stung nostalgically, his hand fluttering up to touch it gently. He needed to apologize. There was no good way to phrase it, granted- "Sorry that I'm psychotic and told myself to shut up and you mistook it for me being rude?" or better "Sorry that I killed your friend but you don't want to face the fact that I'm a horrible person so I had to shove it in your face?". None of these had quite the ring to them that he felt he would need approaching her. While it did not seem to be enough, perhaps just a simple 'sorry' would suffice. Regardless, now was not the time for that honestly. In any case, now could be the opportune time to attempt to mitigate some of the damage his idiocy had rent on their relationship. But ash she greeted Alaizabel-- really? Alaizabel? Typically she was the last person new blood approached--, he felt apprehensive to interrupt.

                                                                                      But when was he going to have the chance to approach her like this again? This was for all intents and purposes, this was likely the best time, the incredibly least awkward encounter he could imagine. As he wound around the end of the table, though, he was distracted by movement behind him. He turned back to the seat he had just been inhabiting, only mildly surprised to see Flynn had taken up residence without any hesitation. He was already pouring himself a stiff drink, the red wine approaching the edge of the glass a little too closely. He announced, "How's that scratch of mine, Doc? If you still have it I'd prefer to have it back to be honest. I didn't exactly ask you ta take it after all, and it hardly woulda affected my jugglin'."

                                                                                      Well, crap, He clenched his fist nervously, feeling the bandages shift slightly beneath his shirt. Obviously, he couldn't give it back; at this point, there was no way the infection was entirely gone and while it was not actively bothering him, it would be without proper treatment. He needed the cut to act as a conduit. Returning it was simply out of the question. Why had he not asked for it earlier? It had been just over a week since the mess on the train, since the injury. If he had asked even just a few days ago, Damuron perhaps could have been persuaded. He had taken it for purely selfish reasons, after all, but at this point... at this point there was no going back. He shifted on his feet, looking everywhere in the vacinity of Flynn that was not his face. "Oh, right! No, the cut is fine! It's actually just about gone so don't worry yourself about it." He smiled hoping that would be sufficient. Damuron was not exactly notorious for having the greatest game face. He was a decent liar in dire situations, but this? This was not one of them. He took a few ungainly steps back his grin fixed on his lips amiably.

                                                                                      It was not in the cards for him to escape, it would seem yet again. He realized this as Ava plopped herself down on the end of the table, not an ounce of tact or daintiness to her display. "Hi Dam!" He physically recoiled from her, shocked. What was she thinking? Sitting on the table? Morgan assuredly would not approve of that. He looked her over, arching a brow in surprise at her attire. Was that-- was that a sweater? Damuron had been under the impression that it was a more formal event, given that Nova and Alaizabel had dressed so formally. But perhaps he had been mistaken... It looked like a comfortable outfit, nonetheless, and he could certainly not blame her for taking he route of comfortability in favor of propriety when she could get away with it. In fact, she was singularly equipped to get away with such clothes... The title of "Ringmaster's Daughter" did come with certain... perks, he supposed. Regardless, that would never affect him. He was a man, after all, and while women were expected to surrender every comfort they had in favor of high fashion and propriety, he could still maintain some semblance of such even when dressed to society's liking. The most he could complain about were his shoes, the tight leather pinching slightly at his toes from lacking use. "So, you want to give me my ankle back? I saw you limping and not standing on it earlier, don't even try to tell me it's healed and fine and not bothering you." He felt his cheeks burn a bit. There was an air of malice about her, a pungent miasmic poison that seeped out from the teeth of her grin. There was no getting out of this, was there? He was confident that he could outrun her- the ankle wasn't that bad, and honestly only remained because he had insisted on scampering around camp all day like an anxious mouse escaping a cat... which given Ava's position in the cirque was an oddly apt analogy to his current predicament.

                                                                                      The doctor sighed, rolling his eyes behind closed lids. This was a conundrum. There was no reasonable way he could give back her ankle (though he knew he had agreed to it, but that was just silly). But he knew Ava would never let him go if he clung to the sprain... What was more irksome was that the injury was not even worth such a grand display. A collapsed lung, maybe he could see demanded back with such public grandeur. But this? His rescue came in the rare form of paternal Morgan, chastising his daughter with a razor's edge to his voice. "I am glad to see you can share this meal with us, Ava. But perhaps a little more class is required when dining in the company of others." Again, Damuron decided that whatever witchery Maiya had cast over the man, she could continue without any complaint. The man was arguably... well, normal so far as the Ringmaster was concerned. And in this instance, he was incredibly useful for his escape.

