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Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_46 created on Tue, 21 Oct 2014 02:09:40 +0000
Posted: Tue, 21 Oct 2014 02:09:40 +0000

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the evening, I present to you the infamous and delightful Tromperie!"

Alaizabel supposed she should have been honored to be taken along on this job, in light of the last couple weeks. She knew that certain members of the group surrounding her at the moment were positively elated to evacuate their recent incarceration, the train suddenly doubling as a maximum security prison in place of simple circus transportation. But the various oohs and ahhs of the crowd were somehow unfulfilling, the escape feeling faulty, forced, in some way confining in their own right. Her surroundings screamed with a nerve-wracking familiarity. Wealth stained the ballroom around her in the form of dark woods and crystalline chandeliers. It took a particularly powerful and affluential person to boast checkered marble flooring, and no expense seemed to have been spared in leave be the construction of the building, but the fine ornaments that varnished the colossal walls. The ceiling loomed outstandingly high above them, coffered arches cutting across it evenly and with a tasteful flair. The stairs to the back of the expanse were just as impressive as the room around them; each built up to the mezzanine above. Even the steps and railings were made of the same stark marble of the floor, giving the illusion that the floor simply did not end. The vines of dusty gray weaved through the marble like spiderwebs, entrapping each who stepped on them. The entire affair was lit by intricate, delicate sconces; blazing white candles sat within them. All in all, it was quite beautiful. As were the people around her. Her chest tightened as she peered over the crowd. Women stood gathered in tight knit groups, gossiping in hushed tones from behind their fans and elegantly manicured hands. She supposed this was the point that many women gave their "opposition" quick once overs, deciding that they were clearly the superiorly dressed female in the crowd. None of that mattered to Alaizabel, though. Her dress was suited to her purposes. It was intricate enough, the sleeves hanging tastefully on her shoulder, the bodice reaching to just the appropriate depth on her chest. The veil that overlaid the dress itself was semi-sheer, the blues and purples dyed together in an impressive and serene pattern that reminded Alaizabel of the moon shimmering over the lake she so loved. Perhaps that had been her initial draw to the cloth all those years ago when it had first been fashioned for her. The appeal of the dress on this night, though, was that the dress was also adequately subdued. Though it was a fine and becoming article, it did not garner attention in nearly the way that many of the ladies around her did. There were no flashy jewels, no impressive shine or sparkle. It was just plain enough, but just dramatic enough to command the attention a woman of her station- erhm, of her projected station- should. Her hair was tied up behind her head in a tasteful but purposefully messy bun, small blue flowers weaved into the hair carefully. Her bangs fell around her face, framing it; the hair that was usually tied back in her trademark ribbons was now down, shielding her forehead and falling dangerously near her eyes, which now scanned over the room more. Everyone seemed engrossed in conversation, in the exquisite feast that had been laid out for them, in the music that the exemplary orchestra was performing for them. Her own ballroom had been very similar to this one, though the color scheme had been decidedly different and the company had never been quite so plentiful, especially as her father grew older, more frail, more maddened. All in all, Alaizabel felt nearly like she was back home.

She hated it.

Her countenance was in no way forced, but it was not what most would describe as warm, she supposed. It was resting, pleasant, with a small and dignified smile but with a pointed don't talk to me. No, Icarus was the one who would invite conversation, not she. Her primary goal was to blend, evaporate into the crowd. She would play her part; she would please the crowd that approached her, continue polite conversation, entrance the men and women around her with her grace and charm that had been viciously drilled into her from before she could recall. Parties such as these were the purpose that she was quite literally bred for. This was her atmosphere, the place where she thrived. Her grip on Icarus's arm tightened now. She peered over to the man. She had no idea who had let him dress himself, but she had seldom seen rabbits as fluffy as his cravat was. At least everything matched; he even went so far as to match her outfit. That was good. The two of them needed to seem like an item, apparently. Something about making the two of them vanishing more convincing. She supposed it was true that people who arrived to these events together tended to make themselves scarce after a couple hours and a few flutes of champagne... a romantic partner was the perfect cover to make a subtle and inconspicuous escape. Her eyes flicked back to Icarus. His eyes were brighter than she had seen in a long time. The acrobat had always been bright eyed, easily excited, and chipper all to be damned, but this was positively ridiculous. For lack of a better metaphor, he looked like a kid at a carnival. Alaizabel never really thought about the idea that all of this could be seen as exciting to anyone. She remembered attending these fancy soirees when she was much, much younger; even as a child she had approached the party with a cold distance, a carefully monitored demeanor. She'd never really enjoyed the falsities and pretenses. It had always been off-putting, but it had been the only thing she'd ever known. She'd been trapped into it, never full comprehending that she was truly unhappy with her situation until she was out of it... coming back, well... her anxiety was less to do with performance and more to do with the attendees. Getting recognized was the greatest nightmare she could imagine, so she kept close to Icarus, half burying her face into his arm. It was nearly bar none that the acrobat was her best friend, in closest competition with August of course, and she had been close to him countless times. Hell, she couldn't imagine someone that she could have been more comfortable with in this situation. But even being with Icarus, even clinging to the exceptionally excited boy for dear life, her worry simply would not ebb. Her head was swimming with the plans- get in, vanish, get upstairs, find the lamp, get the lamp, hide said lamp, evacuate with a dazzling bang, and then escape the whole fiasco with hopefully no one following behind. So many variables, so many things that could go wrong, so many horrifying contingency plans.... She sighed. Alaizabel was hoping that it would never come to any of those. Everything could go off without a hook, she knew, but when did that ever happen? For now, the idea was to stand beside Icarus, project a convincing lovingness, and blend.

She squeezed her dates arm, shooting him a warm and vibrant smile. "Alright, Icarus, this is your night." she whispered, peering up to him with bright eyes. She knew that this party held no significance for her, but for him this was impressive, astounding. The least she could do was show him what she supposed would be seen as a good time. "Anything in particular strike your fancy? Remember, I'm just here to be your accessory tonight, that's where women are meant to stay at such galas." She looked him once over, quirking a brow and smirking. "So take charge, fair? I unfortunately cannot lead this without drawing attention. Just relax, blend... and attempt not to look too star-struck, darling." She gave a short, dainty laugh and patted his arm affectionately. She had faith in him- he was capable and intelligent. But she was completely serious; she needed him to take point. A woman leading a man would be noted, remembered. And while she would absolutely abhor bowing to his wills and whims, she did understand the necessity and would do what she must to be successful. The biggest success would be for him to remember her "name"...

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Lakeside--& Alaizabel's Room--& Train toward Morgan's Room

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❀

ϻσσɗ:

Horribly nervous, a bit dizzy, and desperate

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✿

ωɪтʜ:

Alone

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❀

σσc:

....this got away from me.... I'll finish posting after Paul and Morgan are done... I'm so sorry....

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_47 created on Sun, 26 Oct 2014 04:14:07 +0000
Posted: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 04:14:07 +0000

xxx

▇▇▇

Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

Bruised 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▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇

”Damuron~! Is there anything to eat?”

The brunette swiveled to face the newcomer, a small smile coming to his lips as he recognized it to be August. The boy slumped against the counter, sitting atop a stool as he groaned his inquiry. Damuron chuckled quietly, leaning on the counter beside him. ”I have no doubt that, amidst this mess of a kitchen, there is something to eat.” he replied, gesturing widely to the area around them. ”Unfortunately, I have neither the culinary aptitude nor the prowess to make anything more complicated than, say, scrambled eggs? Would that be alright with you?” He shrugged, sheepishly scratching the back of his head. August looked simply famished, and he latently felt bad for his complete ineptitude in the kitchen. He’d always meant to learn how to cook properly, but even in all of his time at the cirque, it had just never seemed important. He could thrive on toast and eggs, so why pursue a higher knowledge when he could get by so simply? Besides, it tasted fine. Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right? He also understood, however, that not everyone operated the same way he did. Most people tended to try to enjoy their food rather than just get by on it. People seemed to want to appreciate their meals, savor flavors and treat their pallets. Damuron merely wanted to get by, and that was fine with him; though it did always make him feel bad whenever he was put in charge of feeding others… Great, now what?

His savior came to him in the form of a slender, serpentine stranger. She seemed wholly uninterested in either of them, but it certainly diverted their attention from Damuron’s blatant failings. The doctor observed as she rooted through the supplies, surfacing with an odd variety of foods: steak, cheese, onions, peppers, and more. Crap, crap, crap, what was her name…? He wondered as he observed. Damuron was good at many things. It wasn’t conceit- it was fact. Damuron had been blessed with intelligence, had an outstanding ability to pick up new skills and trades; however, if there was one thing he could not boast, it was a capacity for names. He had resigned to calling various members of the cirque by name only immediately after someone else had addressed them for a good three years when he first joined. Alaizabel was still occasionally Ariana… So the fact that she had only joined in the last two weeks meant that there was next to no way he would remember her name. He furrowed his brows in thought, staring down the woman as though her name would simply appear above her if he gazed long enough and with enough fervor and intent. She turned to face them, and the doctor forced his face to relax. He had no doubt he had looked, if not insane, a bit aggressive in that moment, and the last thing he wanted to do was offend or upset a new member. He was supposed to be their doctor- who would they go to in case of an emergency if they were frightened of their medical professional? "Anyone ever tasted cheese steak sandwiches? I can make you guys some if you like....that is if you people are allowed some real food other than fruits and vegetables. Grim reaper dude seems to keep everyone on a leash here, wouldn't be surprising if he forced a diet too."

Damuron quirked a brow, tilting his head as she spoke. She was so forward, so flippant. It was refreshing, really. No puzzles, no tricks, just her exact thoughts. He smirked. ”Cheese steak….? No, I’m not actually familiar with that. Sounds-“

”Cheese steak? Sounds disgusting.” ”…. I was going to say interesting, but I guess disgusting is a word… maybe not the right one, but a word nonetheless…” Damuron shot the juggler a look; it bordered a glare, but was more of a warning. The girl was new, and was clearly already trying to make a place for herself among the members. There was no reason for him to make her transition any harder than it already invariably was. Flynn didn’t seem to take any heed, however. He continued his reaming, “Why, has he limited your intake to rats? I’d rather have some of Mimi’s cooking than whatever a cheese steak is.”

