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Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_61 created on Wed, 17 Dec 2014 08:03:46 +0000
Posted: Wed, 17 Dec 2014 08:03:46 +0000

As they leaned against the guardrail, the night air now chilling her slightly, Alaizabel watched the man as his countenance lightened, and she felt the earlier uneasiness ebb a bit in response to his uplifted mood. He gave a short laugh following her relation to Wilde's novels. "Could you imagine? Morgan having a bunch of paintings of us in his office? That aged too? Just think on how old Maiya would look!"

The thought was enough to set her laughing, recalling just how long the woman had been with the troupe. Nearly, or even exceeding, a century now, wasn't it? The Maiya she knew was so beautiful, so spry, so... well, voluptuous. Aging that by one hundred years was nothing short of hilarity in its purest form. Sagging.. so much sagging... hell, in honesty the woman would be nothing short of dead if she were in the world outside. But Maiya was not the only aged member of the troupe. Morgan's portrait would be nothing by a skeleton by now, she was certain. The man was timeless, ageless, and as such very likely inconceivably time worn. Some far-fetched part of her mind contested that, when he joined, paints likely had not been invented yet, but she knew that was an impertinent thought that would date him far before even Romans. The idea was utterly absurd... she hoped... And Taubryn! He had been there an awfully long time as well. Somewhere around forty years ago, if she recalled correctly. By this time in the real world, the man would be either bed-ridden or require some sort of assistance moving around. His light, shaggy hair would be grey (or worse, gone), his skin wrinkled and worn. Then there was Pyrrhus. He had been the entrance prior to her own, though by a full twelve years. In her mind's eye, he had grey hair at his temples, wrinkles around his eyes, and perhaps a slight hunch to his posture, but overall not too much would be visibly different thirty years from now. And next was herself... would be Alaizabel. In that moment, she all at once remembered why she did not like to dwell on such thoughts. By the heavens, she was forty years old now. She turned to face the railing, leaning on it with her forearms now, and looked up to the sprawling nightscape above. Her portrait would be... a visage of her home back in England. She gave a small, discontented sigh. She wondered how the old building was doing now. It likely lacked anything in the form of care, being that no one in this age would buy the dilapidated old thing and she had no doubt her servants had long abandoned it. It was just a shabby, derelict, and outcast piece of history now, an unsightly homage to the once fortuitous and grand Conway earldom. The help and residents had long since cleared out. The paint, already having been neglected in the years following her parents' passing, was likely peeling now, twisting and rolling into macabre ribbons as it dislodged itself from the walls. The curtains and cloth trappings around the home would be blanketed in dust and moisture, probably riddled with holes from moths. The various trappings damaged, the silver tarnished, the stairs creaking, doors hanging from their hinges in disrepair...

"I'd love that, if you could spare them. I wouldn't want to be taken them from you, if you were still using them. I've got just about all the chapters of An Ideal Husband, if you wanted to borrow those. I'm only missing the last two, and one in the middle. But its pretty predictable so far, I think. I'll be you we could guess at the ending."

She snapped out of her reverie as Paul continued, still captivated by the conversation of books. Clearing her throat daintily, she forced a small grin. "I do not believe I have actually seen that novel. If you would not mind, I would be delighted to see it some time." Now her mind was fully returned to the conversation and hand, and her smile relaxed a bit. "Perhaps when I catch up, we can make a game of guessing the ending. It could be fun to make a small, friendly wager on the outcome." She leaned back from the rail now, rocking back on her heels. Of course I can spare a few. If you have not yet, I would recommend Bram Stoker's Dracula. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but it is, I warn you, a bit dark. Perhaps even darker than Wilde, depending on your definitions. Hmmm... I would offer Poe, but I have no had the gall to ask Morgan if he has indulged in it just yet..." Being that Morgan was a bit, how you say, indisposed as of late, she highly doubted he had had the leisure time required to properly enjoy many of Poe's fiction treats. She wouldn't even know how to breach the subject with him at the current time. In the wake of this loss of a fellow literature lover, it was wonderful to be able to discuss things with Paul. To have another person who was so captivated with books, especially someone who had not two years ago known so very little of the joys of reading, was such a remarkable thing. She did not know all of Paul's story, but she understood that he had never been exposed to literature prior to joining the Cirque. In fact, it was Morgan's insistence that had initially started him reading. But all of Morgan's lessons were, respectfully, very dull. He was exposing Paul to all of the poems and stories that she had been loathed to read during her tutorship. As such, she had... well, not undermined Morgan's lessons, per say. She had merely elaborated on them... in secret... without telling Morgan so much as a whisper of it. She had simply wanted to show him that reading wasn't simply about arithmetic or symbolism or boring (though extremely important) recitations of history; she wanted to open his world to the exciting possibilities that novelists had bled and died for over the last several thousand years. So many stories worth exploring, worth ravenously seeking out and indulging in, that she couldn't bare the idea that Paul's perception could be spoiled by the formality and academia of it all. Alaizabel was intelligent, granted, and understood that intellect garnered respect and was invaluable to a positive life experience, but it was her firm belief that literature was meant to be enjoyed, an escape, rather than an academic prison for the wealthy and privileged. For it to take, and so deeply, in someone like Paul was simply validation for her that reading was meant for everyone, and could bring unknowable joy to so many lives, if only they would
allow for it.

Presently, Paul leaned away from the railing, up-taking again the original task of making it to the engine car. Of course he would move after she had floundered her response like that. All he had asked what how she was doing. Why was that so difficult to answer? Small talk was supposed to be simple, a staple of a person's life or some rubbish like that. And yet here she was, flubbing it up with admirable klutziness. She asked the same question to him as he reached for the console; he paused for a moment, pensive. Had she said something wrong? Her stomach aerieled in response. How could she have messed it up, it was a common greeting! But as she looked at him, she knew all at once that the error did not lie with her inquiry (though he did seem distressingly taken aback by her reply, for whatever reason). He was musing over something, like a genuine answer was on the tip of his tongue-

"Tired, I guess. Never a dull day."

But he stopped himself, favoring a simple, succinct answer instead. And could she blame him? Her answer had been abysmal at best- how could she expect him to return with a detailed recounting of his day. Yet some part of her had yearned for that. She wanted to sit down and drink tea (or whatever it was that Paul imbibed... he was a bit of a drinker, but that came with the territory given his unique talents) and discuss their days. No holds barred, just sheer honesty, with the knowledge that-- that what? Paul was moving away from her now, observing whatever it was he needed in the engine car more than her, so thankfully he would likely not notice her pause, shaking her head. What was she expecting of this poor gentleman? He was kind to her, had idle and polite conversation, and did not put her out. What more could she ask for among troupe members? But some part of her... wanted more? She wasn't entirely sure, but she was certain that this was the part of the inner monologue where she stuffed her feelings away in the recesses of her mind and ignored them. Instead, she inspected the car around her. It was assuredly so that she had never set foot in this part of the train. She'd never needed to. And looking around, she somehow doubted she was needed now. The room was actually well lit, rendering the lamp she held utterly useless. But Paul had asked for her assistance, and she would offer it as long as he wanted. She took the seat as he directed, pointing the light just as he instructed. She gave a cursory glance around. How long would it take her to learn all of the inner workings of the engine room? It was so uncommon for her to learn much anymore, at least nothing substantial as running a train. There were so many dials and notches, buttons and flickering lights, that she could hardly make heads or tails of the mess. However it was obviously an organized, purposeful mess, since someone knew how it operated. Paul surely did.

"Ok, and see that one red light there, the one buried in between all the green ones. Those are the kitchen lights. Turning the switch above it there should turn the lights back on there."

Ahh, and it seemed that she would be doing some learning. She smiled, eyes passing between where the man and where he was pointing. This was nice, she thought. Sitting, relaxing, learning with the company of a dear... friend. Yes, friend, that was what he was. Of course, it was silly that her mind had needed to work to retrieve that word in reference to Paul. I mean, after all, this was Paul. Not that there was anything wrong with Paul, she now insisted. No, Paul was delightful, kind, entertaining, and remarkably brighter than you would believe at the surface.... For a moment, she thought back to her night on the roof with August, discussing his affections toward Ava. Paul had been at the campfire with Rhythm, she remembered. She'd been observing the fortune-teller in action as they had talked. What is love, he had asked her. "To love someone... is to watch them in pain... to inflict yourself on someone else, completely disregarding their lifestyles and desires It is selfish, damaging, and unhealthy at best...." Alaizabel's opinion on the subject remained unchanged, but that same hollow tugging feeling had brought her to where she sat now. Was this...? Was she...?

Losing her mind? Assuredly so. She had just chastised August about how utterly ridiculous and wasteful dwelling on such arbitrary and benign feelings such as romance could be, and she more than most was acutely aware of the havoc such waxing sentimental could wreak...

"Or blow up the engine. One of the two."

It was such a simple statement, but it rent Alaizabel's thoughts and dragged her back to the present quite effectively. The engine... they were sitting in.. explode? Her stomach dropped. Surely not. Alaizabel was never a gullible person, but Paul had never been much of a jester in the past. Or had he been and she had simply not noticed? She doubted that, but maybe she had missed something. Or maybe he was not joking? Her eyes were wide, nervous, until she looked from the shining buttons to Paul. One moment he had seemed nervous as well, but his lips squirmed. Finally he gave in, his nervousness giving way for a toothy, mischievous grin. His eyes were bright, betraying his attempted teasing.

"Jokin' of course"

With that, he nudged her lightly. Her worries melted away at his touch, leaving her practically a puddle of squishy, pouting aristocrat in the chair. Her bottom lip jutted out for a moment in a feigned pout. This did not last long, though, as she shot him a smile and gave a short laugh. "And you must think yourself so very clever for frightening a lady," she teased in return, her grin only widening. She knew he meant no malice by his words. It was uncommon for people to joke with her. In fact, she could hardly think of a time that someone would try. She wasn't exactly known for her mirthful attitude, and most people treated her as a fine porcelain doll more than a person (though she could not fault anyone for that; she had presented herself in a way that it seemed the only way to approach her, and she was aware of that). She'd never been one to partake in the jokes and pranks and frivolity and so many of the cirque seemed cheered by. But now her chest felt light, her heart fluttering comfortably in her chest. If this was what laughter did to a person, perhaps she needed to experience it more often...

She quirked her head to the side now. "It is really all that simple? I would have thought electrical workings were more intricate than this. Though I do suppose this is only a very finite area of the greater workings, now isn't it...?" she mused aloud, still intrigued by the new stimulation around her. "Is there anything else that we need to do to fix the lights after this?"