                                                                                      As though knowing Damuron was in need of help, Taubryn broke through the edge of the tent with a magnificent flurry of majesty and poise. The doctor hadn't seen him for a few days- rightly imagined he didn't want to be seen, as Taubryn was still a private person, even with his best friends-, but was relieved to see him at least able to feign a grin as he approached the Ringmaster. That couldn't be good. And where had Taubryn gotten such fine garments? Memory serving, he had never been terribly fond of spending so much money on finer attires. "Good evening, Mothballs. I mean, Morgan. Yes, Morgan." he announced, his farcical propriety evident in his tone. Damuron stifled a laugh. Mothballs? He knew that Alaizabel had at some point become Mouse, but Mothball was positively demeaning. He supposed many around the cirque were (rightfully) livid with the man, though, and this would only be the first of many passive aggressive comments... "Forgive me, I fear the smell of this suit is getting to me. It seems so old, can you tell? Centuries if I would wager... I found it deep in my closet. Gathering dust. Such a shame really." Taubryn shrugged, his wicked grin still carefully poised on his lips as he slipped away. "But what do you think, Ringmaster, it suits me, yeah?" He chuckled without restraint, dropping into his seat just as the cogs in Damuron's mind aligned. Tell me... that isn't the Ringmaster's coat...? he thought, horrified. But as Damuron's green eyes venturing to Morgan's expression confirmed his fears, Morgan's face a war between bewilderment and subdued rage. Oh good God, Brynn! Don't take it too far... But even as he utilized the resulting distraction, slipping quietly to the other side of the table, he could not force the smile from his lips. Stupid or not, Taubryn had performed admirably. If that's what it takes to get his smile back...

                                                                                      He shot Ava a small apologetic grin as he scampered off, plopping down quickly beside Nova. The ankle was child's play, and after sitting for a while was not even bothering him anymore. He wouldn't even know what to transfer if he did. He peered to Nova, completely lost for what to say now that he'd finally achieved his goal. She looked so regal, so frosted over as she looked down over the table. It was surprising to see her this way after the way she had been in the infirmary, all warmth and flustered geniality. He took a short breath through his nose, If Taubryn can try, so can I.. Casual was not Damuron's strong suit. Still, he gave a small wave as he said, "Afternoon! Wait, no, it's evening um..."

                                                                                      Damuron Hayes: Lady Killer.

                                                                                      He shook his head, giving a small groan and taking his head into on hand he had propped on the edge of the table. The doctor looked to her from the side of his eyes, quietly asking, "Can we just- can I try that again, only not stupid this time? I'm going to try that again." He leaned upright again, nervously chuckling. "Hello, Nova. You look lovely this evening." He smiled, meeting her vibrant eyes with his. He furrowed his brow just barely as he recalled a line of inquiry he needed to pursue. "How's your hand? Anything I can do to help?" It was a pure question, devoid of ulterior motives; mostly he was offering some sort of bandages or anything of that sort. Hopefully she wouldn't think he was stupidly offering to take it... the last thing he needed was to upset the girl again...


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                                                                                  ✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ:Dinner Party⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: -------------------- ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Troupe ⋯

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⊱⊱ Cirque de Tromperiexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


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    __________________________________ T H E tab B A R K E R



                                                        ✦ηαмε ::
                                                        tab tab tab Ramir Bosanac
                                                        ✦αgε ::
                                                        tab tab tab 21 (15)
                                                        ✦gεη∂εя ::
                                                        tab tab tab Male
                                                        ✦sεxυαℓιтү ::
                                                        tab tab tab Pansexual
                                                        ✦cιяcυs ρσsιтιση ::
                                                        tab tab tab Grounds Barker
                                                        ✦ρσωεя ::
                                                        tab tab tab Medusa Gaze
                                                        No, he doesn't turn anyone to stone, granted. But his eyes can simply be enrapturing, drawing people into his gaze and convincing them of his words in kind. It's simply a sort of charm he has, and honestly isn't as strong as many would like, but it certainly helps him get his work done as the caller. He typically uses his eyes to draw people to less populated acts, drawing audiences in, or by entering a tavern in town and convincing people to come to the cirque when they otherwise would not have attended. He bolsters numbers, but that's about it.