Damuron turned away from the girl entirely, facing Flynn as he twisted open the rum bottle he had retrieved from the cabinet. He pursed his lips a bit in irritation. ”Out of line, Flynn,” he remarked flatly. He was not an aggressive person, purposefully. But he would not stand for making this situation even more uncomfortable than it already had to be. He quirked his head, obviously an attempt at subtly to tell him to back down. He exhaled loudly, then shifted his attention back to the new girl. He shot her a warm smile. ”I think it sounds good. Thank you. You interested, August?” He shifted his gaze back to the acrobat. He was trying to incite some sort of solidarity, some kind of allegiance between the group in the room. The troupe needed to come together, not beat each other down…

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: WHERE ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻσσɗ: FEELINGS ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: WHO ⋯

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_48 created on Wed, 29 Oct 2014 19:18:14 +0000
Posted: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 19:18:14 +0000

It was always refreshing to feel like you were being listened to. Icarus was exemplary at that skill, luckily, practically soaking in her advise. And he was so bright, too- smiling, nodding; the acrobat was, at the very least, one of the most uplifting people she could have been paired with. It had been entirely too long since Alaizabel had found herself in a demanding, strenuous position such as this, one where she had to actively recall all of the skills she had not necessarily needed to call on for nearly twenty years. She was rusty, out of practice, and having to be on the arm of someone so positively green was petrifying to say the least. This wasn't to say that she did not trust him- no, she trusted Icarus nearly boundlessly, far more than most people in the cirque. Over the years, their relationship had been built on the fact that she could confide in him, believe in him, work with him in special, very specific circumstances. This was not the first time they had worked together; due to their respective skills and attributes, the two of them were actually quite the cohesive unit. He was the brawn (though granted it typically resorted to the speed and agility, though for all intents and purposes that was sufficient enough), and she tended to be the brains of the operation (exceptions always exist, however, as Icarus was not by any means incompetent). The two could collaborate, have faith in each other that overcame common worry and glaring holes in plans. That alone, though, did not always serve to put one's mind at ease. However, his enthusiasm and willingness to take advise really put her at ease, and she felt her grip on his arm relaxing as he nodded. At the moment, she could simply operate off of the fact that he had given her no reason not to trust him. There was no need to respond to a problem that did not yet exist.

"It's your night too, M'lady. You may be a piece of arm candy, but you're the prettiest and smartest eye candy in the room."

Despite herself, Alaizabel could feel herself blush in response. She let out another soft chuckle, then lightly patted him on the arm. Compliments were something she had never been able to wrap her head around. In her experience, compliments were empty, used to put on airs and disillusion those around you into seeing you as a friendly relationship rather than a simply beneficial one. But with the cirque, people tended to be much less duplicitous. Compliments meant something, acknowledgement of accomplishments and behaviors, appearances and interactions, were generally sincere, and when they were not they were very obviously facetious or combative. These people were transparent compared to the life she was used to. It was refreshing in its own way. But somehow it tended to put her even more on edge at times. There was no dance, no build up. Just "you're pretty and smart". And there was no way to respond to it, colloquially. In her mind, everything was very formal, very precise, very scripted. When a member of the cirque dropped something "commonplace" on her, she froze in confusion.

She weaved with him now through the crowd, her head swiveling a bit to take in the surroundings. Idly, she wondered, I wonder how Icarus is honestly seeing this... She was not big on sitting people down and getting their life stories. She was not nearly so intrusive, and she didn't care to be. A person's history did not make a person; it was their current behaviors and morality that mattered more to her. So not knowing a terrible lot about Icarus's life was not a deficit in her opinion. It was inconvenient in moments such as this, though. when she had no reference. He seemed enthralled by everything, but he was able to subdue himself just enough not to seem to stick out too remarkably from the crowd (after all, they were all captivating by simply being associated with the circus). But she wanted to understand what it would be like, coming from a background of non-affluence, to enter this world. What was he thinking of, looking over the painted faces, the facades and falsities, the stiff mannerisms and plastic smiles? She prayed that he could comprehend why she hated the environments. To her, it was plenty obvious why she preferred the circus to this sort of experience. It was exhausting to keep up appearances, to perform aptly and appropriately to all circumstances, to constantly be aware of yourself, your surroundings, those around you who may need to you adapt your behavior just so. Just thinking about all of it now made her head spin, but that was exactly what she needed to do. Be close enough to Icarus to express a connection, but not close enough to be immodest and improper; stand just tall enough to be confident and becoming, but not so tall to come across as haughty and bigoted; smile just so to come across as politely entertained rather than manic and mad. All of these things needed to be constantly monitored. In the cirque, all you needed was to be a warm body and people would generally accept that you were there. Conflict happened, granted, as it would in any situation, but, while her neuroticism had never truly allowed her the freedom to behave as such, Alaizabel had never needed to worry about posture to determine whether members of the cirque would like her. Just that alone made the awkwardness of her social interactions with others, such as the previous exchange with Icarus, worthwhile and preferable.

"Alright, don't let the person who knows what they're doing take the lead. Got it." Icarus teased, pulling her into the room. "What about the food? There's so much of it, and it looks so good!" Alaizabel smiled, nodding politely. The food corner was a safe place, as surprisingly most people tended to avoid it at such gatherings. After all, it was difficult to engage in polite and dignified discussions while stuffing your face with decadent and likely complicated foods. Let alone would it be prudent to distance themselves from the crowd and prying eyes for the sake of the mission, but it would also do her a bit of good to step away from the crowd. The less speaking she had to do, the better, after all. Less interaction left less room for error. A few awkward introductions and polite nods later, they reached the sweets table. The spread looked fairly typical- fruits scattered delicately around a vast array of cakes and tarts, puddings and macaroons, tea cakes and truffles, anything that could strike a party-goer's fancy at a given time was made readily available for their enjoyment. And each of them will think it was done just for them.... she chided, eyeing the macaroons. When she was younger, she had honestly thought that the hosts thought of her specifically when they prepared the meals, catering directly to her desires and preferences. The older she got, the more aware she was that each and everyone one of them was simply covering their asses. There was no way that a party of this size could reasonably consume this much food (granted, they may have underestimated the cirque's appetite, but under typical circumstances); but by offering such a large amount and wide variety of food, they could practically ensure that no one would be displeased. The happier the people were, the more likely they were to oblige the host later for lord knows what ends. Everything was networking, building relationships, alliances...

Across the room. she heard the cue- Ava's cats had begun. Icarus admirably attempted to hide his disappointment, a neigh imperceptible pout crossing his lips. He came back to her, offering her a small tea cake. " A small something before we attend to our duties?" he inquired. She looked at the cake slowly, then back to him. He really wanted that cake, didn't he...? She couldn't stand the idea of letting him down; it was at least one of his first parties, and who knew when he would get the opportunity again. They could afford a few seconds of leniency, so long as they compensated for their actions later.

She reached out, accepting the cake from him with a smile. "Yes yes, Icarus, but only for a moment. We have not the time to waste, after all." She took a short step closer to his side, holding her fork daintily in her hand. She ate slowly, carefully, her eyes flickering over to the acrobat, and to the door nearest them. It was just a bit behind them, just past the table. She had no doubt that, while the attention was diverted, she could manage to weave them back to their escape and begin their search with little to no attention drawn. Carefully, she put the half finished cake down behind her- she wasn't terribly fond of sweets, and didn't currently have that grand of an appetite. She waited for him to finish his cake, then took his arm, poking him purposefully to indicate where to walk. They had taken their moment; now it was time to get down to business.

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Main Ball Room, moving out

xxxxxxxx

❀

ϻσσɗ:

Now's our chance- here we go~!

xxxxxxxx

✿

ωɪтʜ:

Icarus

xxxxxxxx

❀

σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_49 created on Tue, 02 Dec 2014 02:21:37 +0000
Posted: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 02:21:37 +0000

xxx

▇▇▇

Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

At present, Damuron stood in his office, twittering about; he had taken to cleaning his instruments alone, his hands oddly steady and even in comparison to his mind. His thoughts were racing, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

It had been absolute lunacy. For a moment he had quite truthfully believed himself to have been drawn into one of Taubryn's less tasteful illusions. Perhaps that was how he had kept his head in all of the hysteria. As food and utensils began flying, he stood completely still. He remained attentive, but to anyone he was as a zombie, frozen in place. He was barely breathing even, waiting patiently, silently (panicked?, no surely not) as the whole endeavor unfolded. Even as August was struck with a bag of flour, Damuron stood rigid, unmoving. He felt bad for the poor boy, even felt the urge to rush over and try to help him, but he honestly couldn't even bring himself to twitch in the midst of the insanity. Soon, lights began flickering, and doors swung to and fro of their own accord. Even still, the doctor did nothing but now sit, closing his eyes, willing the ridiculous mirage to vanish. But it wouldn't go away. This wasn't Taubryn, he realized all at once, but still could not bring himself to move from where he was now seated by the breakfast bar. He heard animals, heard his companions rushing around in attempts to thwart the threats.

Bringing himself back to the present, Damuron growled viciously and threw the scalpel he'd been cleaning behind him regardlessly. It lodged itself in his lower wooden cabinet, shining with a sinister gleam against the lamp light. He leaned on his examination table, burying his head in his hands. Are you kidding me, Dam...? he seethed viciously. How useless can you be?! He couldn't convince himself of anything else- he'd frozen up. Rather than actually helping his friends, he had completely shut down, simply awaiting his potential demise with absolutely zero resistance. What if someone had actually gotten hurt? What if someone had truly been in peril, needed his help, and he'd just been... what? Sitting there, twiddling his thumbs? Shooting the breeze? Honestly, he'd likely been waiting for Taubryn to lift the illusion, but it should have been obvious how it couldn't have been him the second that someone had actually been hit by something... Poor August... I should have done something.... anything would have been better than that deplorable display...

With a groan, Damuron turned around, sliding down to the floor. He'd cleaned the office until it was clean enough to eat off of any surface, which was impressive in an examination room. He swore he could practically see his reflection in the wooden cabinets across from him. It was something he tended to do when he was anxious; rather than take out his self-loathing on people, he took it out on filth and tidied up. Certain people knew this tick- Taubyrn, Alaizabel, Paul, for example, all noticed he was frazzled by the state of his office or kitchen--

The kitchen. He supposed he should clean the kitchen up.... I doubt anyone else is going to do it... he thought with a great sigh. That wasn't exactly where he wanted to be at the moment, face to face with his complete failure and the reminder that someone was watching them, terrorizing them. His affect darkened, and he glared holes in the wood paneling across from him. Taubryn would never do something like that. He wasn't capable of it. That was someone else, someone foreign, someone with a more malevolent end to achieve. Someone was trying to threaten the cirque, and some cunning part of his mind surmised that it likely had something to do with Morgan's deteriorating state...