We? Well aren't we being presumptuous...? She mentally kicked herself. She should hope that there was not more work to be done so the poor man could get some rest, and should obviously not impose upon him should his work be completed. He looked drained, and clearly needed the sleep. Alaizabel idly hoped that her desire to stay with him would not be bothersome... not that she wouldn't understand if it were. But... gah, what was she thinking anymore... perhaps she was the one who needed sleep...

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Train Roof --& Coal Car

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

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Paul

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Let me know if I need to change anything!

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_62 created on Wed, 17 Dec 2014 22:19:33 +0000
Posted: Wed, 17 Dec 2014 22:19:33 +0000

Paul laughed when she offered a wager. She smiled sheepishly. Alaizabel supposed it was a bit out of character to some to hear her suggest such a thing, given her background and demeanor. However, wagers were something she had grown up with in her family, though they were simply jests for menial rewards and reasons. "Oh? With what Morgan pays us, I don't think we've got the money for a bet." he laughed in response, stretching his arms over him and securing his hands to the rigging above. He was right, of course; Morgan did not give them a salary more as a small stipend to live with. This was enough, really- she had enough for any small luxury she could want for, and the Ringmaster provided food and shelter. In honesty, money was not a terribly important commodity to them in this lifestyle.

"What would the winner receive?"

All at once she was aware of how close they were, how he hovered over her closely, comfortably, as she sat looking up to him. There was a sly sincerity in his voice, a sort of smooth, lackadaisical tone in his low voice that somehow pulled her in. With that tone, what precisely had he been implying with his inquiry? Paul was her friend, nothing more. He couldn't actually be alluding to... That's utterly absurd. Paul was not that sort of person... not to her, at least, right? This was not Ava and August she was talking about, after all... She wanted to be embarrassed, to pull away from him nervously given how oddly intimate the situation could be viewed as. She found, however, that she couldn't move. She sat, rooted to her seat, glancing up at him with a warm, small simper. She could stand for the situation to stay as it was; in fact, she hoped it did. There was something comforting about him, his presence a sort of narcotic in its own right. It only made sense, considering how his powers manifested in him, that he could possibly have the same effect on those around him. It was unusual to feel so at ease, and if having him there made it so, she would not complain. She looked him over. He was a right mess, she had no illusion. But that was simply his natural state. Paul was the sort of person who needed to let himself be messy, be able to get dirty when he needed to. It was in his job description, and no one could fault him for being an obviously accomplished worker. A smudge of dirt was even on his cheek, and her hand lifted from her lap a bit, subconsciously, with the intention of removing it for him. He had a handsome face, and while there was no shame in him being coated in his work, the least she could do was remove the marring dust from his cheek, right? It was only polite... She physical restrained her hand, though, which had lifted nearly up to her his chest where he stood. She pulled back. It was then that Paul pulled back, dropping his arms to his side and extended the gap between them. She felt her eyes widen a bit, surprised by the sudden retreat.

"A book, maybe, eh?" He said now, somewhat more subdued than he had been a moment ago. She dropped her hand quickly to her lap again, the other still on the lamp, and blushed. Alaizabel dropped her gaze, looking nowhere but anywhere from where she had been looking. "Ah, yes. Yes of course, a book sounds splendid. I am assured we can sort out some sort of arrangement, a book that we have not seen, or perhaps some other... I mean.... right, that sounds lovely." Well that certainly is becoming... She averted her eyes, rolling her bottom lip in her teeth. Alaizabel was not a nervous person; it irritated her more than worried her when her cheeks flushed in response to her complete failure of a response. Now who was implying things? A book would be fine, and of course by 'something else' she had thought back to what her family had done in wagers- once she lost to her mother and had offered an hour of piano music, to her father a day of game hunting on horseback. But to Paul... goodness she could not imagine how she had sounded to him. The poor man had only been being polite. Of course there was nothing to be read into in his actions. This was assured as he now went back to his business with the train, pointing to the lights and explaining.

"A lady? No, I don't think so, Miss Alaiza. You've got a gypsy's soul to be sure. I know it when I see it." Alaizabel quirked her head, her lips upturning at the corners. A gypsy, was she? From someone like Paul, that was a compliment. The man had been raised by their kind, and saw them for the truth of their ways. To refer to her in such a way would be similar to her comparing one of the cirque women to Madeline. And she supposed he was not entirely wrong. Gypsies were nomadic, always moving. Her power would be indispensable to their people. In the past, Alaizabel had considered using her powers in this way, hurrying off to explore the far reaches of the world around her. She wouldn't have needed anything, with the world being at her fingertips. If it weren't for the pesky need to know the locale of her destination so well, she surely would have done it. And if it hadn't been for her family, that is... Her laugh was dainty, pitched like a small door-hanging bell. "Oh, I am a miss to you now, am I?" she remarked, a light chuckle escaping from her. Miss was not something uncommon for her, given her station, but that did not mean that she required anyone around her refer to her with such formality, much less someone so unaccustomed to white collar propriety. In her opinion, the whole need for titles and propriety and upkeeping moral standing was farcical; the whole ordeal was more theatrical than necessary, and frankly a bore. It was just one of the reasons she was grateful to the cirque, though in the strangest of ways. Moving away from the 'miss' comment, Alaiza was also a common title for her. Her chest fluttered a bit. Many people around the troupe shortened her name, but at times she wished that she could simply be Alaizabel. She, in fact, enjoyed her name. She thought it was graceful, with a subtle original charm to it. She wanted to hear him say it. Something about his dialect, the way his voice undulated when he spoke, made her abundantly curious how her name would sound from his lips. Countless accents had uttered her name, but... but his would be particularly singular and rich, she imagined. She huffed a small chuckle, saying softly, "Anyway, that is kind of you to say, I should think."

Paul spoke fondly of the engine. While she knew he was only answering her out of kindness, he did seem enthusiastic about the subject. She always loved observing others when they were taken with a topic. There was nothing that told you more about the quality of a persons' character than to hear them discuss their passions; for Paul, it seemed his work was one of them. "You've got the right idea, yea. Everything starts with the boiler behind me. That powers, well, everything here. Then it goes up to you, up with all those lights there. That controls if the electricity makes it to the individual fuse boxes each car has, through the cable that we just fixed. Well hopefully, anyways." She listened attentively, asking a few questions and garnering as many answers. It was not common that Alaizabel found herself the student rather than the instructor, and it was a bit of a nice change. Beside that, the topic was intriguing, the teacher talented and captivating. All in all, she was enjoying herself immensely. But as he explained, she became aware of why he always looked so tired; with a job this detail oriented, this far reaching, it was simple to understand how it could exhaust someone easily.

"You trying to take my job, Miss Alaiza?" he asked following one of her many questions. And there he was with the 'miss' again. She laughed it away with a small wave of her hand. "No, no, no, my intentions are more pure than that. I am simply intrigued. But from the sound of it, I may ask to offer you assistance more often. It seems this job thins you so." She shrugged. "An extra set of hands perhaps could be of use to you."

Paul then leaned against the wall behind him, contemplating his future work. She had heard him once or twice reporting to Morgan about his duties. She was certain the list of obligations was extensive, branching far beyond simply repairing the kitchen car. "Honestly? Yea, I suppose there is. But I think I'm just going to sit here instead." The fortune-teller slid now to the floor, flopping gracelessly into a sitting position. He looked to her wryly. "Just for a minute anyway." She smirked. Good, That meant the pleasant conversation could continue. That was a nice gesture from the universe after the doozy of a day she was having. Fate extended her one kindness, and she was sure it would take another away, but that was a worry for another time and place. Alaizabel here, now, was content. She placed the lamp on the floor, crossing her feet at the ankles and turning to face him in the chair. She was sitting up, but leaned forward now to put her head in her hands, gazing down at him. His exhaustion was so evident, she hoped he would allow her to offer him assistance on what he needed to get done. Part of her worried if he could perform to his peak with his condition, and any help she could provide she would gladly offer.

"You're from England, yea?"

The question got her attention. She blinked, puzzled, then nodded. Had she never told him where she was from? It was quite possible she had simply assumed that her accent gave her away. She never particularly liked to talk about her past much, so she tended to avoid bringing it up. "Yes, I'm from the northern part of the country, quite near the border of Ireland, actually." she replied, her voice just loud enough to be heard.

"You still have family there? We've never really talked about it much before."

For a moment, she was struck dumb. They had done fortunes together, reviewed books together, and now repaired perceived complicated electrical wiring together, but she had never expected him to launch into her family. In common situations, such questions were normal; within the cirque, however, she tended to keep such inquiries to herself. It seemed no one came from a great background, and she did not seek to injure anyone by dredging up foul memories. The only person she had ever really told, fully told, about her past was her dear August. The two of them shared a common, dismaying bond when it came to parents. She doubted Paul truly understood what he was asking of her at the moment. She straightened her back, fiddling with the fabric on her dress nervously. "I suppose... I suppose I must somewhere. My parents have both gone to their great reward, or whatever you call it," She attempted to hide the venom in her voice at those words, but likely failed. There was no love lost between her and the church, and if her parents truly were singing with some invisible choir at a bearded, scepter wielding man's side, then she was truly in for a surprise when she finally kicked off. "... and I had no siblings. Adelbert likely took up the earldom upon my disappearance, come to think of it, so I likely have nieces and nephews... but I never return home. It has been far too long, and they likely would not even remember me...." Alaizabel trailed off, reluctant to proceed with the line of inquiry. Instead, she gave a minute shake of her head and looked to her companion. "And what of you? I am afraid I do not actually know where you come from. I mean, I am aware that you traveled a lot, but you must have originated somewhere, of course... or resided somewhere commonly... my goodness I am just fumbling all over myself today, aren't I, my apologies, dear." She smiled, flustered, but genuinely curious. Thinking of it, she wasn't even sure she knew how Paul had ended up here. She simply remembered a time when he was not there, and then suddenly, two years ago, he just was. What circumstances had lead him here? She hoped they were somehow more fortunate than her own, though in honesty she doubted anyone joining the troupe hailed from an exceptionally happy background.