                                                        xxxxxx✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

                                                        ✦ρεяsσηαℓιтү ::
                                                        tab tab tab Ramir is a casual person. He's laid back and easy-going, especially convivial toward his fellow troupe members. The circus is his life, his home, his family, and he behaves with them as such. Due to this, he's garnered a bit of a reputation as a prankster. He enjoys making other people laugh under any circumstance, and is notorious for being unable to cope with negativity. He's positive to a fault, and unwaveringly optimistic. Ramir is child-like in many ways; he's wide-eyed, naive, earnest, and trustworthy, a therapist to various cirque members in his own right. Around the camp-grounds, his ears are open for any venting or ranting or hardship the members are enduring. As such, he is a great gossip hub. He's generally pretty good about keeping information, but... sometimes he's simply too excited and spills things he simply should not. It is rare to see him without a smile on his face. As such, it is an easy leap to assume he has serious repression issues. He tends to take out any negativity or frustration in private, and is a surprisingly private person for how he conducts himself. He keeps most of his life to himself, instead focusing on other people. He is the epitome of a person who cannot take their own advise. Despite all of this, he is relatively amiable, and spends much of his time focusing on other people rather than himself. He's eager to please and thrives on external validation.
                                                        ✦ℓкεs/∂ιsℓιкεs ::
                                                        tab tab tab ღ Tart things- the flavor just reminds him of home and he loves it.
                                                        ღ Blankets- His entire room is literally a blanket fort. That's it. He has no bed or anything of substance other than an old wardrobe filled with his clothes and various collections of things and some chairs that he uses to hold up the blankets.
                                                        ღ Liquor- It's literal giggle juice- what is there not to love?
                                                        ღ Vegetables- He grew up on a farm, so subsistence from the ground was absolutely imperative. It was just lucky, he supposes, that vegetables actually taste fantastic as well.

                                                        ✗ Blood- the sight of it sets his teeth on edge. Beside making him physically ill at times, Ramir is certain to shut down entirely if he sees it in too large of quantity.
                                                        ✗ Sharp edges- particularly pitchforks and sickles. He can handle swords and knives (especially since they are so common around the cirque), but anything that reminds him of the old shed makes him squeamish.
                                                        ✗ Cities- they're just entirely too loud. The busier a place is, the less happy he is.
                                                        ✗ Johnathan- just the name. It's irritating.
                                                        ✦ғεαя ::
                                                        tab tab tab Harming Others. He is not a violent person, and is in fact a pacifist in most respects, but he is absolutely petrified of the idea of someone getting hurt because of him. He is also, while mischievous, careful of his every action and pranks, certain that no one will ever be hurt by his good-willed humor and fun.
                                                        ✦вισ ::
                                                        tab tab tab Ramir grew up surrounded by love. They were not terribly wealthy, but he and his elder sister were never at a loss. He lived in a modest house on a farm where he and his family worked. For all intents and purposes, the family was happy. The turning point was an accident that occurred when he was thirteen. His sister, now fifteen, and he had been holding down the fort while their parents went to town with the family's wares. They wouldn't be gone more than a week, and Ramir and Tessa had been in charge of protecting the home before. Under normal circumstances, they spent most of their time horse playing, running around the farm and playing with the animals and tools they were commonly not allowed to play with. There was, of course, a reason they were not allowed to use certain tools, a reason they were forbidden from rough-housing in the old shed behind the house. They had been wrestling, that was all. He knocked her off him, sending her reeling just a bit too far and into a wall where many of the tools used around the farm had been hung. It collapsed on top of her. As she lay dying, Ramir made a desperate plea to the world: "Save my sister. Please, anything!" It was done, and Ramir's soul was forfeit. By the time his sister had come around, their mother and father over her, he was gone from their lives and their minds. They would persist without him, and he? He would run away with the Cirque.
                                                        ✦cяεαтσя ::
                                                        tab tab tab xXx Fox Trot xXx


__________________________________ νσтяє âмє єѕт ℓα мιєииє ...

Anxious Loiterer

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✪ Alaizabel tab "Elusive Belle" tab Conway ✪
✪ Gender: Female tab tab tab tab Sexuality: Heterosexual ✪
✪ Twenty-Two tab tab tab Eighteen ✪
✪ Escape Artist ✪
✪ Power: Teleportation ✪

                            ✪ Personality::

                                Alaizabel is the human visage of a diamond: beautiful to look at, but wickedly sharp and rigid, with all of the angles and chilliness to go with it. The woman is a thoroughbred noble through and through. Her surface, previously considered too "blasé" to be genuine, is now very plainly a cold affect. She is proper and polite, dignified in every respect. However, this is entirely for the purpose of placation. Not only does she not want to forge a relationship with anyone, but she does not even seek to entertain the thought that a relationship could be forged to begin with. She is distant, maintaining a(n un)healthy perimeter around herself and those that are near to her amid the Cirque. Someone who did not know better may mistake it for genuine propriety, for an attempt at camaraderie, but those who have seen her previously are able to clearly define the different. She revels in solitude, in quiet independence, and in the most shallow emotions possible. Her emotions are kept close to her chest, tucked away and reserved for only the most vetted elite, only those who have remained from the previous troupe. To anyone else, she is distant and poised, elegant and regal but with a biting wit and quick tongue that can only be demonstrated by the obviously educated and painfully uninterested.

                                Previously a non confrontational sort, the Viscountess has recently come to terms with the realization that there are some things that you simply must stand up for: your allies, your loved ones, and most importantly your doubts; if Alaizabel sees something that she considers dangerous to the troupe or to those above her contempt, she will be the first to quite literally corner and interrogate them until they have conceded (this is born entirely of her failed attempt to intervene on Morgan's behalf, an intervention that she believes that, had she pursued, could have saved countless lives). While she still tends to be passive and aloof about most issues, she is not going to keep quiet any longer. Firm and direct, she will address an issue should it arise, so long as it is in the defense or favor of those around her. In regards to herself, though, she is relatively at peace with the fact that no one among the new members will likely enjoy her or seek her company; nay, they will likely despise her. It is almost worrisome to her that she does not seem to care about this, but alas she does not.