He forced himself up, leaning heavily on his table, before shuffling off toward the kitchen. His cowardice was not the issue now. Someone needed to take care of the mess in the wake of the calamity they had been met with, and he wasn't going to pawn it off on someone else, much less Paul (who had already been through enough in that room) or Morgan ( who likely had much more important things on his mind). Upon reaching the kitchen, Damuron drank in the scene before him. It was beyond a disaster. But you had to start somewhere... With a certain stiffness and nervousness, Damuron took to beginning to pick up, wondering idly where he could find a mop to clean up the flour and food that had caked itself around the room....

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Dr. Office --> Kitchen ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: Self-loathing, anxious, and desperately needing to stress clean... ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Alone⋯

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_50 created on Tue, 02 Dec 2014 03:14:44 +0000
Posted: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 03:14:44 +0000

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Main Ball Room, moving out

xxxxxxxx

❀

ϻσσɗ:

Now's our chance- here we go~!

xxxxxxxx

✿

ωɪтʜ:

Icarus

xxxxxxxx

❀

σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_51 created on Tue, 02 Dec 2014 03:20:20 +0000
Posted: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 03:20:20 +0000

Listless was the best word she could think to describe how she felt at the moment, but outwardly, Alaizabel exuded an air of demure reservation. The night had been a disaster, at least on her end. Nothing had gone as she had planned, and at the moment she wanted nothing more than to abscond to her room and dispatch this contemptible dress in favor of a more comfortable skirt and blouse (preferably one that involved one-hundred percent more cotton and one-hundred percent less corset). She peered around at the group about her. None of them seemed particularly more thrilled to be headed back to the prison of the train, though some were more upbeat than others. Alas, it seemed the entire group was avidly prepared to be finished with the evening and board the train for some much needed rest and relaxation.

Beside her, Icarus walked along. Alaizabel dropped her gaze, pointedly taking a few steps stray of his path. Distract the guards, Maiya had said... she lamented, feeling her face flare up. How those simple three words had lead to... to... well, regardless, it was nothing. Just collateral from the job, after all. That was all it was. Nothing to dwell on. Nothing at all. But she couldn't help but notice her breath hitch a bit as she thought back on the exchange--

Whoever had thought that was an acceptable way to engage the guards had been foolish, but she somehow couldn't completely absolve herself of blame. Though neither could she blame Icarus... but-

The train was within sight now, and Alaizabel hastened her pace, dedicated to not seeing any more of her darling friend Icarus for the rest of the night. With no regard for those behind her (though while still maintaining some air of composure), she tugged open the door to the train car that housed her room and ducked through, bee-lining directly for the sanctuary of her haunt. She slumped against the door, heaving a heavy sigh. She drooped her head into her crossed arms, curling up as tightly as she could. The fire on her cheeks refused to subside, flaring up with renewed strength now that she need not put on airs. Kissed him... she'd kissed Icarus? She couldn't remember the last time she had actually kissed someone in earnest, with such a passion and eagerness-- She shook her head, tightening her grip on herself. No! It was nothing- just a ploy, a foolish, hapless plot to take the guards' attentions off of the troupe's less than savory antics. "It was a distraction, Alaizabel. Get your head out of your arse." She was behaving like an petulant child, an innocent and fragile babe who had never experienced such acts. Granted, she truly hadn't, but that was beside the point. She punched the ground, impressively lacking in her common daintiness, and steeled herself. Alaizabel Cyril Conway, you must get your act together and calm down. Air. Just get some fresh air, categorize the night as a hexed blunder, and then remove it from your mind.

Quickly (perhaps a bit too quickly she mused as her head spun), she rose from her crouched position and crossed to her chest of clothes. She removed her outfit as speedily as the vexing trappings would allow and slipped into her vastly more comfortable dress with a sigh of relief. It already felt so far away- the night, the heist, the kiss all fading into the dark abyss of her mind as she dropped the lid of her chest. Out of sight, out of mind, after all.

She presently lifted the latch on her window, carefully crawling out of it. She'd long since perfected the art of mounting the train from her own room, so such a strange display wasn't terribly uncommon from her. She took to her common spot on the roof of the train, laying back and observing the stars. Some calming, serene star-gazing was just what she needed after such an erratic and taxing night, she deemed.

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Main Ball Room, moving out

xxxxxxxx

❀

ϻσσɗ:

Now's our chance- here we go~!

xxxxxxxx

✿

ωɪтʜ:

Icarus

xxxxxxxx

❀

σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_54 created on Sat, 06 Dec 2014 00:57:03 +0000
Posted: Sat, 06 Dec 2014 00:57:03 +0000

Alaizabel peered up into the night sky, an uplifting serenity washing over her. The stifling constriction of the job had left her since she had separated from those involved in the group; small, dark clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring the stars as they lazily rolled along. There was a gentle breeze flowing over her, bringing with it the sharp smell of the trees around her, blowing her hair in her eyes and chilling her slightly. But all in all, it was a grandly better experience than she’d had the entire night. She allowed herself a small smile, leaning her head back, closing her eyes for a moment, and breathing deeply. Yes, this was a marked improvement on her evening. Clear sky, clear mind, she mused, purposefully pushing back the thoughts of the strange exchange between she and Icarus that ebbed at her consciousness constantly. She didn’t want to think of it. Such an unbecoming event simply complicated things, and the faster she could impose personal amnesia the better.
But at the moment, all of that was behind her as she opened her eyes again, looking over the grounds. It was fun to watch the twittering of small animals in the night, the uncertainty of what leapt between the trees in the darkness enticing and thrilling to her. She needn’t truly worry about her safety- should anything actually dangerous launch itself at her, she could easily vanish back into the sanctity of the train without worry. As such watching the shimmying and shaking of various limbs and listening to the sparing, distant chattering and whistling of fauna held no fear for her, simply wonder and amusement. Tension melted from her frame; she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her head on her knees. It was fortunate that she was alone. She was nearly never so unguarded, so very relaxed. It took a lot for Alaizabel to calm herself to this level, even when reading in her room, but she felt that she deserved to let her hair down on occasion….
… until a shout alerted her to another presence, neigh launching her out of her skin in surprise. Wild animals she could anticipate and transport herself from. Wild people? Nothing so simple could be done to avoid an interaction. ”Mouse!” Her hair stood on edge as she registered the owner of the voice, her surprisingly widened eyes zeroing on the offending person. Taubryn, you clod… she seethed, her frightened expression instantaneously tightening into one of stern disapproval. Her eyes narrowed viciously, though there was no true malice. Taubryn knew as well as anyone that she hated being snuck up on, but of course she knew that was not his intention. After all, he’d have mounted the train car rather than announcing himself at the top of the ladder if he intended on frightening her in truth. He climbed up, crossed to her, and slung his arm over her should, causing her to tense in response. She pointedly turned her gaze away, staring blindly out over the landscape. ”Sneaking off, I see? Can’t handle Morgan. I don’t blame you.”
Alaizabel pursed her lips a bit, a strangely childish gesture for her (though with Taubryn she was never particularly worried about seeming childish- he was one of the few people who could make her behave that way regardlessly, thanks to his talent, so it wasn’t anything new with him anyway), and glared to him, but did not reject his touch. In fact, realizing that it was actually a sort of comforting gesture, she relaxed a bit, though remained guarded as she could be. ”That is terribly presumptuous of you, Taubryn,” she grumbled, shoving against him a bit with her shoulder. ”Morgan has not so much as spoken to me directly in the past two weeks, much less given me any particular reason to avoid him.” She quirked a brow, looking to him now directly and without her previous venom. ”What about you? What brings you to the roof top? Memory serves, you are not generally the one to come up here.” Her mind strayed momentarily to August, her typical partner at her roof parties, then to Icarus by product of acrobatics. She huffed to herself, pushing the thought from her mind.

Alaizabel had had full intentions of pursuing the topic further, but presently none other than Paul clambered onto the roof (though granted he was superbly less agile than she or Taubryn had been, and she had to force down a small, inappropriate chuckle as he exhaustedly pushed himself off of his stomach before he realized they were there. She’d always known the man had pushed himself too hard, so observing him in such a raw, honest state was entertaining and, honestly, endearing). She was abruptly hotly aware of how the scene could appear- what if Paul thought they were there, together? This did seem rather intimate, of course, and what sort of impression would it give? She shimmied a small distance away from Taubryn, attempting to absolve herself of any strange assumptions Paul could make about their intentions. ”Oh um. Hey guys. Don’t mind me or nothing. Just fixing the lights, I think.” Great, that answered that. She resisted the urge to physically deflate. What was he thinking of her now? It had been a decent length of time since she had been able to talk to him (her last recollection serving that their closest recent conversation was the momentary interaction in the hallway when he was, erhm, shirtless… and Aloise had effectively ruined that-ruined what, she didn’t know, but ruined it), and she didn’t want him to think… what? What didn’t she want him to think? But now wasn’t the time to delve into her psyche…
”So, how’d the job go? Everything… ok?”
”Fixing the lights? What happened to them?” she inquired, scooting away from the edge of the train and facing him now. He lit a lamp now, then looked toward the cables. She quirked her head to the side, observing. ”Anything I can do to help?” She typically didn’t extend a hand to help others unless they asked her, in which case she would say yes neigh each time; she tended to keep mostly to herself, relying on herself for what she needed and only helping when asked. But… Paul was a special case. She found that she sympathized with him, desiring to help alleviate the immense burden that someone in his position would endure. At the inquiry of the job, she sat back on her heels, shrugging daintily and glancing sidelong at Taubryn (half in an effort to hide her sudden blush and half in a gesture of disinterest). ”I did not end up being terribly involved, but the job got done so I suppose well. Taubryn and company were in charge of the distraction, so we did not have much to worry about. Anything strange on your end, Trickster?” Didn't end up being terribly involved, she scoffed to herself. She’d served as a distraction as well, but of a different variety, and she certainly did not want to dive into details with such assorted company. Who knew how either of them would react, and she was not terribly inclined to find out. Rumors were murder in her experience, and she would do nothing to ignite or fan any potentially villainous flames.