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof --& Coal Car

xxxxxxxx

❀

ϻσσɗ:

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

xxxxxxxx

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ωɪтʜ:

Paul

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σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_63 created on Fri, 19 Dec 2014 06:22:33 +0000
Posted: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 06:22:33 +0000

"I'd like that,"

Alaizabel grinned as the man condoned her offer for help. So clearly she was not irritating to him, and she was more than happy to offer her help. The woman always had spare time. Typically she simply entertained herself with her books or some idle lock-picking, but it would be much better put toward assisting the man who slaved tirelessly over the train. He launched into some sort of justification for her help, divulging that he frequented the engine car during the afternoons when in motion. They were moving towns soon, correct? She pondered it for a moment. Troisbacht-bound come morning, I believe.... She knew that they were moving to the next performance space, but the town was uncertain to her. She had been in the cirque for long enough that the beat should have been all but memorized, but geography had never been her strongest suit. Cartography had always escaped her, for whatever reason. She knew directions, but never place names, save the ones she frequented as a child or in her teens. She would get there regardless- what did she care the names? She watched Paul speak enthusiastically (well, as much so as he could muster), nodding to him. Joining him in the engine room could be invaluable- such was an opportunity to learn more about the train... about him...

"I could always use somebody to hold the lamp."

The tone changed drastically for a moment while she wrestled an answer out of herself for Paul in reference to his inquiry about her family. As she began talking, his face spoke his feelings louder than words could. Great, now she had made him feel bad... he had done nothing wrong- it was a fair question, and he had had no way of knowing... She fiddled further with the cloth of her skirt. She had lost her edge. A few years ago, she could have simply adopted her "I'm a powerful aristocrat and I want to talk about something else" voice and simply written the question off. She could have talked her way around it rather than crumbling like a child before him. In fact, she knew that she was still assuredly capable of this; after all, she frequented the tone bordering every time she spoke to Aloise... what was it about him that vexed her so? He leaned forward from the wall now, moving slightly toward her.

"Ah s**t MI-... Alaizabel."

She looked up from her twiddling, a bit taken aback. She knew many people among the cirque cursed, and she was known to drop a few obscenities from time to time (very rarely, but it was possible to push the woman far enough that it was deemed necessary). But something about Paul's expletive struck her a bit. It was abruptly that she realized it was more likely the phrase following it that caught her attention. First, he had dropped the miss. She could not help but feel as though she had won some small battle, overcoming the villainous propriety of the word and joining the vetted elite of the 'friend' territory. It felt nice, leaving her with a sense of accomplishment. Second, she had graduated from 'Alaiza' to her full name. She inhaled a bit sharper than she would have liked. It was an odd collection that she kept in her mind, but she enjoyed voices. They were intriguing to her; as such, she collected a mental bank of all of the ways people spoke her name. She had heard Paul say it before, many many times in fact, and until before Morgan's voice had been winning in her eyes (it was just such an interesting accent! Clearly of German decent, but with such a heavy English influence, and smooth enough to serve as a king's bedsheets), followed closely by Flynn's (what could she say, she was a sucker for a healthy accent...). Now, though... something about his tone, his sincerity... just the way that he said it with unspoken but evident care. Even in the given context, there was a certain level of warmth, a kind sincerity in his inflection that made her buckle, shaking her head in embarrassment. "N-no, no need for apologies! It should not be such bit deal. My family had a run of terrible luck, that is all! You could not have known...."

He steamrolled right though her apology, seemingly keen on taking blame for the awkward moment entirely on himself. She did not push the issue. Paul was allowed to do what he pleased, and apparently he fancied instead telling her details of his life. She would not complain, of course, considering the subject was apparently far grander than she could have expected. All at once, she knew so much about him. Why had she not inquired about his past sooner? To think he was so open, so willing to tell her so much about himself... Alaizabel smiled, nodding and offering her own comments as he spoke. Who would have guessed the unassuming trappings Paul sported served to mask such a rich and delightfully impressive history? She wondered idly if the rain beating the roof of the train reminded him of 'home', if he had ever passed near her old home in his travels. Would he have ever visited the lake that she so commonly frequented? Did he ever look out over that water, wondering where his nomadic and unrelenting life would take him next? And to think that he had nearly been married! She knew that it was common for arranged weddings in the aristocracy (lord knew she had turned down plenty of so-called 'suitors' during her youth; she had been far too invested in taking care of her mother to worry to much about her future, and luckily too considering the state that marriage would have been following her father's demise). A quiet part of her mind cheered that it had fallen through, but she squashed the thought down as quickly as it had appeared. The poor woman would have been left behind when he joined the Cirque was, of course, why she was pleased. That was all... The two discussed the facets of Paul's early life as they wove their way back through the train. All too quickly, they stood in front of Alaizabel's door.

"Well, good night I suppose.... I'll see you tomorrow, hopefully."

... well what had she expected? "Yes, yes of course. Thank you for the evening." she replied with a grin. He took a hesitant step away from her as she spoke. It appeared for a moment that he had wanted to speak further, but he instead turned and waltzed away. Something about him suddenly seemed tense, nervous, but she paid it no mind. He probably was going to have to report to Morgan before he finally got some sleep. She could not blame him for a bit of uneasiness as he gazed into the gaping maw of the beast. She reached behind her now, twisting her handle and slipping into her bedroom. The stupid smile on her face would not subside.

Before she knew him, she never knew what it was like to be able to see someone and smile without reason...

She fell now onto her bed, wrapping herself up snuggly in her blankets. It was not worth the effort of changing, considering what she was wearing was so comfortable. She had not realized how tired she had been until she had hit the cot, her mind swimming in the sea of exhaustion. She could feel it tugging at her consciousness carefully, pulling away all of her thoughts of earlier in the night- the gala, the heist, Icarus, the whole... kissing mess- and leaving only the good of the evening that felt so much closer, more real than the fancy fiasco she should have been more accustomed to. In another life, someone who had grown up as she would have considered the brilliant affair the highlight of her evening. As she should have, her father would have assured. She was an aristocrat destined for finesse and grandeur, not a bare-foot pauper who spent her time rolling in the dirt and grime, and with a gypsy no less. She laughed to herself quietly. But he had said the she was gypsy in her own right, hadn't he? Seeing her now, he would likely have burst a lung berating her for her behavior. And she would not have it any way. She had never been cut out for the high life, she realized now, looking back. The falsities, the propriety, the utter exhaustion of it all was inconceivably bland. It was integral to who she was, and of course she enjoyed many aspects of the lifestyle. And it was not like she could simply stop being the noble she had been bred. But all of that was not here and now. No, in her mind, it was already afternoon the following day, and she was padding to the front engine car. After all, what better way to travel than at the front of the train?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~Ϯϊɱҽ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next week was not terribly eventful, she supposed. She spent a decent amount of her time with Paul, running hither and thither to assist him with his plentiful repair jobs. Honestly, she had never realized that the hulking mass of metal had needed such intensive upkeep... but aside from that, the two had passed much time simply talking. That, in conjunction with the relaxed restrictions on the train, was enough to set Alaizabel's heart soaring. The week was so pleasant that she almost believed herself to be fevered the whole time. The only bit to convince her of it's reality had been her discussions with August. He had approached her with his concerns about... feelings... He could assuredly extend her the same courtesy! And he had. It had been substantially less effective than their earlier exchange. August seemed to have come to grips with his emotions, even having attempted (albeit failed, but that was not the important part) a confession to Ava, who now seemed to be avoiding him... Alaizabel had spent the entire discussion denying such feelings, insisting that they were simply becoming better friends... friends who shared books and large amounts of time together... and who she thought was charming and handsome and- oh dear this line of thought was dangerous... No, she did not have feelings for him. This was Paul! Just... just Paul...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~Șӄϊρ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At present, Alaizabel sat atop the train in her new favorite spot. The steam from the smokestack she was leaning on was supposed to have a calming effect on her as it had in the past several days. Lately, she had simply been able to mount the train and look between the spiraling smoke and the stars and instantly feel at east. But now... now she sat with her back rigid agains the metal, a lamp placed delicately next to her to light the pages of her latest novel, Henry James' The Turn of the Screw. The novel was deliciously dark, splendidly macabre in it's themes and lore. Ghost stories, dark tales of old always intrigued Alaizabel, and she had been attempting without much success to finish this book during her stints with Paul. Between the train fixes, the conversation, and the overwhelming exhaustion, she had scarcely gotten through the majority of the novella in the length of the week, and was, on some level, eager to read the ending.

But now...

She wanted to read. She wanted to. She did. But now Miles was dying in the governess's arms, which was all wrong. Someone so young should not die, no matter the theme or genre. Someone so young, so ready to take back their world-Suddenly it was her, and she could feel the silk that had comforted her all of these years slithering around her neck. It snapped taught, digging aggressively, vehemently into her soft, pale skin. Her legs jerked violently beneath her, seeking the ground that she knew could not come to greet her at this height. She felt her eyes bulging; every fiber of her being struggling for air, for that necessary essence life- by God, she wanted to live, she wanted to liveshewantedtoliveshewantedtolive-

Gasping, Alaizabel snapped the book shut loudly. Her hand leapt to her throat. She could still feel the fabric twisted there, rending her from this plane and dragging her to one a bit more ethereal. She stood in a huff, barely avoiding kicking her light source from the train in her haste. With a shout, she drew back her arm, lobbing the book as best she could to the distance. Alaizabel was blessed with many things, not the least of which being her vivd, nearly lucid imagination. Another was her surprising ability to empathize with others (whether she demonstrated that empathy publicly was subject to debate, but she felt it none the less). Combining the two, and you had the makings of some of the worst post-traumatic stress symptoms that the woman could envision. Even as she gazed now into the distance, watching the offensive book careen through the darkening light, she could still see it. There in the sky, Kimber dangled, suspended from the sky itself like a harbinger of the fate she met. Alaizabel's eyes were wide, frightened. She knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her, knew that the girl was not there, but she could not get the image out of her mind-her eyes hadn't closed, why hadn't they closed, how she wished they had closed and would stop staring at her so-

The woman took a step back now, back to the safety of the stable roof as her knees buckled beneath her. She had always been fond of heights, and because of this she had enjoyed peeking in on the acrobats whenever she had gotten the chance. Her trick had been earlier in the lineup that day, and knowing that it was Kimber's last show, she had ducked into the bigtop. Aerial silks had always been a secret love of hers. While she never possessed the dexterity herself to perform such grand feats of nimbleness and grace, it was always a treat to enjoy Kimber's performances. The two were never especially close, but they remarked commonly on each other's acts, and were kind enough to be considered friendly acquaintances at the very least. But it was not her bond with the deceased acrobat that made this all so devastating. She was shaking now thinking back on the performance. Looking over the edge of the train now, she felt her chest constrict, her breaths coming in quick, ragged gasps. It had all been so horrible, so sudden, so twisted in its captivation and tranquil terror. It had not been a long ordeal. One moment she was performing, the next the piercing panic of Morgan's guttural "GET HER DOWN. GET HER DOWN!" amid the screams as she dangled helplessly, lifelessly through the air. There was an atrocious, unnatural beauty to it all- such a beautiful girl swinging amid the ropes. It was something out of a Poe novella. Perhaps that was part of what frightened her so about it. Who could find death beautiful? It was terrible to be sure, and as she pondered on it now she felt her eyes stinging, a lump in her throat forming rapidly. One of her hands flew to her safety blanket, her locket, while the other reached behind her head. She curled into a ball for a moment where she was kneeling, attempting t compose herself. That was what it looked like to suffocate. That was what it looked like to die...