                                Alaizabel has always struggled with trust, and now that err toward caginess has only been reinforced. Breaking down her barriers is not only a struggle, but must be meticulously maintained, lest she attempt to refortify herself during lapses in interactions. Friendship with Alaizabel is not easily won, but it is, in a word, desirable. Her independence does get in the way of any true attempt at companionship (after all, positively anything that can be done alone will be done alone if the Escape Artist has anything to say for it), but for those who are among her allies, she is a veritable vassal to their will. A serpent in the grass, a knight at their elbow, Alaizabel would as soon kill as die for those that she trusts and loves. Amid the company of these people, she is tender, genuine- almost a complete foil to the everyday facade that she portrays. Her mask is set carefully, and when removed she is neigh unrecognizable. While she is still very guarded in affect and poise, she is obviously more at ease, more relaxed and plain. Even then, though, she is stubborn to a fault, entirely too reliant upon her own power, which while boast worthy is not without failings. This is especially true where the workings of the train are concerned.

                                Deep within, she realizes that she is actually exceptionally weak for placing so many blockades and walls around herself. She understands that she is vulnerable and cowardly. However, until the aching in her soul wanes, she will remain so. It will take time, care, and a tremendous amount of patience from those around her, a patience that she does not expect anyone is willing (or able) to afford. It took her almost two decades to not forgive, but recover enough from her father's betrayal to proceed with her life... and look what became of it.

                            ✪ Fear:: Abandonment
                            To be left truly alone, to have absolutely no one left around her that she knows or cares for, is the most horrific thing. While she is guarded and distant, she loves with her whole being those trusted few. If she were to lose any of them, after what they survived together... Alaizabel is loathed to even think of the drastic measures she would take to alleviate that agony.

                            ✪ Likes/Dislikes::

                                ♥ Trains This is a recent love, one flame fanned by a passion to grow closer to another who's own flame was smote entirely too quickly. Since then, her passion for reading has tag teamed with her desire to learn, and she has been unable to put down any piece of literature that she has found about trains, specifically the model of the new train that the troupe has come into ownership of. She works very intimately with the machine, and knows every bit of its inner workings. It is only with stagehands that she is willing to share not only her knowledge, but the engine room itself with.
                                ♥ The Lake Once her personal oasis turned exclusive hideaway for her and her dearest, she now finds herself again embracing the solitude and serenity that comes with escaping to her favorite place. The old lake was a place where her mother used to sojourn to when she was young, and Alaizabel has frequented it countless times since her youth. Alongside her garden of bella donnas, a small patch of white lilies are growing in their infancy. They require a grand amount of meticulous care, but they are of great importance to her. She will make the time.
                                ♥ Reading Literature is her best friend and her most vetted allies. Literature will never betray her, but will instead swiftly sweep her away into a wonderful land of fantasy and mysticism. The solitude and silence that comes with reading in her room is second to none. However, it is important to note that anyone may speak candidly to her about books. It is one of the few things that she is willing to discuss with absolutely anyone regardless of their standings as her friend or not. Alaizabel will openly talk about novels of any variety with anyone, and will typically be quite genuine about it. It is one of the safest topics to approach her on under any circumstance.
                                ♥ Small or High Spaces Alaizabel, being an escaped artist, is used to confining herself to small spaces. She has actually come to find comfort in hiding, in finding small places, or even just places that are high and out of reach. The roof is one of her most treasured sojourns, second only to her lake.
                                ♥ Her Locket Alaizabel has a small silver locket that she wears at all times. Within it is a small photo of her and her mother when she was a child. She never is without it.