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof

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❀

ϻσσɗ:

Frazzled- all I wanted was some peace...

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✿

ωɪтʜ:

Alone --& Taubryn --& Taubryn & Paul

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❀

σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

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Post: 83347663_55 created on Sun, 07 Dec 2014 06:09:38 +0000
Posted: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 06:09:38 +0000

xxx

▇▇▇

Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

”Well that was wild,”

Damuron went rigid, spinning on his heel to face the offensive speaker. The anxiety drained out of him as he recognized it to be August, not a threatening presence, entering the room in the darkness. It was another moment before the anxiety flooded back, causing Damuron to avert his gaze. He sounded pained- likely from the flour attack earlier. And Damuron…. He’d done nothing to help him. He couldn’t blame him if the acrobat were vexed with him, but August seemed to be in remarkably good spirits as he entered the room. He balled his fists, frustrated with himself. He should have done something, rather than just leave him to fend for himself. Taking the role of doctor meant that he was supposed to improve the life of the performers around him… maybe coming back to the kitchen had been a poor decision after all, he observed, his shoulders tensing now almost more than they had before.

”Is it over?”

Damuron forced himself to move, to respond, in the form of a shrug. ”I mean I guess… nothing’s really happened for a while so that’s a good sign I guess…” he replied quietly, more of a mumble than anything. He was nervous, guilt dictating his entire being. People put him on edge when he was like this; screwing up didn’t sit well with him, and people tended to remind him of his failings (particularly those who may physically embody that very failure). He busied himself now with picking up the larger garbage, gathering it on one of the tables; there wasn’t much else he could really do except rifle through the room and pick up the scattered glass and miscellaneous mess.

”I’ll grab a broom,”

It wasn’t his intention to be cold or flippant, though he couldn’t deny that it could seem that way. As August left the room, he sighed, leaning heavily on the table in front of him. He looked after the boy. Hopefully he’d find it in his heart to forgive him for his plain failings, but alas that was something he’d never ask for. For the moment, he needed to focus on the task at hand. A few moments later, August returned with cleaning items in tow. ”Thanks,” he said, continuing to pick up the shattered plates on the ground as August swept about and accumulated his own pile.

”Do you think Morgan will be upset with us?”

The question was meek, more uncertain than he had expected for whatever reason. Damuron stood, wheeling about to face August. He felt his expression soften, and he gave a small smile. ”If he is, I would be surprised,” he replied, his eyes sweeping the room for a moment. ”I mean, if we had gotten rowdy and done this in a drunk episode, I could understand, but this…” His gaze darkened, and he glowered at the disaster area around them. ”This was…. Decidedly an attack.” He returned to looking back to August, attempting to console the acrobat. Something about him made the doctor feel like he needed protection, like it was his job to see that the acrobat be spared from the worry of just what, or who, had struck earlier that night. He shrugged, giving a small nonchalant huff. ”Either way, don’t worry yourself too much about it. If anyone would get in trouble it would be myself and Paul, after all. You won’t have to worry about Morgan, alright?”

"Do you boys need some help? Damuron’s eyes shot back to the entrance; Rylee strode in, a smile on her face as she crossed toward the stove. Well, she was wasting no time, Damuron noted with a small smirk. ”Stupid creepy monster ruined my sandwich…” She launched herself presently into cleaning, likely for the purpose of attempting her strange meal again. The doctor suppressed a laugh. Talk about a one track mind… But her one-track mind had alleviated some of the tenseness in his form, distracting him from his woes.

”That’d be great if you could help. Hell, maybe you could take another crack at the sandwich the heathens who did this to our kitchen screwed up.” he joked, dropping some glass carefully into his pile. It was impressive just how much there was; some was very likely porcelain, but he wasn’t paying that much attention. It was in this manner that the group worked, silently, for a short while longer. They were making decent progress when Flynn strode in, taking to likewise silently taking to cleaning. In the darkness, it was a bit difficult to pick up, but Damuron could have sworn he saw an unsightly gash on his arm- likely more aesthetic than damaging, but still it set Damuron’s teeth on edge just looking at it. Another injury he could have prevented, should have prevented while he instead sat idly by…

The doctor hissed, dropping the offending piece of glass, which shattered on the ground. In his observations, he’d stopped paying attention to his own actions, mindlessly grabbing a particularly sharp shard a bit harder than was advisable. The gash reached from his the forefinger of his left palm down to wrist, thankfully stopping before it reached anything dangerous. He stood, his affect darkening slightly. ”Damn,” he muttered, watching the blood bubble frantically in the wound. Already it was starting to fill his palm; again, probably a more grotesque-looking wound rather than one that would actually result in any substantial issue, but nonetheless he needed to take care of it as quickly as possible. He turned toward the door, looking at his helpers with guilt. ”Sorry, guys, I’m going to have to go deal with this. Think you can handle this on your own for a bit?”

He didn’t wait for a response, instead crossing the room toward the door. On the way, he casually bumped into Flynn, who was thankfully directly in his path. ”Oh, sorry!” he apologized in passing, ignoring the stabbing pain as the new gash chewed through his skin on his arm. At least this way, I can have helped someone. he thought, departing pointedly. Hopefully no one would try to call him back when they realized what he had done. Typically he would have asked first, but this was more for him than it was for Flynn, uncharacteristically selfish behavior coming from Damuron. He needed to rectify his earlier mistakes, and taking the burden of injury from someone else was the only way he could see how to at this junction. He simply prayed now as he weaved through the mostly cleaned hallways back to his office that the blood from the cut wouldn’t leak through his favorite gray shirt.

As it were, he managed to make it just in time, struggling to unbutton his shirt with only the one hand. Eventually he got it, pulling it off carefully and slinging it over the counter delicately. He looked now at his hand, still ignoring the cut on his arm. He’d deal with that in its own time, but for now it was serving as a punishment, the emblazonment of his failings. His hand could still function fine, he discovered as he painfully flexed it. So it was just a flesh wound, which was promising. He rifled around his office, pulling out a few towels to attempt to stifle the bleeding first and foremost. That would take plenty of time, so he lifted himself up onto the examination table and applied pressure, dropping his head and leaning his back against the wall behind him. ”Nothing to do but sit now…” he muttered, watching the crimson make quick work of staining the fabric he pressed against his palm. He sighed. Maybe being alone was good for him right now… no need to put up appearances, no need to attempt to make further amends. Instead, he could sit here, dwelling in the silence and allowing himself to appropriately mentally scold his actions… Taubryn would punch him, he knew, but as far as he knew, Taubryn had gone straight to bed following the heist. Idly, he unwrapped his hand and replaced the towel with another, sighing. This was going to take longer than he’d thought….

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Kitchen --> Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: Just.... need to be left alone... ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: August, Flynn, Rylee --> Alone⋯

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Post: 83347663_56 created on Sun, 14 Dec 2014 23:52:38 +0000
Posted: Sun, 14 Dec 2014 23:52:38 +0000

xxx

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Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

So much for being alone. Damuron snapped to attention at the sound of his door opening, his nerves still strained from the earlier bombardment. The anxiety vanished as quickly as it appeared as Nova slipped through the door, her tone hushed and diminutive. "I hope that I'm not bothering you, but I need... Oh I'm so incredibly sorry!" He quirked a brow as the girl launched into her apology. What was she suddenly so flustered about? In the time since Nova had joined the cirque, he hadn't had the pleasure of making her acquaintance in much of a substantial capacity, but he had figured out that she was a nice, albeit exceedingly quiet, person. She was meek, small, but had an air about her that implied that she wasn't just what he could see of her. Of course, part of him was naturally curious about her, but he simply hadn't had the time to explore her personality.... not that he was sure he could approach her without upsetting her (that was simply his own neurosis; he didn't like forcing himself on others, so he tended to wait until new cirque members approached him unless given a reason, and he'd already been there when Morgan had... well, frankly attacked her. She probably didn't want much to do with him...) It was then that he remembered that he was shirtless. The twinge on her cheeks now matched his own as he recognized this. Overlapping her apology, he replied, "Ah, man, no, no I'm so sorry. I should have- I mean, who just sits around in a doctor's office shirtless, that was my fault, my apologies-" Damuron peered around his office now, frantically searching for something to cover himself with. An old cotton shirt was balled in the corner of the room (likely something he was meant to bring back to his bedroom later). He reached out with his good hand, fumbling with it clumsily and slipping it over his head. It took more effort than he would have liked to admit (being that his dominate hand was slashed open, his undamaged arm was sporting a bloody gash, and that he was outrageously flustered by the sudden arrival of Nova). The shirt lowered over his head, and he could feel the shirt sticking to his chest from the smear of blood that had stained his shirt in his efforts to clothe himself. He sighed. He'd have to ask someone better with laundry how to remove bloodstains from shirts... while also attempting to convince them that he hadn't murdered anyone....

"You're bleeding a lot, Damuron. Let me... here, let me help..." The doctor watched her curiously as she padded across the room (with a bit of a limp, he noticed, but at the moment he didn't seek to find why) and washed her hands in the sink, knotting her hair behind her head and approaching him. "Hand me one of those towels, please. It is... probably going to need stitching. I don't know if you trust me to... I only did something like that twice at the orphanage... but I uhm... I sew a lot of clothes... Not that that's.... at all the same."

He stared at her, baffled for a moment. She talked a lot, but didn't really say much, did she? He felt a chuckle bubbling in his chest, dropping his head in an attempt to hide his mirth. She was so sincere; it was endearing, and refreshing after all of the carnage and darkness this night had seen. He looked back up holding his hand out to her with a gracious grin and handing her one of his stockpile of towels. "Don't be so nervous, Miss Nova. It's quite all right. Stitching hands is actually remarkable like stitching clothes if you think about it. I just appreciate that you're helping at all. I'd have a hell of a time trying to stitch this one up myself. I'm not much for ambidexterity." He shrugged. Any kind of stitching would be helpful at this point, and he could always correct her if she did something possibly incorrect. At this point, he was just grateful for calm and competent company. Well, debatably calm, he considered. He hissed a bit as she pressed the towel to his palm, biting his lip as she pressed the edges of the gash together. It was pretty deep, unfortunately. Just his luck that he sliced himself open while cleaning. He could at least say he didn't do things halfway in this instance. He followed through, dammit. He mirthlessly laughed to himself. He was at least competent at injuring himself....