Would Alaizabel look like that too?

Her mind flitted momentarily to her tank. Her entire trick hinged on making people believe she was going to die. Was this how her audience felt, if even for a moment? Would the image of her pounding on the glass, silently screaming for help with her eyes pound so on the backs of their minds as they attempted later to forget? What if she failed? Would she, too, jerk so unnaturally? Would her eyes betray her final panic before settling into a listless, dull, and vacant stare into an unknowable afterlife? Would the members of the cirque behind her feel as she did now, strangely detached from the victim but more strongly afflicted by the tragedy than could previously been seen possible? All of these questions, these realizations about her lingering mortality... Somehow, when you remain ageless for eighteen years, you forget that you are made of skin, cartilage, bone, and squishy insides. There were so many outrageously dangerous things Alaizabel did on the daily, and she knew that she could not afford to worry so much about dying in her act. But she had simply never put so much thought into it. And among other concerns, why Kimber? Why the sweet, quiet girl who had never sought to harm anyone? Alaizabel's view could have been skewed, granted, but Kimber had shown her nothing but kindness in their encounters. And she had been so close! To freedom, to life! She didn't deserve that... No one deserved that.... She straightened herself, shifting to lean against the smokestack again and shutting her eyes. Her breathing had somewhat stabilized. Get ahold of yourself!/color] she ordered herself, rolling her bottom lip in her teeth. Her body felt like it had been struck by lightening, every fiber of her on alert and prepared for flight. You didn't even know the girl, you have no right to be falling apart like this-! It had just all been so sudden. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes.

And cursed her wretched imagination. Kimber still remained suspended in the distance, her limbs convulsing now as they had only mere hours before. With an internalized scream, Alaizabel forced her eyes shut again, striking the metal beneath her with a balled fist. The sensation vibrated up her arms, and she immediately felt the pain of her action in her hand. She didn't care. She didn't want to see. She pushed her back against the spout again. Her hands flew to her face now, covering her eyes. If she did not look, she could not see; simple enough. Her knees came up to her chest, her elbows resting propped on her thighs. She could feel her right hand bleeding (the knuckle had likely caught a screw or something) but she did not care. She simply did not want to see anymore...

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof

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ϻσσɗ:

How could this have happened... after everything...-

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ωɪтʜ:

Alone

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Post: 83347663_64 created on Fri, 19 Dec 2014 18:27:29 +0000
Posted: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 18:27:29 +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▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇

I should have been there....

The image was still fresh in his mind. It was the eyes that got him. Always the eyes. His eyes didn't close, and neither had hers. They had simply fixated, glossing over in the wake of their life. Her limbs had twitched grotesquely, her porcelain skin stark against the bright red of the ribbons that held her; it was almost as though her beloved silks bled for her, tears of blood spilling over her, around her throat, and to the floor to mourn their treacherous deed.

He never attended the shows, but today he had decided to treat himself. No one was injured, no one needed him to act as a stagehand or anything. It was a rare opportunity. Besides, Kimber's contract was ending that day; it would be his last chance to see her perform before her soul would be returned for her. It was almost in shock. Being that he had only been in the cirque for a few years, he had never seen anyone escape the icy jaws of Morgan's magic, so he was likely more excited than most to see her exit. It was thrilling- she was out. She was free.

She was dead

I should have BEEN there...

"Ladies and Gentlemen, turn your eyes to the sky and gaze upon the most wondrous of the world's acrobats! From the mysterious corners of the world, Tromperie presents to you the Royal Fliers!"

He had made it just in time, and Damuron's heart jumped as the music began. It boomed through the bigtop as the tiny acrobat wormed her way through the silks, lifting herself high off of the ground. Damuron had always been taken by acrobat tricks, but namely those that remained grounded- flips, various simple tricks, trampoline gigs, the German Wheel- as opposed to those that sent them soaring through the air. Part of him blamed his innate maternalness for the squeamish feeling he got when the acrobats performed vaulting displays; if any of them fell, if any of them somehow missed... the damage would be catastrophic. The music raced as Kimber twisted herself mercilessly in the ribbons. My she certainly did give her audience a show; he could see why the performance was called 'Overdrive'- the music was paced in such a way that he wouldn't have expected her, dedicating to such a complicated routine, to keep up. But she did, and splendidly too. Damuron smiled. Nova was going to have a hell of a time taking up the mantle here. Luckily there had not been an on-call doctor prior to him, so he hadn't needed to worry about that. Thoughtlessly, he took his eyes away from the display and swept his gaze over the crowd. Was Nova watching? That would make sense, and he idly wondered how she was doing. Her feet had been left to her, so he hoped that the injuries were healing nicely...

She was DEAD.

I should haVE BEEN THERE.

But the problem remained that he was there. He had looked away for two seconds. A mere passing glance. But when he looked back... it was wrong, it was all so wrong! She reached for a ribbon that did not hold. His stomach lurched as she tumbled in air for a moment, blindly and frantically rooting through the silks to find something to hold her, to save her. The greater panic hit Damuron like the falling crest of a wave when her panic stopped. The silk above her head pulled taut viciously, secured somehow around her neck in her frenzied search for salvation. Her legs kicked, her arms grasped uselessly at nothing as she swung through the air following her sickening recoil from the makeshift noose the universe had bestowed. Damuron knew what was happening- she was suffocating. She was dying. He launched himself forward, past the shouting audience, through the panicking patrons and stagehands that were moving away from the tragedy she needed your help too you disgusting cattle. It was as though he were swimming in a rip tide, and every second that he was lost in the current, someone else drowned for him. He broke free of the confusion, the Ringmaster's screams meeting his ears as he threw aside the curtain trappings at the back of the stage and tore to the center of the stage. Damuron stood by, watching as the acrobats worked. Some part of his prayed that she would be safe, some illogical, naive remnant of his time before medical school insistent that she could be resuscitated and that, by God, he was a doctor- people's lives were his play thing! But as the Fliers descended from the ropes, the woman limp and unmoving in their collective grasp, he knew. As the Fliers lowered Kimber to the dirt, and Damuron saw the revolting bruising, the stomach-churning way that he throat had been crushed from the impact, he knew. As Morgan slipped by him without note, demanding they "Take her from here," with a hard, forcibly distanced edge, he knew.

she is dead...

I COULD HAVE BEEN THERE.

She needed you, Dammy. What kind of doctor are you, boy?

Kimber was dead.

"How much damage did I do this time?"

Damuron forced himself back to the present. His hands were shaking where he was leaning on the cabinet, his back to his patient. Ava, the poor girl, had been trampled in the madness following... well. Trampled wasn't the appropriate word. She had more realistically been crushed in a mass collapsing of the audience that he could only assume was a wave of people sympathizing the embarrassment of one person falling and attempting to alleviate that humiliation by proceeding to fall themselves. There was no way Ava tripping could have taken down half of the patrons; she was much too small for that. But in his blind trance, he had come across her dislodging herself from beneath a surprisingly spherical woman. She had been covered in mud as he helped pull her from the mass of writhing panicked people. Through the mud, he could not look well enough at her injuries to decisively diagnose an issue, so they had proceeded to role-call directly, holding her carefully aloft. Moving her without even a perfunctory glance over her to make certain there was no risk of further injury was careless at best. But given their situation, Damuron did not have much option. Following call, he ushered her to the showers, rinsed the mud from her, and guided her quickly back to his office for a better look over. She was on the floor now, glancing up at him. Under normal circumstances, it would have been inappropriate for the young woman to be sitting now in merely her underwear in his room, alone, with the door closed. But in order to get a better look at her myriad of injuries, propriety could be damned. He took a slow breath, attempting to contain the shaking. Now, he shook his head, turning to face her. He leaned back on the counter, and forced a small grin.

"Well, you've done a number on your ankle," he replied, then cleared his throat when he voice betrayed him with a slight waver. "For the sake of exploring all options, I could obviously remove the sprain altogether for the sake of your performance-which I know you're against!" He tacked on the later half of his statement quickly, trying to circumvent her impending feline threat. He knew how opposed she was to his self-injurious practice, but she had performances upcoming, and an injury to her ankle could be the difference between life and death in a disaster situation--

It could save her life.

Damn it, he could tell just by looking at Ava that she wanted to avoid the topic that his mind continued to reel around. He didn't want to drag her down with his single-mindedness, with his oppressive guilt. He cleared his throat again, gripping the counter to avoid his hands shaking. Keep it together, keep it together- "Of course, I could always just wrap it tight, but with your act I would recommend- ahem... I would ask that you please make one exception? It's... it's safer..." He heaving himself up onto the countertop, leaning his elbows on his knees and leaning to avoid hitting his head on the upper cabinets behind him. There was a decent amount of space between the lower and upper cabinets, but Damuron had hit his head enough times to know better than to lean back too far when on the cabinet. He lifted his hand to his eyes, rubbing them nervously. The stitches on his left hand were holding well, and the injury closing. It was still sore, but his right arm was giving him more trouble than anything. He was idly worried about infection- once he finished with Ava, he needed to remove the bandages beneath his now muddy shirt and attempt to sort out why it was still causing trouble a week later. "Other than that, you're just going to be exceptionally sore. There's no major internal bleeding, no broken ribs. Just a heck of a lot of bruising that won't be fun, but you should be fine. I can give you some aspirin? Unfortunately that's all the relief I can offer you... for your pain...."

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

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Post: 83347663_65 created on Sat, 20 Dec 2014 02:40:19 +0000
Posted: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 02:40:19 +0000

"God damn it!"