                                ✗ Tarot It is not that she dislikes it, per say. In fact, she adores sitting with the cards, listening to their silent whispers of a future that will potentially come to her, chuckling at the messages they seem to send her as the pop up in a random order about her room on occasion. It is when others use tarot, or make some sort of divination, that Alaizabel is immediately irritated. Irrational as it is, she will never make a blunt comment about why she finds it so utterly distasteful from others, but she consciously knows that it is entirely due to the whetstone-sharpened knife of grief goring into her at the thought of Paul's lessons. Still, she cannot stifle the stab of bitterness and jaded agitation that comes with other "fortune tellers" or "diviners".
                                ✗ Deceit For someone so typically disingenuous, this may seem like a strange dislike, but Alaizabel is not concerned with such petty displays of dishonesty as 'oh I love you dress' and 'yes I do enjoy your company'. Her distaste surfaces when someone's dishonesty treads too near to causing harm. She is no longer willing to lie down and pray that if the problem isn't acknowledge it will go away. If Alaizabel has anything to say about it, or if she notices anything potentially nefarious, she will comment, and possibly publicly, on the behavior or intent.
                                ✗ God She was never a fan to begin with. But now she feels positively sickened at the sight of the cross, especially the one so boldly emblazoned upon the dagger that she keeps stashed beneath her mattress. The fact that some sort of fictitious deity would dare intervene in her life is laughable and detestable, and she will not take kindly to any sort of offered prayer or allusion to the great, all-loving crutch for the weak and pitiful.
                                ✗ Cold Weather There's no real deep meaning or explanation for why, but she just hates being cold, and cold weather just makes it worse. There's no avoiding it, but she is pretty well known for walking around with blankets draped over her when the weather starts to dip.
                                ✗ Shoes She hates shoes. She only wears them when she is forced to. She loves the feeling of dirt under her feet, and shoes mess that up. It's the same with socks. She just... cannot stand things on her feet.

                            ✪ Bio::
                                Alaizabel was born in a noble family to her mother, Melanie, and her father, Vincent. Her mother was a frail thing, always sick and weak in some form or way. When Alaizabel was five, her mother fell bedridden, and each of the doctors they called to tend to her (as her father would not just have one doctor for his beloved Melanie) told them that she did not have long. Her father would not have it. As Alaizabel laid by her mother's side one night, she heard her father sneak out of their home. She was not terribly concerned- her father left late a lot with no explanation. She fell asleep, too worried about her mother to fret about him. He did not come back until the next day. From that moment on, he did not leave Melanie's bedside, but something seemed... different.

                                Her condition never worsened. It seemed that her mother had reached the peak of her illness and then just... remained. Suffering. Pained. Bedridden for years and years. For ten years, Vincent and Alaizabel cared for the ailing Melanie, praying to any higher power to heal her. But no relief came.

                                It was twelve years of unrelenting upkeep of the house, tutoring, training, and other such duties of a noblewoman. She learned to be a proper woman; poised, prim, dainty, polite, kind, caring, gentle, subdued. She learned arithmetic, horseback riding, dancing, piano, and all of the other expected traits and skills of a woman of her stature. All of this compounded with taking care of her mother, and eventually of her father, who became so single-mindedly obsessed with Melanie that he begin neglecting himself, made her life a bit more hectic than she felt she could handle, at times. If it weren't for her talents, she would have lost it completely. She discovered that she could teleport was she was seven years old. All she wanted was go to town and buy her mother her favorite tarts, when suddenly there she was. She was beside herself with joy. She kept the ability hidden from her family and servants, but utilized it to its fullest as often as she could- the joy she got from escaping her responsibilities was glorious. Everything went on like this for years and years.

                                When she was nineteen, her father fell gravely ill as well, taking up the bed beside her constantly ailing mother. It was then that he finally told her, finally explained what had been going on all her life. He had made a deal, a contract, to keep her mother alive. He had been too scared to lose her, to afraid to be without his love, his darling Melanie, that he couldn't stand to lose her. Ever. So he made a deal to keep her alive, so long as he remained alive. With his death, hers would follow suit. And Alaizabel? Alaizabel would take up his debt. Before the horror had even set in, her father was gone, and her mother faded soon after.

                                She joined the circus three years later, after she figured out her situation, after she had finally come to terms with everything that had happened. She would serve the debt, she would perform in the show. But she could not forgive her father for what he had done, not only to her, but to her mother.

                                ----

                                Eighteen years passed, and nothing truly tremendous had happened. Alaizabel went about her business, mastering her craft of "escaping", be it reality or otherwise. Along the way, she managed to open herself, one stitch at a time, to a collection of people among the troupe. As her pool of friends grew wider, her cold exterior seemed to melt away, bit by bit, until she was finally willing to allow herself one person near to her heart, nearer than any before: Paul Buford. The romance was, in many ways, whirlwind. It took hold of her all at once, rushing upon her like the breaking of an unseen wave. Three years of lessons in reading, in tarot, in train mechanics and more had eventually culminated to the beginning buds of romance between them. But it was not to last.

                                The "Celebration of Life" was anything but. In one fell swoop, the woman who had caged herself from attachment for fear of emotional retribution was met with the death of not only her dearest companions, but her love. The reality of what had happened is slow to reach her, and to an extent she is still reeling from the carnage wrought in the Big Top. Even now months later, it is highly uncommon to see her outside of the confines of her room, and if she is seen, it is likely near to those who survived. They are trustworthy. They will remain.
✪ Creator:: xXx Fox Trot xXx ✪



Other:
- It is at the forfeit of your life that you may touch her tarot deck. Even if it comes to you, for whatever reason. Do. Not. Touch it.
- Under no circumstance will Alaizabel enter the Big Top. She will not be harassed or pushed into it, and she demands to perform outside of the canvas mortuary.