"Do you have any antiseptics, or some sort of salve... We should clean this out... and your arm."

He darted his eyes between his hand and her face, observing her as she worked. "Um, yes, of course. It's in the cabinet-" Damuron's eyes scanned the room, arriving at the cabinet in question. "-... with... with the scalpel piercing it..." He felt his cheeks flare up mildly. He had forgotten entirely about his earlier outburst, and honestly hadn't expected anyone to come by at such an hour to see the damage. He dropped his head, sighing. Great. Well that's embarrassing.... he lamented, looking back up. "Sorry about that..." he muttered, pulling his hand back and holding the towel in place. "But anyway, what are you doing here? Are you hurt?" he inquired, recalling her limp. He remembered she had been dispatched to the party, and he had yet to hear any news about how the night had gone. He gave her a once over, attempting to isolate any glaring injuries. She seemed to be majorly in one piece, so it was probably something to do with her feet themselves. He chewed his lip. How had the heist gone over? Was everyone alright? And Morgan, was he doing any better after what may have been a calming evening? He somehow doubted that any therapeutic value of the evening would remain after he saw what had become of the kitchen... He watched Nova now, his face plainly showing his concern. "And how was the party? Everything go alright?" He'd always wondered what those fancy parties were like. Had he stayed in the normal world, he'd have eventually been invited to such galas with his station. But it had never really been in the cards, one way or another truly. He probably wasn't meant for such events, anyway...

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: Concerned, but grateful for the help ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Nova⋯

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Post: 83347663_57 created on Tue, 16 Dec 2014 02:21:53 +0000
Posted: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 02:21:53 +0000

xxx

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Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

The girl was neigh a bundle of nerves as she waved off his apology, launching herself into her effort to assist him. He didn’t know too much about her, but clearly she was not terribly different from himself when it came to someone being injured- deal with awkward moments and questionable situations later, rectify harm first. ”No, no, it’s fine, I uhm…. I mean, that is to say… well, why would you be wearing a shirt if you’re bleeding out your arms like that… Don’t… oh, you don’t have to… I mean… Thank you. I’m sorry, Damuron.”

Her cheeks were a bright red now as she looked away. ”I really should have knocked, it’s not polite to intrude.” she insisted. It seemed the girl left the front of her hair down to act as a barrier between her and things she experienced as unpleasant, namely any form of confrontation it seemed. She tried her best to hide her face from him, and he smiled a bit to himself as the collar of his shirt settled over his face. It was endearing; not many of the ladies around the circus really thought twice about their demeanor toward him (in fact one in particular seemed to strive to remove cloth barriers any chance they had, strange as it seemed- he idly wondered how Aloise had faired that evening). It was refreshing for someone to care for politeness that wasn’t Alaizabel, who was bordering a slave to her propriety as it were. With her, it felt more like a formality, while with Nova it felt warm, sincere. He smiled at her, pressing the towel into his hand again. He ignored the stabbing as he pushed harder. Pressure was obviously important right now to keep the bleeding as minimal as possible, that the vanity of his effort was incredibly clear as the towel took red in record time. Hand wounds bled a lot, he knew, so he wasn’t terribly concerned. If he could flex it, he knew it was likely simply aesthetically concerning, but not actually damaging. That was good- a doctor with a lame dominant hand would not do much good for anyone…

”That… wasn’t… You’re just going to ruin both shirts, now, you dolt. I’ll help you wash it out if you help me bandage my feet up.” He chuckled a bit as she scolded him. Something about it reminded him of how his mother, Dawn, used to reprimand him- firm, but not without warmth and obvious concern. As a child, it had been comforting to know that, even when she was cross with him, her love was still there. This woman clearly had a lot of compassion in her heart, a singular attribute that he prayed her apparently extensive future in the cirque did not strip from her as it had so many in the past. He somehow couldn’t bare if she became a numb, distanced, and jaded troupe-member; it was too tragic, knowing her as she was now. Then again, this was simply a cursory observation, and Damuron was notorious for misinterpreting his first impression of people (Taubryn was always quick to remind him of his apparent failing in reading first impressions…). Part of him hoped she wouldn’t prove him wrong. Her innocence and demure kindness was admirable and exactly the sort of pick-me-up he needed at the moment.

”I’m sorry. It’s… been a really long night. I’m not a miss, Nova is fine. If I were a “miss”, I wouldn’t have been so utterly useless at that party…” At this statement she shut her eyes, inhaling deeply in a dismal attempt to stave off some sort of guilt, which Damuron immediately found misplaced.

He smiled, shaking his head. ”I somehow doubt very much that you were useless, Nova,” he interjected, purposefully stressing her name to show that he was the type to learn from his mistakes. If she wasn’t partial to being a miss, he would not force it upon her. Nevertheless, there were some women around the cirque who did not mind it, so he always extended the option. Occasionally it would slip anyway… ”I’m sure that you were an indispensible part of their reconnaissance effort. Besides, this was your first stint on a job with the cirque, right?” He shrugged. ”Then this was simply a learning experience. I’d say barring lighting the dessert table on fire, no one could chastise you for being less effective than those who were better versed for the mission. I know you’ll figure it out in no time flat.” And he was sincere, as the warmth in his eyes would confirm. Damuron was known for having a candied tongue, one that very rarely spoke ill of much of anyone, but he was also known for being very honest with his opinions; he wouldn’t simply tell someone they were going to improve if he didn’t think they would. And with Nova, he had no doubt. He had not been around so long ago as Maiya had been, and had not actually been conscious of when his soul was taken from him, but he had never seen someone withstand such an assault from Morgan in his life (Morgan, as he had told, had recently been relatively diplomatic about removing souls- what had changed? The familiar sensation of worry bubbled in his chest again as he thought to the Ringmaster…); being that she had come out of it trumps, he had his doubts about what the woman couldn’t bounce back from. Of course, when she had come too, she had been less than mirthful about the event, but seldom would someone be appreciative of having their soul gorged from their body forcibly. He had simply been relieved that she had not shuffled him off as a lackey of the brute who had assailed her, instead accepting his help (despite common wit, he imagined, advising against it). She had been cross, but clearly not with him, and she had been surprisingly pleasant to be around comparatively to expectation. Looking at her now, it was surprising how effected she actually was by this perceived failure. He didn’t consider her as someone who was terribly fond of the circus, so he hadn’t thought it would be that big of a deal to her to contribute marginally less than the other, more seasoned members. In his mind, it could have been similar to Mimi going on a mission (had she ever not adamantly refused and quickly lost herself in the drink so the group could not force her along)…

Mimi…

Where had she gone, he now wondered. Morgan had mentioned that she had been injured somehow and had ushered her away to a town for treatment. Part of him wondered if he had somehow disappointed the man to push him to that decision- why had he not just trusted the doctor of the circus itself to treat her injuries? He hoped that it was nothing so grievous that he would be ill-equipped to handle it… thinking on it now, hadn’t he said she had fallen of a barstool or something so trifling as that? Morgan surely couldn’t think Damuron so incompetent that he couldn’t reset a bone or two; the girl was the Damsel in Distress, after all- she’d have been able to probably perform despite a few injuries… But for such a simple injury to take this long to heal… Shouldn’t she have returned by now? The bubbles in his chest were solidifying now, forming a lump in the pit of his stomach. What had happened…? His fears about the man in charge were growing, and while everyone else seemed nothing short of only furious toward him, he simply wanted an answer to why his behavior had so drastically spiraled. To him, it indicated something vastly more dreadful than an attitude problem. People were inherently selfish, so he could see why the majority cirque members would rather dwell on their own hatred and fury instead of worrying about Morgan’s wellbeing, but Damuron’s mind simply never worked that way. The man was clearly distressed, and now with the thought of Mimi, and with the recent assault on the train itself, he suddenly worried if the man’s issues stemmed far beyond just his darkened demeanor. Was Morgan’s attitude a harbinger of something somehow more worrisome than his volatile mood…?

”I’m sorry, I know it hurts. Just hold this there, all right. That… cabinet?” He was brought back to the present by Nova’s inquiry. She mercifully did not pursue the obvious line of questioning and seek to know why the medical tool was lodged in the wood, much to Damuron’s relief. Instead, she simply grabbed the metal and tugged it sharply. Presently, she inspected the blade carefully. ”Make sure you change this blade, okay? It’s probably very dull now… at least comparably.””

He chuckled nervously, quirking his head a bit and downcasting his eyes. ”R-right, probably a good plan…” he conceded, darting his eyes to the damages. The hole it had left was nothing impressive, as the blade had been particularly sharp when it had been launched. But it’ll probably need to be replaced… damn, I don’t want to stress Paul out any more than necessary… He chewed the inside of his lip, mulling over ideas of how to repair the damages without consulting the local handyman. The Romani was always so busy as it was, and he had been the one to damage the cabinet; it shouldn’t be someone else’s job to fix what he had broken. Too bad his powers did not stem over into other forms that humans, otherwise he could simply move the stab wound from the cabinet to say his shoulder or something of the sort. ”Again, sorry about that. Should really have dealt with that before someone saw it…” He was typically very good at controlling himself, but… but with the fiasco in the kitchen cart, his complete and utter failing- he’d lost his temper. Thankfully no one had been around to see it. He wasn’t too concerned with keeping appearances, but some things simply needed to be kept behind closed doors.

”No, don’t apologize, it’s fine. Things happen.” It was such a simple response, but it meant a lot to Damuron. Had Aloise or Taubryn strolled in as she had, they likely would have put him on the stand asking about the display. But she wrote it off, allowing him to have his moment and leave it as just that. He smiled sheepishly, quickly trading out the towel on his hand. It was lessening now, which was good considering he was running out of towels, and the reducing blood flow would make it easier for Nova to suture properly.

The blonde rifled through the cabinet, pulled out an assortment of creams as well as some of the bandages he had around. ”Are you sure about this? Can’t you just like… put it on my hands? Or… I could… Kind of lull you off a bit, so you can’t really feel it? I don’t… I really don’t want to hurt you after all the kindnesses you’ve shown me.”