Alaizabel's breath hitched, her eyes flying open. The voice cut through the darkness like a sonic boom, pulling her from the recesses of her mind. Who...? The voice was obviously masculine, and clearly in some blatant anguish of sorts. She braced herself against the steam spout, pushing herself up carefully from where she sat. Her hands still felt strange, a bit sore even, from all of the unaccustomed manual labor she'd been performing for the last week. She did not mind. It was interesting, thinking about it. She had grown up watching others perform the physical work, but never had she been expected to perform. Even now, people let alone did not expect it from her, but were genuinely surprised when she offered. Of course she had not missed Paul's disbelief, or frankly skepticism, when she followed up on her offer for help. She was quick to learn, and eager to please, making her a capable worker. At least, in her opinion, as she had not really heard back about her performance. However, she took no news as good news in this instance, considering how terribly busy he was on the train. Now she stood straight, peering off into the darkness. She could zero in on roughly where the voice had come from.... stooping, she scooped up her lantern. She held it nervously out in front of her. Alaizabel scoffed. There was no way that she was afraid of the darkness, the void that gaped on all sides of her. There was nothing coming from that darkness, and the train was assuredly not cursed, and there was no sense of foreboding or impending doom hovering over her like a poisonous cloud. She forced herself to stop at the first gap between the cars, breathing deeply. She was too much in her own head right now. That was all.

She braced herself, bending her knees, and vaulting the gap. No one was around here, so she proceeded forward. Again, and again, she trekked deeper into the expanse around her, praying to see a glimpse of the human who had shouted aloud moments before. Human contact right now seemed like a precious comfort, one that she was strangely craving. It wasn't long ago that Alaizabel loathed human contact. When she first arrived at the cirque, she had avoided everyone as though they were harbingers of pestilence. The name of the game was solitude. She could spend all of her time practicing, formulating her future performances in peace and without interference, and read whenever she chose. Should she get hungry, she would walk, briskly and purposefully, to the kitchen car, cook herself something worth eating, then take it back to her room with her to enjoy while she worked. Thinking now, she didn't know how that had changed. Maybe it had been when Icarus joined. A decade of the stiff upper lip treatment seemed to be enough to give her a lifetime of reputation among the troupe, but with Icarus it had been different. Somehow, she had opened up, even if minutely. The boy had been persistent, demanding of her time, and had wormed his way into her heart. Then came Pyrrhus, who had already had a silent relationship with her for years (he was a source of warmth, and she, frozen in body and soul; it was natural that they should come together at some point), though following Icarus's demonstration that she could get along with cirque members, she began exploring a verbal, less focused on reading relationship with the man. Then of course there was August, with whom she had had an immediate connection with. Perhaps it had been all of the previous priming the other acrobat had put her through that prepared her for the accepting nature she harbored toward the newbie, but it had happened suddenly nonetheless. But just the year prior to that...

In the distance, Alaizabel spotted something. She lowered her lantern now, feeling the blood on her hand altering it's course with the directional change, and putting it behind her in order to focus her dark-vision to the distance. She strained now, her eyes focusing on a small pinprick of red, pulsing light in the distance. The conflagration brightened and darkened nearly rhythmically. In nearly a trance, she walked forward, approaching it carefully. It went out. She stopped in her tracks, straining to see who commanded the light that broke through the unending darkness. As though answering her question, a spark illuminated a small distance away, shining its rays upon the face of a man very near to her.

Paul...

Alaizabel's heart leapt to her throat. Now here was a true light in the darkness. She felt herself grin, the air around her ceased it's oppressive strain, the darkness holding no horror for her now. "Paul?" She was announcing herself, attempting not to catch him off guard. She pulled the lantern before her now, illuminating him and the area around (as well as her regretfully bloodied hand; hands bled a lot, and all she could hope was that it would eventually stop on it's own, after all it was not a serious wound). Before she knew him... She looked over the scene inquisitively. It was not like she had never seen him smoke, but this... there were used ends littered haphazardly around him, appearing more like a nicotine graveyard than the den of a smoker. "... well there is the answer to the question I have not yet posed..." she chuckled, attempting to keep her voice light. For whatever reason, Paul was taking this hard. He looked worn, emotionally taxed. It was a different form of exhaustion than she was accustomed to. Physical tiredness, she had seen, and now felt herself. But what little she had helped him over the last week was at least evident in him physically. But now... he was fragile, and she couldn't explain just how she knew. She padded forward, her bare feet closing the distance between them carefully. "May I join you?"

After all, misery loves company.

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ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof

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ϻσσɗ:

I do hope that he is alright...

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Paul

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Post: 83347663_66 created on Sun, 21 Dec 2014 01:02:08 +0000
Posted: Sun, 21 Dec 2014 01:02:08 +0000

xxx

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Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

Ava rejected his offer for aspirin, explaining, "Aspirin makes me itch. If you give me a bandage I can wrap it for now; I've had enough practice doing that much. If I think it's going to be problematic for my show, I'll let you borrow the sprain. Meaning you give it back as soon as i'm done in the cage for the day." ... borrow... the wound? As in take it for a time, then return it? It was a novel conclusion, one that he had never personally arrived at. Of course, he hated burdening others with injuries if he could help it, but something so minuscule as this.... and being that it wouldn't interfere with her performance his way... Letting her handle her own injury during the night would be an exchange he could handle as long as she would be safe; her well-being during the performance was paramount to his concerns. Taking her wound during performances would allow her the freedom to save herself, should the time come that she needed to... Not that peak condition helped Kimber at all... A chill shot up Damuron's spine, his affect darkening slightly. His primary goal in his practice was to ascertain the safety of the performers, be it at his own detriment or otherwise. Perhaps the worst part of all of this was that he knew he was to blame, but could not pin exactly where he went wrong. There should have been some sign, some indication that she was not going to be prepared to perform to her peak...

This was neither the time nor place. He had barely known Kimber, and here he was writhing in guilt while Ava's borderline sister had just died without warning. He could only imagine it was something akin to how he felt when his mother died... that was something he would never have wished upon anyone. Lithely, Damuron hopped from the counter and reached out to her, brushing his hand carefully, delicately over the ankle. It was always a strange sensation to take on a sprain. It felt almost like a balloon expanding in the afflicted area; he could feel the bruising worm its way around the ankle, the pain burst in a sharp stab at the focal point of the injury. Feeling it now for himself, his fears were assuaged by the recognition that the injury was exactly what he had originally believed: inconvenient, but ultimately harmless in the long run. Two days with a tightly wound bandage and he would feel just fine. "I'll take this now, and give it back to you when you've finished performing tomorrow. You... you deserve a good night's rest..." he told her softly, trying his hand at comforting someone.

"Dam..."

He looked up to her eyes now fro where they had been pointed at her injury. From where he was kneeling in front of her, it was plain to see her dark eyes brimming with tears, easy to hear her voice catch in her throat. She was fighting so hard to keep herself together. He'd thought he was falling to pieces, but here was a girl physically holding herself so that she did not fall apart. There were so many things that Damuron could fix, even without the blessing that his power could provide. But this... this precise anguish, this definite distress... Damuron could do nothing for this. And it pained him, his chest tightening sharply at the sight of the girl in such agony. He wanted to be able to do something, anything to help her, but in the long run if there was anything that he was terrible at, it was unfortunately consoling others.

"H-how's your arm? I can help if you need it. Wr-wrapping your own arm is a pain."

But what he could do was offer a distraction. He was close to her now; he allowed a false, but exceptionally convincing warm smile on his lips. "I would appreciate your help." he offered, taking his injured arm and petting her hair affectionately. Ava had been the first one to welcome him to the cirque; albeit, it had likely been the most obscure welcome of his life, being rushed off to the cages to deliver a lion cub (because he was totally qualified to do that). It had been one of the strangest and interesting events of his life, and Ava had been... well, dear to him ever since. He had never had siblings, but he supposed if he had, perhaps his affection toward Ava would have been similar. And all at once he understood. It would have been Ava amid the silks, had he been in her shoes at that moment. It could have been that. And he had caused that grief.

The least he could do was distract her.

He pulled her to her feet, moving over to the countertop and began peeling the bandages away. He had changed them... when? Recently he knew, but he was unsure how recently that was. And after a few moments, he knew just why he had been feeling so warm. The skin around the laceration was horribly bright red, the area inside the cut standing starkly out from the crimson surrounding it. The entire cut was puffed out past the rest of the skin, inflamed and tender. There was no denying it. Great... an infection. he mused, a deep sigh leaving his lips. He supposed he deserved it. The universe was administering judgement for his negligence the only way that it could- pestilence.

"First things first," he said, his voice more hoarse than he would have liked. It was as though seeing the infection inspired his entire body to react accordingly. "please don't panic. Could I ask you to... to reach in the cabinets beneath me and grab some new bandages? I'm going to go through the cabinets up here for something to... to clean this with..." Well, he had wanted to distract her.... this wasn't necessarily how he had wanted to go about it...

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

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Post: 83347663_67 created on Mon, 22 Dec 2014 01:58:37 +0000
Posted: Mon, 22 Dec 2014 01:58:37 +0000

xxx

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Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

Don't panic. That was all he had asked was don't panic. But from the horrified look in her eyes- the blanched face, the way her stomach jolted a bit looking at his arm-, perhaps the better thing he could have asked for would have been to keep everything inside where it was. He almost laughed. Not everyone could handle his job, even him. There were certain instances that even Damuron felt squeamish, though. They were few and far between, typically related to protruding bones, but when they did happen he had a singular insight into a layman's feelings approaching such injuries. And this? This was pretty gross, he wouldn't lie.

"You know, I didn't think you'd manage a distraction quite like this," she choked wryly. Clearly, this was not what she had been hoping for by way of distraction (lord knew it was not in his plans either). Before anything, Ava plunged her hands into the sink, lathering them and rinsing them. She moved on hurriedly to sleuth for supplies he may need- scissors, gauze, bandages, the works. She was efficient, focused, absolutely dedicated to helping him with this... well, frankly disgusting arm. But she smiled. It was damaged, strained, a mask that was cracking even as it was placed. But it was a smile. And that was what mattered.

She reached for the bottle of alcohol sitting near the supplies. "Do you want this to clean with?" she inquired, unscrewing the cap and turning to him quickly. It was unclear to him how the next events came to pass. All he knew was that one moment, he was in a marginal amount of pain and totally dry. The next, his entire front was covered in a bubbling, lightly burning liquid, and his arm was searing from the application of unexpected and copious amounts of raw alcohol. He gave a loud, guttural roar, reeling back a bit from her and bracing himself with his elbow against the countertop. The agony was shooting up his arm, fire in his veins and his cut. He had been expecting pain from having to scrub out the wound, but he would under no circumstances pour alcohol directly in the gaping laceration. He heaved his breaths now, feeling lightheaded compared to how he'd felt moments ago. Oh God, I"m sorry! I- s**t." Ava apologized quickly. Damuron shook his head rapidly, biting hard on the inside of his cheek to silence himself. He'd be fine, but he didn't trust himself to talk at that moment, lest he make her cry. There was no way he could keep the pain from his voice (which was saying something; Damuron actually had quite an aptitude for appearing how others wanted him to). Deftly, he pulled the buttons open down the front of his shirt. At the least, he would not be sitting in a wet shirt while he suffered... His breath was coming in short bursts, laboring to calm itself.