Anxious Loiterer

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✪ Damuron tab "Doctor" tab Hayes ✪
✪ Gender: Male tab tab tab tab Sexuality: Demisexual ✪
✪ Twenty-Three tab tab tab Seven ✪
✪ The Doctor ✪
✪ Wound Transferral: Damuron is capable of "healing" wounds, by which I mean he can actually take the wound from someone else and put it elsewhere. His typical go-to is to remove someone's injuries and sustain them himself; if that isn't possible, he usually will lessen the wound and split it between himself and the person who incurred it. Obviously, he can only withstand so much personal injury, so there is a limit to how much he can perform, but he will work himself to his absolute limit if he thinks he can get away with it- even if that means lying to people about how much he can take on at a time. It is to his credit that his abilities come with a small bonus: a minute amount of accelerated, even improved healing. That can only take him so far, though, and can only mitigate a moderate amount of the lingering effects of a given injury. ✪

                            ✪ Personality::
                                Selfless to the point of self destruction is assuredly the best way to describe him. Damuron spends all of his energy, every ounce of his strength, serving others both because it is what he loves to do and because of a sense of obligation (in no small part due to his status as a doctor, but also just by his nature). He is kind and generous, willing to do anything he can to satisfy others. If it is within his power, you can rely on him implicitly. He is a gentle and doting sort, warm in nature to literally anyone that he comes across. In that way, he could be seen as a sort of mother hen character. Sometimes his overly worried (occasionally bordering on frantic depending on the nature of the concern) can be seen as almost overbearing. Those who knew him prior to the tent fire know that this neuroticism is a recent development, as does he; it is not uncommon for Damuron to apologize almost reflexively for his potentially irritating nature. This also carries over into an almost crippling defensiveness of those around him. It is doubly intense for those few who survived the horrors of the tent fire, but even those he barely knows that are now among the troupe’s ranks are subject to his very blatant and oddly blind gestures of solidarity. He trusts them all wholly and without question, and is almost too willing to put his life on the line to serve and protect the others...

                                His naivety is something that others tend to enjoy and exploit, as he is often seen as a bit dopey and unworldly. He is the sort of person to attempt to light a room, always there with a smile and a laugh, maybe even a good natured joke when he can muster it. Yes, outwardly, Damuron is a content and happy person. This is an image he strives to project, partially to alleviate burdening others with his issues, but also partially to lift the spirits of those around him. He wants to believe his outward persona himself. He wants to be okay.

                                The fact remains though that he simply is not. He keeps his damaged soul to himself, but there is no denying that he is a broken man. His powers, once a blessing, now fill him with dread each time he uses them, as he is unable to suppress the memories of what he has done. His slumber is plagued by nightmares, the visions of those he has harmed coming to him to wreak havoc on his psyche. He is no longer the confident and self-assured person that he was before; now, he sees himself as an albatross, a harbinger of pain and suffering that he is unable to continue to repress. It may not occur now, but someday he will slip, someday he will snap, someday he will hurt someone he cares for and will be unable to do anything for it. All of these fears and emotions, however, are kept tightly under lock and key. Not even his dearest friend, Taubryn, has heard a peep of his woes, his sleepless nights, his inability to cope with the flashbacks and stresses that come to him on the daily. To those of the Cirque, old friend or new, he is fine. He promises.

                                It is important to note Damuron’s anger issues. They are extremely rare to manifest- in fact so rare that his only true blind anger has occurred twice in history-, however should he ever achieve this level of fury, everyone near ought to take cover. Damuron is explosive, and if pushed can turn dangerous in a thankfully directed fashion, but still the lingering fear of harming someone unnecessarily is always looming. As such, where Damuron used to be quite capable of confrontation and argument, he is now exceptionally submissive and placating. This is especially so in terms of his own issues or wellbeing. He is more likely to attempt diplomacy, or simply surrender and accept blame (lord knows he has earned it) rather than risk anything becoming even slightly heated. He knows his limits, he knows what it takes to achieve his anger; he is, however, not taking any chances. He would rather be soft spoken and borderline maternal than risk the well-being of others.

                                Damuron’s emotions, however, arrested not the best kept secret. His heart is on his sleeve, and regardless of his attempts to hide it, his aptitude for lying has only escalated slightly in an attempt at self-preservation. He can excel at it to those he doesn’t know- a charming grin here, a nod of agreement there (he has, after all, observed Alaizabel’s manners)-, though those who knew him prior are still adept at peeking behind his barding. He still cannot lie about other things: mischief and the like, or some sort of secret plan are all still very obvious. However his emotional wellbeing and his personal regard are both more enigmatic, to the point where it is relatively difficult to tell when something is truly bothering the man anymore. He simply is “happy”. And would like to remain that way, whether only in expression or not. He wants to believe his own facade.