Damuron sat for a moment, looking at her incredulously. What kind of person asked to take a wound-? None in his experience, he was sure. Well, at least, none but himself, though that was sort of in his job description- Wait… Now he understood why Taubryn was so mad at him all of the time. Was he… was he like this girl? No, he was obligated, he reminded himself. In no sense could he possibly relate to that sort of selfless kindness. He had been given a job and in order to properly perform it, he needed to be ready to take the burdens of others as his own. The success of the performers, the happiness and wellbeing of those around him, were leagues more important to him, to everyone, than a few cuts, bruises, and breaks. He could handle it; but Nova… she was simply a good person. Idly, he wondered what it was like to be so utterly giving, the idea baffling him. Damuron had no choice in it- granted he hadn’t had a choice before joining the circus either, and had commonly been known to be a supposedly generous person, but it had never been a choice for him. He couldn’t let someone be in pain; it was one of the reasons he had become a doctor (aside from his loathed father insisting, but he honestly could not have imagined a better career for himself). But Novalyn had the choice to be that way, and still chose to be so gracious. He couldn’t even hold a candle to the girl. She’s so incredibly admirable… what a welcome change… His mind momentarily wandered to his ridiculous, unscrupulous best friend, but he shook the thought from his mind. Not everyone could be so kindhearted- it would kill a weaker person, he knew. Her attitude only stood testament to the strength of her character.

Suddenly becoming aware that he was simply staring as he sat lost in thought. He shook his head rapidly, nearly giving himself whiplash, before saying, ”Absolutely out of the question. You’re an acrobat. This would be far to debilitating an injury for someone who relies so heavily on their hands. Even if you aren’t performing on the stage just yet, you are taking aerial silks once Kimber retires, and that is a lot of grabbing and holding up your weight. Such an injury would be dangerous, not to mention that I would never burden someone else with an injury I myself caused- accidentally mind you, I was handling broken porcelain and let my mind wander…” His expression was serious, resolute. He almost never transferred wounds away from himself (though it was well within his power to do so) save for times of dire need, such as in an offensive maneuver. Damuron was well aware of the scope of his powers, and was not above damaging himself to attack an unsuspecting assailant. But the idea of transferring a wound to someone else merely for convenience was laughable to him. ”The acrobats’ training is rigorous and I doubt they are extending any kindnesses in training the new girl.” It surprised many people to find out how stubborn Damuron could be. Once he had made up his mind about something, it was nearly impossible to get him to change it. There was very little, if not zero, hope that the girl would take this from him. He healed a tick faster than most as it stood anyway. The stern expression melted away then, replaced with a more sincere countenance.. ”You’re doing me enough of a service by simply helping me now. Thank you.”

He shrugged to her other suggestion, shooting her a toothy grin. ”Hahaha, don’t worry about using your power. I’ve stitched up worse without it, so I’d like to think I’m strong enough not to need the anesthesia. It’s not like your aim is pain- stitching will hurt, but you aren’t the cause.”

The kindnesses he had shown her? He wasn’t certain that was really anything of merit. He didn’t treat her any different than he treated much of anyone else (Aloise and Taubryn obviously being the outliers). He gave a small huff of a chuckle, internally shaking his head. She was too nice… he hoped selfishly that she would stay that way. The cirque was assuredly not the worst place to spend your life, but it did affect people, warp their personalities even if minutely. It would be tragic for her to change too much, though, when she had such a warm aura to offer those around her.

Nova now looked down to her feet, where Damuron could now see the shockingly dark blisters against her pale skin. ”The boots they laced my feet into were probably new… I’ve… well I’ve never owned a pair of new shoes in my life. I guess I’m tender-skinned… but the leather on the boots rubbed my feet raw. I’ve got some open cuts, I came to ask if you had bandages. You need them more, though, especially over stitching.”

He peered back up to her. ”Not to worry, there are plenty of bandages to go around… they should have just given you some of Alaizabel’s shoes. Lord knows she has enough. They’re plenty fancy, and you both look about the same size…” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. ”Not like she ever wears them anyway,” he muttered. The girl was so averse to wearing shoes, and had the uncanny gift of finding every stray piece of glass littering campgrounds at nearly each location. Somehow she didn’t learn (more like she didn’t care), but she never seemed surprised or bothered, and Damuron knew better than to take the pierce wound away from her at this point- the first time it had happened, she had scolded him fiercely, demanding that if the wound was carelessly self-inflicted that she deserved to deal with the damage herself. She had even avoided him the next time it happened, instead wearing shoes for an entire two weeks while it healed (she had been more cross at wearing the shoes than she had been at Damuron, to the amusement of many of the members of the troupe, and had spent much of her idle time pouting and staring at her contained feet), simply to keep him from doing it again.

As she began to explain the heist, Damuron paid close attention, his curiosity evident. ”To my knowledge, the party went… well enough. I think we got everything we looked for. I messed it all up, though. I froze up and locked down under the pressure, I suppose.” Froze up? He mirthlessly huffed a laugh to himself. He could relate to that. Not two hours before he had similarly frozen, but likely to a much greater detriment to the cirque than any idling during the mission could have caused. He thought back to the carnage in the kitchen, to the slices on Flynn’s arm that he now bore (a mark of penance for his utter incompetence), to August choking on flour as he sat by, too taken by his nerves and anxiety to offer any relief… His expression darkened for a moment, but he stifled the thoughts as quickly as possible, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She didn’t need to hear about that- she seemed to have a good impression of him, and while he didn’t work to maintain how others saw him, he didn’t work to sully a good reputation where he had one. He returned his attention to her tale. I’ve never… really done anything like that before, you know? I never had a reason to even ever speak to people of that… class, that caste. Suddenly this façade was thrust upon me, and I didn’t really know how to deal with it.”

He shrugged. ”A lot of folks around here are in the same shoes,” he said. ”You probably weren’t the only one taken by the scene. Icarus was there, right? I bet he was gawking like mad the whole time,” He watched her work as she talked; she was more nimble going through the supplies than he would have guessed given her self-asserted credentials. She was humble- was there anything about her that was typical to the other members? Vanity was rampant on the train…

I bet someone like you would have been more suited to go in my place. You always seem to have the right thing to say. People always seem to like you, you know? You’re unassuming and genuine. People wouldn’t have thought twice about you being there. I felt so out of place…”

Damuron had to consciously stop himself from barking a laugh at the sentiment. The ridiculousness of the thought was enough to put stitches in his side. It was baffling that someone had such high regard for him… he was simply a member of the crew, a support for the other members. He wasn’t terribly popular- mostly he was just useful, and people tended to like that about him. But he never garnered such a glowing review before. Someone like Nova seemed drastically more suited to an ordeal like the party in his mind- she was a lovely young woman, and her personality lacked for nothing as far as he could see on the surface. Someone as pretty and polite as she was the obvious choice. Let alone that her talent was vastly more useful to a heist than his would be. He shook his head. The doctor was notorious for being unable to take a compliment. ”I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve also never been to such a gala either; I’d have probably stuck out like a sore thumb. A lovely lady such as yourself has twice the chance of blending in with the crowd as I would. You’re probably more helpful than you realize. Besides, no one can fault you for a small hiccup. Let alone are you new to the cirque, but you’ve never been on a mission before… neither have I, come to think of it…” He wasn’t terrible useful for missions, given his talent for being horrendously awkward and his very specific useful power. He tended to deal with the aftermath more commonly than anything else really…

”Do…. You want me to start? The sooner we close that up, the sooner we can deal with the other one, right?”

Damuron nodded, removing the towel from his hand. He trusted her to stitch it up well, but waiting around would only build apprehension. ”Alright. Let’s do this.”

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: Concerned, but grateful for the help ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Nova⋯

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_58 created on Tue, 16 Dec 2014 05:46:51 +0000
Posted: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 05:46:51 +0000

Alaizabel watched Paul as he scrambled for a response to what had happened. For a moment she could swear his expression was between baffled and incredulous. Had she missed something substantial? She squinted her eyes as the light of his lantern fell on her face, and she raised a delicate hand to shield herself from it's offensive rays. Now she was worried. Her posture changed imperceptibly, her already straight back tightening even more than usual and pulled her shoulders taught. What could have transpired to elicit such an intense response from him? She attempted to focus past the beam of light, but he seemed to affirm something unknown and dropped the lamp from her eyes. He took a deep breath to steel himself, and she could feel her nerves dancing. Was everyone alright? Was he about to tell them the engine car had exploded? Surely she would have noticed something so radical. She stole a glance quickly behind her, affirmed her fears were entirely invalidated and likely as ludicrous as she initially believed, then took back to watching Paul. She could feel her brow knitting in concern, and she took a few steps forward. She gave him a cursory once over, trying to determine if he was injured. For all intents and purposes Paul at least seemed fine, which relieved her more than she would have thought it would. But what about the others? Granted, some of them she wasn't terribly concerned for, be it that she simply didn't care for them as much or because she had faith that they would care for themselves, but some worried her. Namely August. The poor boy was competent, but he was so... youthful. She couldn't help but feel some sort of strange maternal concern for him, knowing he was on the train during... well, she didn't even know what yet, but the longer he took to answer, the more her vivid imagination scampered off with thoughts of javelins through her friends' chests and vampires descending upon the jugglers.... it was no wonder people told her that she somehow resembled Taubryn- she lacked the innate madness, but her own well-read mind could manifest some of the strangest, most vivid nightmares...

"While you were gone we ah.. something... or someone I guess, cut the power. They gave us a right scare, they did. All sorts of craziness happened... probably just some kids, thinking they're funny."

She let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding, her hands fluttering to her familiar locket. It was a comfort to know everyone was alright, and the gesture simply helped calm her further. Her shoulders slumped back to their normal, albeit still rigid posture, and her eyes lost the nervous gleam.

“Kids huh... hope they didn't do anything to my room..."