"Damuron? It's N-Nova. I-I uhm... I broke a bottle in my hands, I th-think I need some help."

The voice, weak and soft, was barely audible through the wooden door. Ava looked him over. He knew he was in rough shape, but she didn't have to look so... well, he wasn't sure what part of her was guilty and what part was fighting off tears for Kimber, but either way he didn't want those broken eyes focused on him. He'd wanted to serve a distraction, but now he was wondering just what sort of distraction he was going to be. He was shaking a bit, his vision clouding a bit at the edges. You pathetic little s**t, you will not pass out.... he seethed, readjusting where he stood. He would not be so feeble that he could not stay conscious through pain. This was where he, the man, puffed out his chest and took control. He would keep these girls calm, keep them safe.

"I'll let her in." Before he could say anything, the lion-tamer padded across the room and ushered the girl in. She was, if it was possible, more of a mess than Ava. At least, externally. Nova's eyes were sheen and puffy, red from obvious tears. She was cupping her hand close to herself like a wounded animal. And who was better equipped to handle frightened mammals than the lion tamer...? "Ouch. Um. Dam? What do you want me to do? Anything? Just run around and get supplies for you?" Ava offered. Damuron turned to the counter, leaning heavily on his left hand. He could ignore the pain from it in the wake of the pulsing waves of pain washing over him. He nodded harshly. Hopefully the girl would be able to take it as affirmation to take care of Nova. At the moment he was attempting to keep himself together, keep himself from either fainting or throwing up. Both, either, seemed viable options in response to the hand he was being dealt. But in the end...

"Later. Get everyone to stop bleeding. Then we can fall apart."

Damuron had incredible hearing. He also, however, had an innate ability to know what is was and was not meant to hear. He would not comment. He'd relish in his pain. After all, he deserved this.

He pushed off the counter, swaying noticibly. "Ava, get the glass out of Nova's hand," he instructed hoarsely, holding his right arm behind his back a bit. "That's the more pressing matter now. What happened, Nova?" Divert attention, lend focus elsewhere. Nova needed treatment. His job would come first.

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: In a lot of pain. Blinding pain. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Ava & Nova⋯

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Post: 83347663_68 created on Tue, 23 Dec 2014 01:27:04 +0000
Posted: Tue, 23 Dec 2014 01:27:04 +0000

xxx

▇▇▇

Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

Nova's eyes flitted between Damuron and Ava upon her entrance, her face flaring noticeably. "I'm interrupting something... I'll just... No, I'll go. I-I'm so sorry." she insisted, attempting to retreat before Ava's grip pulled her back. The doctor looked her over, concern clear. Interrupting? What on earth would she be- well, he supposed it was suspicious. Here the two of them were, in a closed room, alone, him with no shirt on, Ava bounding around clad only in her underwear.... He supposed this was the sort of thing people would expect to see if they had been-- Damuron's face flushed even further for a brief moment; he mentally kicked himself. She thought they were--- they were--! But this was Ava! Nothing could be further from happening where Ava was concerned. Let it be that Morgan would have his head paraded around the train on a pike if he so much as heard a breath of a rumor that could insinuate he was violating the lion-tamer's purity in such an unforgivable way, but the very idea of being with Ava was.... incestuous to him. He could see how the circumstances could lead people to believe-- but he would never! He was a doctor. Ava was injured. But something about the circumstances made him want to explain, made him want to make her understand that nothing-- she had not interrupted anything beyond standard doctor practice! However, his explanation would simply have to wait as the two girls continued talking, leaving Damuron to attempt to do something with his arm.

"I didn't... I don't mean to be a bother, really, I just... If I can take some tweezers and some bandages I'll get out of the way of... of you both."

"No, Nova, you're not a bother," he insisted, his voice more course than he would have liked. Patience was a virtue that Damuron prided himself in, but right now he did not have the energy to muster up propriety. "Now why don't you just sit down and I will get to you in just a moment. I've got um... something I need to deal with for a moment..."

"Is something wrong with... the laceration on your arm?"

Damn, was he that transparent? He mentally kicked himself. She was looking at him now, eyes boring into him as he attempted to hide the wound from her. She had been there when he had first taken the wound on, of course she would be curious. And the last thing he wanted was to concern her further. Nova already had enough dark passengers to wrestle; he needn't shuffle off one of his upon her.

"He needed-"

"Nothing. It's not important. I just need to replace the bandages. Nothing to worry yourself over. Just take care of yourself right now, alright?" he insisted, waving her off. There was glass currently in her hand- that was worthy of undivided attention that he, regrettably, could not afford her. Just fail people all over the place, why don't you... he chastised himself, attempting to steady himself.

"Ah, Ava. If you could grab some rubbing alcohol, and a pair of tweezers, I think that should be all we need for me."

Before Damuron could chime in, Ava replied, "You don't want me anywhere near the alcohol. I just doused Dam in it."

The doctor laughed weakly. At least it seemed that Ava was not berating herself for that. It was an honest mistake, something he couldn't hold against her. His arm was still seething, pulsing viciously. It was more pain that he could remember being in for a long time; coupled with the damage the infection was wreaking on his arm, he could only imagine he probably didn't look to hot... He smiled, turning his face to grin at the girls. "I'm surprised you don't smell it. My sinuses have never been clearer, I'll tell you..." he joked, shoulders shrugging a bit with a sighed laugh. "So there isn't a lot of alcohol left. I could offer you some iodine or something?" He ticked his head toward the cabinet that the iodine bottles were in. Nova took to cleaning her wound, running her hand beneath the faucet. She looked over to him at his question, smiling weakly.

"There was a bottle on the floor of my room. It had cracked, and I picked it up from the floor, and my grip shattered it. I…will admit to being angry, but I hadn’t thought it would shatter as it did... It was just a stupid accident, I'm not known for my grace"

He moved his arm behind his back, turning to face her now. She did not need to be known for her grace, but she assuredly needed it. She was an acrobat, soon to be taking over something so complicated as the aerial silks. She needed to be more careful so she didn't end up-- Damuron winced a bit at the thought. Didn't end up like Kimber... He didn't want to have to watch over Nova like a hawk, now, but he felt that it was likely to happen, at least for a while. After seeing something so horrific, he couldn't bear the thought that Nova could end up the same way. Of course, that was implying the girl wanted anywhere near the ribbons after what had happened. He had no doubt she had seen it; Nova watched performances, she had been there. No one could possibly blame her for being apprehensive about taking to the skies now. But if she did, if Nova were to throw herself into performances... Damuron had no doubt that he'd insist on being there, demand that he be close enough to the big top that he could intervene if need be. Damnit, I should have been doing that all along! Kimber wasn't the only one in danger-- my negligence could have cost any number of people their lives! I needed to be there- I should have--!

"Nova sit. I can do that. Dam, stop trying to hide your arm. I promise I won't somehow rip Nova's hand off if you aren't hovering and deal with your own slightly more pressing injury. Or just hold tight and let me do this, then tell us what to do and we can help with your arm. I've been doing this since I was little. The cats have a knack for picking up bits of broken bottles in their paws, and the last lion tamer didn't have my gift. He could order them around sure, but they wouldn't hold still for him like most will me. It was safer for Duffy to hold them still and let me be the one hurting them."

And with that, Ava took to treating Nova's hand, taking gentle care to fish out the stray bits of glass embedded in her flesh. Damuron blinked slowly, taking in what she had said. Did she... did she think he didn't trust her with Nova's hand? That was not it at all; it was just his job. He simply did not want to put any more burden on the poor girl. She was holding together remarkably, but... he didn't want to find her limit, that was all. But it seemed she had made her decision, busying herself with wrapping Nova's hand deftly. With a short sigh, he took his arm and placed it back on the counter. He reached weakly for the iodine he kept in the counter, taking it and a rag. Dousing the rag carefully, he steeled himself for the pain he was about to cause himself. Biting his cheek hard, he pushed the towel into the wound, scrubbing as hard as he could physically make himself. His teeth sank into his cheek ferociously, restraining himself from yelping. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought. He wanted to sit, but he did not trust himself to stand at the moment. He leaned heavily on his elbow, focusing his efforts into cleaning the wound quickly.

"Nova...? Um, what did you think you were interrupting?"

She couldn't be that naive. She couldn't. But as Damuron looked over to her, he recognized what she was doing. It was a distraction. It was anything and everything she could do to keep her mind off of the reality that would fell her the second she stepped away from her companions. He exhaled through his nose, a small laugh through his pain. Whatever they needed, he wouldn't interfere. He rooted around beneath the cabinet for a moment, searching for some bandages. He had been careless; that was why his arm was in the condition it was. He would handle the reparations himself; there was no need to worry the ladies about it. Hopefully he could scrounge up some other distraction before they finished with Nova's hand...

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: In a lot of pain. Blinding pain. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Ava & Nova⋯

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Post: 83347663_69 created on Wed, 24 Dec 2014 03:11:16 +0000
Posted: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 03:11:16 +0000

Alaizabel stood awkwardly to the side, looking him over. The flickering lamplight illuminated him softly, shadows jumping erratically behind him. He smiled weakly, the gesture feeling false, forced. Was that how she looked when she smiled at others? No, it wasn't like this. Her smile was aloof, distant, and reserved. This was... more raw than that. It was more of a shield he was erecting to defend himself, to keep his true feelings hidden from her. "'Course." His voice was coarse, nearly as false as his expression.Her brow unknit, her lips curving into a small smile. Her worry was not abated, but... He's holding himself together. Leave it. She took a seat next to him, folding her legs beneath her and allowing her skirt to fan out around her. He had cleared her a small spot in the cigarette carnage so that she could seat in a clean (well, relatively) spot beside him on the roof.