                            ✪ Fear:: Death. Not his own- Damuron himself has never been afraid of dying. His death is about as important as his life. But in light of recent events, he is absolutely petrified at the idea of losing anyone else and will do anything, anything to save those who managed to survive.

                            Losing control is among his fears as well. His list of irredeemable sins has mounted, and the idea of harming another person again... Damuron is terrified of himself and what he is capable of.

                            Finally, his own wound transferal holds a true horror for him now. He continues to use it, considering that it is extremely helpful and has the potential to not only alleviate people’s burdens, but save lives; however, each use of his power is reliving the tragedy that was wrought upon them, that he wrought upon the poor souls that died at his hands. He knows that he has the utmost and precise control of his abilities, and every transfer is not only purposeful, but within his command; still, he cannot help but feel the cold chills terror each and every time he is made to use his “gift”. Still, the horror feels like a punishment that he brought upon himself, and he is, while distressed by it, willing to shoulder it for the sake of penance, as well as in order to continue serving those that he cares for.

                            ✪ Likes/Dislikes::
                                ♥ Kernal — This darling and “regal” kitten is partially to credit for the healing of Damuron’s heart. For as damaged and mourning as he still is, the snow-white cat that he has rescued and subsequently hidden within his bedroom and infirmary is now like a child to him. Kernal is a strangely quiet and obedient cat, responding well to his name and to a small variety of tricks. The majority of the members of the troupe are allowed to know about him under one strict rule: ”Please, whatever you do… don’t tell Morgan?”
                                ♥ Birds-- Nothing really to it, but he just loves birds. They're just majestic and beautiful creatures. His binoculars are some of his most prized possessions, and he actually keeps a book of all the different birds he finds along their travels. It concerns him that Kernal seems to have a fixation on catching them as trophies, but he seems to be curbing that desire by just feeding him better… after all, no one seems to be awake at 3am except him and the cat, so he can whip him up something small in the kitchen… his cooking has actually remarkably improved since getting him...
                                ♥ Violin-- Something his mother and he both shared, violin in something that he holds dear to his heart. He particularly enjoys playing with others, though it doesn’t have to be violin the other is playing. It is too seldom that he is able to play his instrument, though, and on occasion he’ll take it out onto the grounds at night and play himself a small melody that his mother left him.
                                ♥ Archery-- The one thing he considers himself to actually have talent at, but he doesn't get to implement it much. He commonly can be found setting up small objects in wooded areas near cirque grounds and shooting his bow for a while. It's relaxing. He even makes his own arrows, though he is currently in the market for a new bow, as his last one was destroyed in the fire. He’s considering attempting to make his own even.
                                ♥ Helping Others-- Damuron has a kind heart, and genuinely enjoys helping people, whether it be advice, lending a hand, making a meal, or healing a wound, he is (almost too) pleased to do others service.

                                ✗ Sleeping -- It is not so much sleeping that is the problem. The nightmares, though, leave something to be desired about the entirely experience. To the end of not enduring the traumas of his unconscious mind, Damuron has taken to some... extreme measures not to fall asleep. As a medically trained doctor, he is vividly aware of the harm he is doing his body. At the same time, he doesn't care. As long as he can be of service, as long as he can contribute to the cirque, his own wellbeing is a moot point.
                                ✗ Potatoes-- There is no rhyme or reason for this but he hates the consistency, so he'd generally rather go hungry than eat potatoes.
                                ✗ Making Mistakes-- he doesn't like being reprimanded; not because he cannot handle confrontation (he's actually very good in a debate), but because it means that he let someone down, and he cannot stand that feeling. Guilt positively ruins him.
                                ✗ Senseless Violence-- Damuron will not deny that there are times when things will inevitably come to blows. But people who fight for the sake of fighting makes Damuron uncharacteristically angry. Needlessly causing injury to someone is unacceptable, especially if it is someone you love or trust...
                                ✗ Restraints -- The idea of being bound again, of being helpless to defend those that he loves with all his heart, to be unable to even attempt to alleviate the burden of others... he will not stomach it. He can't do it again... not again...


                            ✪ Bio::
                                The problems started when Dawn couldn't have a child. George loved Dawn with all his heart, true, but since a very young age all he had wanted was a son of his own. He was not about to let something so trivial as infertility stop him from achieving his dreams. There was no option in this- she was going to have his child; she was his wife, and by God she would obey his commands. When it was down to his debt or hers, of course he would force Dawn to take on the burden for him- he wouldn't damn his soul when he had a lovely pawn that he could utilize in his place. After the exchange, he took her nightly, making certain that this wish would be fulfilled.

                                He would have a son. He would have a son.

                                And a son he did have a short ten months later. And while he was not a noble, he was going to make certain the boy had a proper, respectable upbringing, regardless of the cost. He enrolled the boy in a private institution, selling his darling wife to nobles in town to pay the tuition. The boy would be a success. The boy would be powerful. The boy would fulfill his dreams where he could not.