She started a bit. Following Paul's arrival, she had almost entirely forgotten Taubryn was present. How very thoughtless of me... she pondered, subtly biting her lip in silent apology. It wasn't like her to completely disregard another person. She looked to Taubryn, then back to Paul. How very peculiar... Settling her sights on Taubryn, she offered, "Well I have returned to my room and there was nothing amiss. I would wager your room is in its typical fashion, being that it is directly beside mine. This does not seem like it was targeted at specific individuals given that they attacked lights moreso than people... correct?" She inquired, looking to Paul to affirm herself that no one was terribly injured. "In any case, this does not sound like an idle prank. This was a clear declaration of intent. They want us scared, thus why they aimed for lights." Her countenance hardened as she looked at the fusebox, glaring. "Were that I had been here, I should have liked to familiarize myself with the individuals behind this. We should try not to give them an opportunity to do it again, as I doubt this was a one-time experience. Does Morgan yet know?"

Oh dear, Morgan... why he would be furious, she had no doubt. And he would indisputably exact his fury on those of the circus rather than those who deserved to be punished... She sighed to herself. The man was barking mad these days, and while she had the lingering suspicion that he was not doing it out of spite, but out of some other more primal feeling, she had no idea what to do to remedy it. Alaizabel was not precisely close to him by any means. Granted they both shared quite a bit, more than many of the members of the cirque and she, but if he was pushing Ava away, Maiya away... then what prayer did she have of getting through to the ringleader? Far be it from her to intercede where she knew that she was not wanted, to cause needless conflict (though the second he turned his rage on her, he would know the true body of her fury, and that was not something many pursued, nor had the honor of experiencing; she tended to avoid conflict, but given their recent confrontation she had been given a smidgen of an ego boost when arguing with Morgan, recognizing that eventually she could make him see reason.... perhaps she was overestimating herself...).

As she contemplated, Paul had taken to kneeling, opening his box of tools. He peered up to her, offering her a warm, but worn smile. Her heart leapt to her throat, betraying her conscious mind entirely. Yes, I know he is handsome, now keep still will you? Well... not entirely still but... oh shut up, Alaizabel you are arguing with yourself now you intellectual inentity... Her cheeks burned a bit, and she was all at once grateful that the light was being offered to her rather than being pointed at her. "Aye, yea, could you hold the lantern here. If you wanted, that is."

She perked up a bit with a smile. "Of course. It is a singular event when I am able to assist you for a change. I would not dream of missing it." She extended a hand to grasp the lamp, then faced it to direct the light where she could imagine he would need it. Alaizabel was a gifted writer, a talented fencer, an arguably prodigal pianist, but one thing she had never been blessed with was an understanding of machinery. Perhaps that was one of the things that she was so taken with about Paul. For him, it seemed second nature to repair the hulking leviathan that was the locomotive. As he worked, she couldn't help but be fascinated by his dexterity, the perceived nimbleness with which he worked. And he never seemed bothered by it either. That was incredible. No one shy of Damuron she could have imagined would be such a tireless and regrettably thankless worker. Perhaps she would say something to him...? But no, that would be strange, she thought; she'd make time later to thank him for his efforts around the train.... perhaps... it it wasn't too forward of her. Instead, she spoke distractedly as he worked, explaining the evening (while casually obviously leaving out her neigh forgotten ordeal with Icarus, mind you). The tools he used were terrifying, even more so when they caught fire and melted the metal of the wiring. As she looked on, she couldn't help but feel affirmed that this was more than a simple prank by the local ruffians. It took some serious, dedicated strokes to mangle the wires the way that they were. These were not meant to be repaired- they were meant to be a warning-

"Thanks, just like that, so I can see what I'm doin'."

It was as simple as a phrase like that to pull her from her potential lightbulb moment. She felt her lips form a grin despite herself. For a split second, she recalled a passage in an old book she had read back in her manor- before she knew him, she never knew what it was like to be able to see someone and smile without reason-, but the thought left her as quickly as it arrived. More like it was furiously packed away, sealed in a stone box, then stuffed inside an iron maiden for safe keeping. No, that line of thought was dangerous, and if pursued would only end in irreparable damage (and more than assuredly her own, suffice to say). "N-not a problem." she stammered, mentally kicking herself. Stammering? Alaizabel never stuttered. She was in control of herself, entirely self assured and competent. But still as she stood there, she felt light, though strangely relaxed at his side despite the electric buzzing in her hands, willing them to shake the light she held so delicately still and in place (thankfully her hands were beating her emotions, holding the light steady so the poor man could do his job regardless of her idiocy). She usually had barriers all around, but not at the moment. She was certain to any onlookers, it would be a strange view of her, to seem safe and at home in her own skin, somehow lacking the need to maintain her stiff regality. Luckily no one was around-

“Nothing too extraordinary. There was a woman, my helper for the night, but I doubt you would be interested in that."

Confounded Taubryn where do you keep coming from? She felt herself jump a bit, raising her walls again. Of course the illusionist hadn't gone anywhere; he had been there the entire time, listening in on their conversation, as was his right. Regardless, she could not restrain herself from turning to him (making careful certainty to keep the lamp properly affixed on the place Paul was busily working). "Well as long as you had fun, I am certain we can convince the host to invite us back. You were, after all, his target audience assuredly."she shot back, though with little to no malice. It was a taunt, a bait, more than an insult. Of course she was not interested in his lady caller, but that was her and Taubryn's game- sarcasm. She smirked snarkily, winking with a small huff of a laugh, before Paul spoke again.

"Well I'm glad it worked out at least. maybe we can all relax now, for a little while."

She quirked a brow now, looking at the fortuneteller sidelong. Surely he did not believe Morgan to be in such a state of mind that he would allow relaxation? Regardless of the fact that most of the new rules did not particularly affect Alaizabel, that did not mean that she was not privy to the oppressive stranglehold that the entire troupe felt beneath his thumb... “Relax?" Taubryn scoffed from where he lay away from them. "I doubt it. Morgan is.... Morgan is wrong. H's not inside himself. Or rather, the strangeness is. We won't be relaxing any time soon."

Alaizabel pondered his words. Morgan was wrong? Not inside himself? Taubryn said some odd things to them, but this one had the potential to be the strangest, barring references to various exotic animals. She mulled it over for a moment in her mind before relinquishing her will to curiosity. "The strangeness is inside him, you say... pray tell- in what way? And in what realm does that make sense, but I can guarantee you that it is not this one." She peered between Paul and Taubryn now, interested to see both the illusionist's response and the mechanic's input into the matter.

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof

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ϻσσɗ:

Frazzled- all I wanted was some peace...

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✿

ωɪтʜ:

Alone --& Taubryn --& Taubryn & Paul

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σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_59 created on Tue, 16 Dec 2014 20:06:27 +0000
Posted: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 20:06:27 +0000

Perhaps Paul's work was not as deft as she had first believed. The glove took flame abruptly, and while it set her heart fluttering in a panic, Paul looked just shy of irritated at the audacity of the article. Flippantly, he plucked off the offensive glove and nonchalantly put out the flames. He removed the other glove then, rubbing his eyes now. She felt her brow knit in concern. Had he always seemed so tired? Looking at him now, it was surprising she had not noticed it prior to this, but his exhaustion was evident in everything he did. How long had it been since he slept....?

He pulled away from his work as Taubryn spoke, and she darted her eyes between the two. Everyone in the cirque, while not so eclectic about their explanation, agreed with Taubryn from what she could tell. Something about Morgan was just... wrong right now; he was unrecognizable in some instances compared to what they were accustomed to. But Paul was a special case amid the troupe members, being that he was comparatively close to Morgan. Nonetheless, Paul had to be feeling the strain- "Don't be silly, Taubryn. Morgan's just under a whole lotta stress, that's all. What with the show and jobs and all that." Somehow that was not the answer she had expected. Or at least, not such a haggard, forced response. Of course he was pressured by the restraints, of course he was probably irate with the entire circumstance, but he was still supporting Morgan... "Just leave it be. He'll be fine in his own time, I'm sure." It was incredible to her. That was what loyalty did for you, she supposed. She watched him now, a small grin on her lips. It was a singular person to be able to stick to your guns like that with the pressure of so many people against you, but even in his current state he held fast to his allegiance. She peered back at his work. Everything seemed to be holding together well enough, so the repair had been a success in her eyes. She had no doubt there would have to be some sort of follow-up to it later, but that could wait until he got some rest she was sure-

"I've got to turn the car's electricity back on, or at least try, I guess." So much for him resting before he continued his work. She lowered the lantern, looking to him in the brightness of the moonlight. It was in a moment like this that she wished any of her various skills would be useful to much of anyone in the cirque. If she knew anything abou thte inner riggings of the behemoth contraption, she could offer him some relief. No I'll handle it, you take care of yourself for once, she could say. But instead, she just stood there, uncertain what to do. Should she offer help-"I um... could still use your help, if you're still willing to, that is."

Well that answered up. She smiled, nodding. "Why certainly!" she replied. She held up the lantern with a small bounce on her heels. "I can man the light." With that, Paul took up his tools and offered his goodbyes to Taubryn. She gave the illusionist a nod and a slight wave, then skipped off after the mechanic. They proceeded through the corridors, making their way toward the head of the train. Alaizabel was very likely not supposed to notice his wistful, longing look to his room, but she did. She bit her lip, then prepared to say something, when Paul instead broke the silence.

"So did'ya manage to read any of Wilde's stories yet? I've been keeping up with him through the papers a we've been going. He's pretty good, I've got almost all the chapters. If you want to borrow them that is."

She grinned. She could remember a time when the man could not read nearly anything, yet here he was discussing Wilde with her. She gave a small chuckle, nodding. "Yes, I am quite taken with his work actually. It is darker than I had first expected, but it does have a certain... I am not certain how to qualify it, but it is quite good. How much of his work have you experienced? I have no doubt you have read The Picture of Dorian Grey." She chuckled mirthlessly. "It is incredibly relatable to us, though, no? I suppose in a sort of slant way, but nonetheless uniquely understandable to people in our situation..." She peered to him from beneath her bangs, grinning lightly. "If you have finished with Wilde, I know quite a few authors that may spark your interest, considering you enjoyed his work." she offered, her tone light and pleasant. It was always a treasure to discuss books with someone, and it was always enjoyable to talk with the man she was with. It was a rare alignment that both of those interests joined, and nearly rarer that she was so relaxed while in the train nowadays. She would need to enjoy this while she could...