For a while the two just sat there, staring out over the edge of the train. The forestry spread out in front of them, and the small twittering of woodland creatures scurrying through the branches met their ears. She wasn't certain what it was, but just sitting next to Paul had a near therapeutic effect on her. She could almost forget about... The lantern light only reached so far, stretching its beams just far enough into the forest to light the first few trees. Alaizabel pondered the illumination, flickering as the light breeze interacted with the flame of the lamp. Light thinks it travels faster than anything... but it is wrong. she thought, her expression darkening a bit. She looked between Paul and the distance. She wanted to forget, to fall back into simple, jovial conversation with Paul about his day, about the books they had shared, about how the train (she could never remember the name that the stagehands had given it...) had finally 'grown a pair' and pushed through the end of the course. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first... But that was unreasonable. Whatever solace she could offer at this moment would only be temporary, would only be fleeting... ...and is waiting for it. Paul made a small gesture toward the countless cigarette stumps he had left behind. She supposed, in a way, he was trying to be polite in much the way that she commonly would be. Her lips upturned at the corners, and she shook her head mutedly. She had never minded him smoking (not that she herself was a fan of smoking; she had just never seemed to be bothered by Paul smoking. It was just him, just Paul, and smoking seemed as much a part of him as... as perkiness did to Icarus. As kindness did to Nova, to Damuron. As insanity did to Taubryn. All of Paul's illicit activities were just a part of him, one that she would never attempt to change), but she had simply never understood the appeal of inhaling something completely foreign to her body. Perhaps she was just scared. Of what, though, at this point? She had lived so long, been entirely unweathered by time. What was stopping her? She was going to die anyway, right? After all, Kimber had. She could die the same way, or perhaps even worse. Looking at it that way, what was the problem with one cigarette? Just as she reached this resolve, though, Paul shifted his weight beneath him, rustling through his pocket for... well she wasn't sure what. She quirked a brow, eyeing him warily.

"Here. Let me see your hands then."

He did not wait for a reply. Paul took her hand quickly, pulling her from where she perched on her knee to the side of her thigh. She was marginally closer to him, but that did not occur to her as he inspected her hands carefully. Wonderful, she lamented internally, grimacing a bit while he was not looking. He was sure to inquire about her knuckle; while the open sores and blisters were clearly from her lending a hand to him during the week, the gash on the top of her hand was clearly not. And what would she tell him? That she was conducting herself like a petulant child and hand injured herself in an unacceptable tantrum. Admitting that would far surpass embarrassment... Mercifully, he did not bother asking. As he turned her hand over in his grasp, his expression pinched a bit. Was that... concern? Fantastic, now instead of offering a distraction, she was causing him greater distress. Her purpose had been to offer consolation, not heap more onto his burden. Her eyes darted between his inspection and his face, nerves building as the silence stretched.

"It'll get easier after this," he insisted. He took the handkerchief in his grip, gently wrapping it around her hand. She observed carefully, taken aback. He was... wrapping her hand? It was such a simple gesture, something benign. But... she felt her cheeks warming, and she rolled her lip between her teeth anxiously. Damuron was required to help with wounds; it was not without kindness, but it was with purpose that he assisted the injured. This was somehow different. No duty bound him to this, no misplaced sense of necessity. This was just kindness, plain and simple. But... why....? "Soon, once all this heals. The skin on your hand will thicken up a bit, it will." He held her hand now carefully, finishing the wrapping. Her gaze drifted from where he was working to his face. He was engrossed in his work, but his eyes betrayed his inner feelings. His worry, his thoughtfulness, his care... "Keep this on for now. And anytime you're about to work. Make sure its on under gloves. It'll save your hands from the worst of it." And he was terribly thoughtful. It was strange that she had not noticed it before; less that she hadn't noticed it and more that she had simply not given it much thought. He had always been that way. She had just not paid it any mind, in the same way that many around the cirque harbored qualities that she simply did not heed. She was not terribly close to those people... a few along the way, of course, but she tended to keep her brittle, careful distance. She couldn't open herself in that way. But with Paul... it somehow felt different. He was looking at her, holding her gaze in his. His eyes were a warm brown, a darker brown than her own amber ones, with a strange vulnerability in them. It was endearing. At this point in time, she was simply happy to be there, with him, the chalky scent o nicotine and smoke swirling around them, drawing her in--

Abruptly, he dropped her hand, moving just a nudge away from her gently. But was he.... was he blushing? She sat rim-rod straight, bowing her head a bit and casting her gaze down. Her stomach did a pirouette. She wanted to thank him, but he hurriedly asked, "So. You running away from today too, then?" He leaned back on his hands, looking to her for an answer. She lifted her now bandaged hand up to her locket, twisting it nervously between her fingers. She gave a small huff of a laugh. "I suppose I am, yes..." she conceded. Alaizabel shrugged a bit, curling her legs tighter beside her. "And if you are doing the same, then you are utilizing the wrong drug, in my honest opinion." It was a jest, something to attempt to goat him into a tangental reply to steer them away from the darkness at hand. He seemed to be taking it hard, harder than she was of course. Something in her wanted to help him, to somehow ease his mind. And he had been so kind to her... but how could she return the gesture? Of course-! It was unheard of, a gamble, but... She peered at him, beaming. This was it. This was the best way she could think of to distract him. She reached over to him where the was splayed out, putting her hand tenderly on his thigh. Alaizabel did not give herself time to doubt her actions, to think about how unusual extending her touch to another was. This was a time for action, an opportunity to make amends for being so selfish about her fears. "Would it be unbecoming of me to ask you to accompany me somewhere?" she inquired, her excitement spiking suddenly. It was the only thing she could think of, and likely the greatest kindness she could extend. Her grin met her eyes, brightening them. "Worry not for the travel; I can manage it. Would you please do me the honor?" Alaizabel leaned in a bit despite herself. She could only hope now that Paul would agree to her request...

✿

ʟocaтɪoɴ:

Train Roof --& Coal Car

xxxxxxxx

❀

ϻσσɗ:

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

xxxxxxxx

✿

ωɪтʜ:

Paul

xxxxxxxx

❀

σσc:

Let me know if I need to change anything!

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Post: 83347663_70 created on Wed, 24 Dec 2014 15:59:44 +0000
Posted: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 15:59:44 +0000

Symbols

[ ♀ ] Venus - Female symbol - [ ♂ ] Mars - Male symbol - [ ♈ ] Aries - [ ♉ ] Taurus - [ ♊ ] Gemini
[ ♋ ] Cancer - [ ♌ ] Leo - [ ♍ ] Virgo - [ ♎ ] Libra - [ ♏ ] Scorpio - [ ♐ ] Sagitarius - [ ♑ ] Capricorn - [ ♒ ] Aquarius - [ ♓ ] Pisces

┄ ┅ ┆ ┇ ┈ ┉ ┊ ┋ ⋮ ⋯ ⋰ ⋱
─ ━ │ ┃┌ ┐ ┍ ┑ ┎ ┒ ┏ ┓ └ ┘ ┕ ┙ ┖ ┚ ┗ ┛
┞ ┟ ┢ ┡ ┦ ┧ ┩ ┪
┣ ┫┝ ┥┠ ┨├ ┤
┬ ┭ ┮ ┯ ┰ ┱ ┲ ┳ ┴ ┵ ┶ ┷ ┸ ┹ ┺ ┻ ┼ ┽ ┾ ┿
╀ ╁ ╂ ╃ ╄ ╅ ╆ ╇ ╈ ╉ ╊ ╋ ╌ ╍ ╎ ╏
═ ║ ╒ ╓ ╔ ╕ ╖ ╗ ╘ ╙ ╚ ╛ ╜ ╝ ╞ ╟
╠ ╡ ╢ ╣ ╤ ╥ ╦ ╧ ╨ ╩ ╪ ╫ ╬
╭ ╮ ╯ ╰ ╱ ╲ ╳ ╴ ╵ ╶ ╷ ╸ ╹ ╺ ╻
≡ ≢ ≣ ≤ ≥ ≦ ≧ ≨ ≩ ≪ ≫ ≭ ≮ ≯ ≰ ≱ ≲ ≳ ≴ ≵ ≶ ≷ ≸ ≹ ≺ ≻ ≼ ≽ ≾ ≿
⊀ ⊁ ⊂ ⊃ ⊄ ⊅ ⊆ ⊇ ⊈ ⊉ ⊊ ⊋ ⊏ ⊐ ⊑ ⊒
⊕ ⊖ ⊗ ⊘ ⊙ ⊚ ⊛ ⊜ ⊝ ⊞ ⊟
⊠ ⊡ ⊢ ⊣ ⊤ ⊥ ⊦ ⊧ ⊨ ⊩ ⊪ ⊫ ⊬ ⊭ ⊮ ⊯
⊰ ⊱ ⊲ ⊳ ⊴ ⊵ ⊶ ⊷ ⊸ ⊹ ⊺ ⊻ ⊼ ⊽ ⊾ ⊿
⋀ ⋁ ⋂ ⋃ ⋄ ⋅ ⋆ ⋇ ⋈ ⋉ ⋊ ⋋ ⋌ ⋍
⋎ ⋏ ⋐ ⋑ ⋒ ⋓ ⋔ ⋖ ⋗ ⋘ ⋙ ⋚ ⋛ ⋜ ⋝ ⋞ ⋟
⋠ ⋡ ⋢ ⋣ ⋤ ⋥ ⋦ ⋧ ⋨ ⋩ ⋪ ⋫ ⋬ ⋭

Oº°‘¨ ¨‘°ºO
•°o.O O.o°•
¨°o.O O.o°¨
—¤÷(`[¤* *¤]´)÷¤—
•·.·´¯`·.·• •·.·´¯`·.·•´
`·.(`·.¸ ¸.·´).·´
`·» »-(¯`v´¯)-»
`•.¸¸.•´¯`•.¸¸.•´
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`•.•●•۰• ••.•´
×º°”˜`”°º× ×º°”˜`”°º×
ண

▀ ▁ ▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ █ ▉ ▊ ▋ ▌ ▍ ▎ ▏ ▐
░ ▒ ▓▕ ▖■ □ ▢ ▣ ▤ ▥ ▦ ▧ ▨ ▩ ▪ ▫
▬ ▭ ▮ ▯ ▰ ▱ ▲ △ ▴ ▵ ▶ ▷ ▸ ▹ ► ▻ ▼ ▽ ▾ ▿
◀ ◁ ◂ ◃ ◄ ◅ ◆ ◇ ◈ ◉ ◊
○ ◌ ◍ ◎ ● ◐ ◑ ◒ ◓ ◔ ◕
◖ ◗ ◘ ◙ ◚ ◛ ◜ ◝ ◞ ◟