                                Damuron, of course, grew up never knowing any of this. To him, his father was distant, cold, and demanding of success. Education, success, results were all that mattered to him. But his mother... oh, his mother. She was a kind soul. Such a sweet, caring, warm person full of life and compassion. They bonded quickly and tightly, and Damuron found a sweet haven away from his father when he was in her company (as they, strangely were seldom together). He modeled himself after her, desiring to be as much like her as he could be.

                                He went off to school when he was twelve, shipped away from his loving mother and into a cold, stuffy institution of higher education. While he was supposed to be working to please his father, but his mother, his friends, his future were more often what gave him the will to work hard, to continue studying and succeed. Each summer he'd return, pleased to see his mother's smile when he explained his accelerated learning track. He was a prodigy, apparently, in the fields of biology and chemistry- he had nimble hands and a stable mind, a perfect combination for a potential doctor. Each summer, he tried to make her proud. Each summer, they sat together, discussing books and playing violin and laughing. Each summer, he watched her eyes dull, weariness setting in where life and warmth had once been so bright.

                                Damuron had never meant to find out. He'd never known there was something to find out. Going into town for groceries didn't seem like an event that would alter his world at sixteen, but overhearing gossip along the road did just that. His father... sold his mother... Not just once, but apparently it was a regular practice, to anyone who would offer a fee and return her ‘with relatively the same condition'. She was whored out commonly enough that a nobleman seeing him walk by, flustered and beside himself in disbelief, had the audacity to ask him where his mother was, and offer him a "tuition payment” with a revolting wink.

                                He'd heard of the phrase "blind rage", but had never experienced it until that moment. He rushed home as quickly as his legs would carry him. He was home before he even realized it, and his hands were at his father's throat before he could stop himself, before his mother could stop him. Her screams didn't phase him; it was the only time he disobeyed his mother. He knew exactly how much pressure he needed, knew exactly what he needed to do.

                                His father didn't bother them anymore.
                                --
                                He was twenty-one, and he was on top of the world. He was on the road to becoming a proper doctor, skating through school on merit scholarship. Only two more years and he would be certified, able to practice, to make Dawn proud. The illness struck before he could make it home. It was a fever, they'd said. She'd been alone, they'd said. "Nothing you could have done", they told him soothingly as the casket sunk further into the earth. But there had been something. He was a doctor, right? He had "magic" hands, according to his fellow students and professors alike. He had a healing touch. But that touch couldn't save someone that was of unrivaled importance in his life? Those weren't hands that he felt deserved to help people anymore. He continued his schooling just long enough to complete his degree, then disappeared from sight.

                                --
                                He was twenty-three. She was dying. He didn't know who she was, but she was hurt, and badly. The blood was everywhere, she was just a child, he couldn't just leave her there. Before he knew what he was doing, his hands were on her. He had to do something- he had to--
                                The wound was gone. It had appeared to be some kind of knife-wound (he was in no position to ask her how she had incurred such a blow), and she sprinted away in horror. He watched her go in awe, looking at his hands. "I did it," he mumbled. "I saved her."
                                His side suddenly felt wet and his vision blurred. What was this pain-- He blacked out.

                                He awoke in a strange place. It was a circus, he was told. A man came by, told him of a debt to be repaid. One that his mother had left him. One for his life. So she was still with him, he reasoned. Yes, he would take the debt. He would work for the circus. He could help people, finally. And now he knew just how.

                                —
                                He was twenty-three, again. Seven times again, in fact. And each year passing brought him closer to his new friends, to his new family. He served dutifully as their doctor, never stepping on toes, making sure to do his best to oblige all those among the troupes members. And he was in love. For a man with such a dotted past, someone who had never really felt the sting of love, it hit and it hit hard. Aloise was his world, and all of his friends were his life. This was his calling, this was his purpose. And for all of the ups and downs, Damuron was content.

                                It was when he had finally come into his own, finally begun to fully adjust to the swing of things, that tragedy struck. Starting with Kimber’s death, nothing about Damuron’s life felt right. He should have protected her, after all, and the guilt weighed on him heavily. Everyone knew it wasn’t his fault- he had been watching from the back, she had been dead before she had even been retrieved from her noose, but all the same Damuron. He had let down his troupe. He hadn’t protected her. And that was only the beginning of the strife. The attack following Kimber’s celebration only mounted his guilt, his failure complete with the passing of so, so many of his troupe (not to mention the one poor life that he himself took, Liesel). Completely swallowed with his grief, it took the entire hiatus from performing to mend himself enough to carry on properly. While he’s still in tatters, he can at least work now to better himself, to try again.

                                This troupe will be his burden. He will see that they are all safe, or he will die… trying, at least.
✪ Creator:: xXx Fox Trot xXx ✪
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