Soon they entered the coal car. Alaizabel couldn't recall rightly if she had ever actually stepped foot within this part of the train, but it was definitely interesting. But Paul stopped here, leaning against the railing and looking to the chimney. She followed his line of sight, watching the steam from the spout waft up through the air. It swirled there lazily, flowing through the breeze and toward the north. He turned to her now, pressed back against the bar now. "I've always kinda liked it here. Its... quiet. You know?" She smiled, nodding. It was quiet here, relaxing. And something about the steam rising from the spout had a sort of calming effect on her. Perhaps in the future when she took to the roof, she would come further up on the train..."How are you, by the way?"

She quirked a brow, looking back to Paul from the entrancing smoke. How are you, by the way, he asked? In the wake of the day, the question was surreal. It was too... common... too run-of-the-mill for how her life had been progressing as of late... she shrugged, not certain how to answer such a general question. "I mean, I suppose I am well. I have had plenty of time to catch up on my reading lately, so that is enjoyable..." She squirmed a little, lowering the lamp. What was she supposed to say? Small talk was difficult when there wasn't a clear indication of what the end goal of the conversation was. Placating was simple. Diplomacy was simple. Typical, purposeless discussions with comrades? Those were not her forte... She walked forward slowly, taking her time before pulling up beside him. Her feet were cold against the metal of the floor, but her steps were silent as she crossed the space. She leaned against the bar next to him, looking up to him. He wasn't much taller than her- just enough honestly to be irritating that she had to look up. She tilted her head, her hair falling to the side. "And what... what about you? How have you been lately?" she inquired with a small grin. She hadn't gotten to speak with him in entirely too long. Hopefully she hadn't missed too much.

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof --> Coal Car

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❀

ϻσσɗ:

This is nice... what a pleasant change./i]

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✿

ωɪтʜ:

Paul

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σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

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Post: 83347663_60 created on Wed, 17 Dec 2014 06:37:43 +0000
Posted: Wed, 17 Dec 2014 06:37:43 +0000

xxx

▇▇▇

Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

”Let's first wrap this tight with some gauze or something to staunch the bleeding. Keep holding that towel, please."

He held his injured right arm out to her, allowing her to wrap the wound tightly. It was relatively deep, but in his mind not quite so grievous as his hand. If they managed to stitch it, that would be splendid, but he could likely heal with a serious scar and some time if he left it be in the gauze. Of course he would prefer the stitching, but with his hand the way it was, that was unlikely. And he wasn't terribly keen on wasting too much more of Nova's time. She had already been so kind to him already, especially considering that she had no inclination to assist him. Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't experienced worse. If Nova had seen any of the scars on his back or legs, she'd have likely been aghast. He supposed it was pretty unsightly, but he'd never really cared much. None of the scars were particularly ghastly themselves- there were just a lot of them, and not all of them were from other people. He wasn't a terribly agile man in his own right and managed to injure himself quite nearly as often as he needed to repair others... thus the slice through his hand. It would be inconvenient. However, unless someone did something fully and irredeemably idiotic and got themselves severely maimed in the next two weeks, it would likely not cause any noticeable issue. In fact, he bet he could get away with hiding the wound in a glove, should he be able to convince Nova to stay quiet about the whole affair.

”You don't feel light headed or anything?"

He watched her as she worked. "Nah, I think I'm alright," he replied, shaking his head a bit. He immediately regretted it as the office tilted dramatically to it's side, but he managed to keep himself level by closing his eyes, tightening his core, and realigning his center of gravity. Okay, so perhaps he had actually lost more blood than he'd realized. Or maybe he was just getting soft about injuries. And here he had just been praising himself for handling himself so well when damaged... he couldn't go passing out on Nova now. The acrobat-in-wait was already nervous, muttering apologies as she wound the bandages around his arm. If he were to faint, let alone would he be more embarrassed than he could imagine, but it would terrify the poor dear...

”Just until we get that one stitched back together."

She tied off the bandage and returned to discussing the party. She truly had no faith in herself. It was a bit sad to hear, really. She seemed like a bright, capable, and astute young woman, but with such a dismal self-reference he had to wonder how she truly saw herself. But at his mention of his definition of failure, he won a grin and a head toss from the girl. She seemed cheered by the idea that nothing short of arson displeased the doctor, which was not entirely true but for this purpose he would roll with it. Anything that got her smiling was a victory in his book. She adjusted herself to where he was sitting on the examination table, taking to a more precise angle for her future procedure. She remarked, ”Hopefully. If I don't, I'm sure they'll stop sending me though. Perhaps I should just throw every mission... though things seem to have been a little rough here, too."

Rough, huh? He gave a haggard, dry laugh, his shoulders slumping a bit. He was more exhausted than he'd realized, and the now more apparent blood loss wasn't doing him any favors. Yes, the train could assuredly get rough over time, but today's damage was more novel than anyone was used to. "Typically it isn't so bad," he offered, leaning now on his right arm and extending his hand to be more suitable to her. The cut ached quite a bit, stinging against it's wrappings, but it wasn't anything to severe. "Tonight was a rather... erhm, interesting occasion, as it happens. But getting back to jobs, you don't have to throw them. You can always just refused them if you aren't terribly keen on attending. This one was probably less of an optional gala, but in the future you can ask for a replacement and they usually will oblige. I mean, unless it relates specifically to your talents. Besides, in the future you'll probably be put more on distraction detail than on actual heist jobs." He smiled weakly, shrugging carefully. "Like me. Usually, when I run distraction, someone just feign and injury. It's pretty fun actually. I get to force my way through the crowd, calling 'Excuse me! I'm a doctor!'. Haha, it garners quite a bit of attention, actually..." He fondly recalled the last mission he'd attended that they needed to use the trick. Rhythm was not exactly the most equipped of actors. Rather than pretending to be injured, he sort of just... fell down. He was asleep probably before he hit the ground, which he supposed could be considered superior to having to act like you were unconscious. It made The job much more difficult for Pyrrhus and he to deal with, though, when the had to carry the man away 'for treatment'... those were likely the longest six miles of his life.

He brought himself back to the present as Nova stood, taking a tone with him that he had yet to hear. ”Well it's pretty devastating for a doctor to be unable to use his dominant hand! I don't even have to perform, I can take a few days off training. You need your hands for your work, too. More than I do." Damuron felt his eyes widen. Wow, the girl did have moxy, didn't she? He hadn't really been expecting her to lash back at him. obstinate as he may be, it seemed that she could possibly meet his pigheadedness head on, with a little extra kick to boot. She raised valid arguments, but that would not sway him. At the end of the day, it wasn't like someone could force the man to hand over his accumulated wealth of wounds. Of course he appreciated the gesture- very seldom if ever was anyone half so concerned about his wellbeing (at least this ostentatiously)-, however Damuron simply could not hurt someone for such selfish reasons.

"Miss Nova- I mean, Nova," There he had nearly done it again. it was reflex more than politeness. Some people simply felt as though they needed a title before their names, in much the same way Morgan was nearly always 'sir'. It fluctuated for others when they needed a more proper address, but Nova's simply felt more... natural. "Forgive me for being insistent, but I simply cannot give you what you want. I was taken on here to assure that the performers were at their peak, and injuring your hands when you so heavily rely on them would be not only a breach in my promise to Morgan, but a violation of the oath I took to become a doctor." He smiled. "Do no harm. I take it very seriously, and intend to abide by it until my last breath. If you are so keen to help me, however, I would not be opposed to an extra hand around here until it heals?" It was nearly as selfish to offer this counter as it was to simply relinquish the injury, but he felt better about it than harming her. Besides, the girl would have to be mad to agree with him. He hadn't had a nurse in... well, ever really. Help, while welcome, was a luxury the cirque simply could not afford to him.

But it seemed that it was not enough. She went on, ”Then give me that one. You'll be able to stitch it up better if it's not up on your own arm. That one would be under my costume anyway. I will sew this one up for you if you let me help you."

Without waiting for his response, she took hold of his hand, steeled herself and took to working. He did not mind. Not having to reply to her ludicrous insistence only made his life easier. As the needle dug into his skin, pinching it together between the thread, he cringed a bit. It stung, of course, but no more than he could expect from a novice with a needle. To her credit, her hand did not shake, which was a common rookie mistake. When he had first been learning, he had spent much of his time laboring over various different fruits to perfect his stability. She was better than he'd have hoped from other members, that was to be sure. Soon, his hand was sutured appropriately. She cut off the end of the thread with a small, shy mutter, ”That should do it... I... sorry they're not all even. I'm not excellent at this."

He shot a perfunctory glance at her handiwork. Her skills were as she had claimed them to be- rudimentary, unrefined. They served the job, though. He flexed his hand laboriously, careful not to pull the stitches too much, but testing to assure that he still had some form of mobility. "No need for an apology. It'll serve just fine." He looked to her now as she stood, crossed to the cabinets again, and removed more stitching supplies. "Thank you."

His gratitude fell on deaf ears. ”I'm not leaving until you learn to share. It will be easier for you to stitch that up if it's on someone else." she insisted, leaning back against the countertop. He blinked, confused. Did she honestly think he was going to budge on this. He had already resigned to leaving the cut as it was, bandaged and contained, until he could get to it later. To imagine that he would give her the injury after all of the dissension he had already provided... He smirked. Like he'd thought before: moxy. He liked it.

"I honestly don't think I'm stitching much of anything with my hand right now." He remarked lazily, his shoulders heaving slowly in a shrug. He eased himself now off of the examination table, careful to brace himself for the impending vertigo. The less he worried Nova, the better, after all. "You did an outstanding job, considering how you claim you are qualified, but even if the best doctor in the world had stitched my hand, it would be too sore for such finite movement. Besides, this one can probably just heal on it's own. No real fuss there." He leaned heavily now on his right arm, trying to ignore the slight tremble. He was feeling weaker than he had expected; more than likely, it was a combination effect of exhaustion, the excitement from earlier in the night, and now the abundance of blood that had leaked from his hand. The fragility of the human body sometimes vexed the man. It had not seemed like that much blood until he had stopped it, but looking at the rags littering the floor, as well as the many blood drops glaring offensively back at him from the tile, he realized he had potentially underestimated the damage he had caused. Disregarding that, he leveled his stare at Nova, strong and certain. He was not backing down from this. He had an oath, he had morals, and he had firm belief that he was in the right. There was no shaking him. But she could try. It would be a welcome distraction from what his mind would venture to without such intrusion.

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: Concerned, but grateful for the help ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Nova⋯

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