Δ - ▹ - ◆ - ◇ - ◈ - ◉ - ◊ - ○ - ◌ - ◍ - ◎ - ● - ◐ - ◑ - ◒ -◓ - ◔ - ◕ - ☮ - ☯
✓ - ✔ - √
✕ - ✖ - ✗ - ✘
✙ - ✚ - ✛ - ✜
✩ - ✿ - ❀ - ❁ - ❄ - ❅ - ❆ - ❇ - ❤
♪ - ♫ - ♬ - ♭ - ♮ - ♯
✫ - ✬ - ✭ - ✮ - ✯ - ✰ - ✱ - ✲ - ✳ - ✴ - ✵ - ⋆
✈ - ✁ - ✂
♀ - ♂
↖ - ↗ - ↘ - ↙- ↚ - ↛ - ↜ - ↝ - ↩ - ↪ - ↫ - ↬ - ⇒ - ⇦- - ⇧- ⇨ - ⇩ - ➔
↭ - ↮ - ∿
∮ - ∭ - ∯ - ∰ - ∱ - ∲ - ∳
∴ - ∵ - ⋮ - ⋯ - ⋰ - ⋱
⊕ - ⊖ - ⊗ - ⊘ - ⊙ - ⊚ - ⊜ - ⊛ - ⊝ - ○ - ☼
⊞ - ⊟ - ⊠ - ⊡
⋎ - ⋏
⋐ - ⋑ - ⋒ - ⋓
⌘ - ⌠ - ⌡
℥ - Ω - ℧ - ℨ - ℩

¦ º · • ← ↑ → ↓ ↔ ↕

× ÷ − ± π ⁄ ∆ ∏ ∕ ∙ √ ∞ ≈ ≠ ≡ ≤ ≥
☺ ☻ ☼ ♀ ♂ ♠ ♣ ♥ ♦ ♪ ♫
▀ ▄ █ ▌ ▐ ░ ▒ ▓ ■ □ ▪ ▫ ▬ ▲ ► ▼ ◄ ◊ ○ ● ◘ ◙ ◦ Ξ ◕
§ ¬ ⌐ ‰ ′ ″ Ω ⌂
¤ ₪
¨ ¯ ´ ¸ ˆ ˇ ˉ ˘ ˙ ˚ ˛ ˜ ˝ ̀ ́ ̃ ̉ ̣
‼ ¡ ¿ ‽ “ ” „ ‘ ’ ‚ ‛ « » ‹ › … – — ― ‗ ‾ ‌ ‍

☼☽

ღ ♪ ♫ ♥ ♣ ♠ ♦ ● → ⇒ ► ◄ « » ☼ ☆ ☽ ☾ □ ▽ ↘↙╰╮ ¤ ю ◡

`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´

Г г Ґ ґ Ѓ ѓ ─ ╫╓ ╗ ╚ ╩ ╔ ╬ ╟ ╣ ├ ┤ ╘ ┴ ↔ ↓ ↑ ± Θ

①②③④⑤⑥⑦⑧⑨⑩ ⑪⑫⑬⑭⑮⑯⑰⑱⑲⑳
ⒶⒷⒸⒹⒺⒻ ⒼⒽⒾⒿⓀⓁ ⓂⓃⓄⓅⓆⓇ ⓈⓉⓊⓋⓌⓍ ⓎⓏ
ⓐⓑⓒⓓⓔⓕ ⓖⓗⓘⓙⓚⓛ ⓜⓝⓞⓟⓠⓡ ⓢⓣⓤⓥⓦⓧ ⓨⓩ

﹤ - ﹥ - ∝ - ∧ - ∨ - ∥ - ∠ - ≌ - ∽ - ≦ - ≧ - ≒ - ~ - ～ - ※ - ＊ -  - ≮ - ≯ - ＋ - － - × - ÷ - ﹢ - ± - ／ - ＝ - ⊹ - ⊱ - ⋛ - ⋋ - ⋌ - ⋚ - ⊰ - ⊹ - 彡 - ❝ - ❞ - ° - ﹌ - ﹎ - ╱ - ╲ - ☁ - Þ - ௫ - べ - ☪ - ∷ - ≈

ა ბ გ დ ე ვ ზ ჱ თ ი კ ლ მ ნ ჲ ო პ ჟ რ ს ტ ჳ უ ფ ქ ღ ყ შ ჩ ც ძ წ ჭ ხ ჴ ჯ ჰ ჵ ჶ

? Ɂ ɂ ʡ ʢ ʔ ʕ ʖ ˀ ˁ
Ȣ ȣ ȸ ȹ ʣ ʤ ʥ ʦ ʧ ʨ ʩ ɶ ы ʪ ʫ Ӹ ӹ
љ њ Ѹ ѹ Ѫ Ѭ Ѥ ѥ ѧ Ѩ ѩ ѫ ѭ ѱ
҈ ҉
҈ ҉
ʬ ʭ ɚ ɷ ҂ ҃ ҄ ҅ ҆
ʰ ʱʲ ʳ ʴ ʵ ʶ ʷ ʸ ͤ ͥ ͦ ͧ ͨ ͩ ͪ ͫ ͬ ͭ ͮ ͯ ʹ ʺ ʻ ʼ ʽ ʾ ʿ ˌ ˎ ˏ ˑ ˒ ˓ ˔ ˕ ˖ ˗
˂ ˃ ˄ ˅ ˆ ː ˇ ˈ ˉ ˊ ˋ ˘ ˙ ˚ ˛ ˜ ˝ ˞ ˟ ˍˍ
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┏ ┓ ┎ ┒ ┌ ┐ ┍ ┑ ╔ ╗ ╒ ╕ ╓ ╖╭ ╮ ◜◝ ◤ ◥
┗ ┛ ┖ ┚ └ ┘ ┕ ┙ ╚ ╝ ╘ ╛ ╙ ╜╰ ╯ ◟◞ ◣ ◢
( ) < > [ ] { } 〈〉《》「」『』 ⦅ ⦆
【】〖〗〔〕〘〙〚〛﹙ ﹚
﹤ ﹥ ﹛ ﹜
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① ② ③ ④ ⑤ ⑥ ⑦ ⑧ ⑨ ⑩ ⑪ ⑫ ⑬ ⑭ ⑮ ⑯ ⑰ ⑱ ⑲ ⑳
⑴ ⑵ ⑶ ⑷ ⑸ ⑹ ⑺ ⑻ ⑼ ⑽ ⑾ ⑿ ⒀ ⒁ ⒂ ⒃ ⒄ ⒅ ⒆ ⒇
⒈ ⒉ ⒊ ⒋ ⒌ ⒍ ⒎ ⒏ ⒐ ⒑ ⒒ ⒓ ⒔ ⒕ ⒖ ⒗ ⒘ ⒙ ⒚ ⒛
❶ ❷ ❸ ❹ ❺ ❻ ❼ ❽ ❾ ❿ ⓫ ⓬ ⓭ ⓮ ⓯ ⓰ ⓱ ⓲ ⓳ ⓴
⓵ ⓶ ⓷ ⓸ ⓹ ⓺ ⓻ ⓼ ⓽ ⓾
Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ Ⅼ Ⅽ Ⅾ Ⅿ
ⅰ ⅱ ⅲ ⅳ ⅴ ⅵ ⅶ ⅷ ⅸ ⅹ ⅺ ⅻ ⅼ ⅽ ⅾ ⅿ
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← → ↑ ↓ ↔ ↕ ↖ ↗ ↘ ↙ ↚ ↛ ↜ ↝ ↞ ↟
↠ ↡ ↢ ↣ ↤ ↥ ↦ ↧ ↨ ↩ ↪ ↫ ↬ ↭ ↮ ↯ ↰ ↱ ↲ ↳ ↴ ↵ ↶ ↷ ↸ ↹ ↺ ↻ ↼ ↽ ↾ ↿
⇀ ⇁ ⇂ ⇃ ⇄ ⇅ ⇆ ⇇ ⇈ ⇉ ⇊ ⇋ ⇌ ⇍ ⇎ ⇏ ⇐ ⇑ ⇒ ⇓ ⇔ ⇕ ⇖ ⇗ ⇘ ⇙ ⇚ ⇛ ⇜ ⇝ ⇞ ⇟
⇠ ⇡ ⇢ ⇣ ⇤ ⇥ ⇦ ⇧ ⇨ ⇩ ⇪
« » ⇒ ☇ ☈ ➳ ➽ ☜ ☞
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℀ ℁ ℂ ℃ ℄ ℅ ℆ ℠ ℡ ™ ℣ ℤ ℥ Ω ℧ ℶ ℷ ℸ ℻ ⅍ ⅎ ⅓ ⅔ ⅕ ⅖ ⅗ ⅘ ⅙ ⅚ ⅛ ⅜ ⅝ ⅞ ⅟
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☽ ☾ ✗ ✘ ✓ ✔ ☐ ☑ ☒ ✕ ✖ ✚ ✪ ✣ ✤ ✥ ✱ ✲ ✳ ❃ ❂ ❁ ❀ ✿ ✾ ✽ ✼ ✻ ✺ ✹ ✸ ✷ ✶ ✵ ✴ ❄ ❅ ❆ ❇ ❈ ❉ ❊ ❋ ❖ ☀ ☂ ☁ ❣ ✚ ✪ ✣ ✤ ✥ ✦ ❉ ❥ ❦ ❧ ❃ ❂ ❁ ❀ ✄ ☪ ➸ ♨ ☢ ☠ ☭ ♈ ☮ ☯ ♋ ☡ ☢ ☣ ☤ ☥ ☦ ☧ ☨ ☩ ☪ ☫ ☬ ☭ ♔ ♕ ♖ ♗ ♘ ♙ ♚ ♛ ♜ ♝ ♞ ♟ ۩ ۞ ♠ ♡ ♢ ♣ ♤ ♥ ♦ ♧ ✦✧✩✫✬✭✮✯✰ ☼ ❣ ♲ ♳ ♴ ♵ ♶ ♷ ♸ ♹ ♺ ♻ ♼ ♽ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ☰ ☱ ☲ ☳ ☴ ☵ ☶ ☷ ☚ ☛ ☜ ☝ ☞ ☟ ☿ ♀ ♁ ♂ ♃ ♄ ♅ ♆ ♇ ♈ ♉ ♊ ♌ ♍ △ ▲ ☆ ★ ◇ ◆ ■ □ ▽ ▼ ❤❥♎ ♏ ✐✌ ๑ ＃＠＆＊￥ ☸ ☆ ★ ✪ ¤ ☼ ☀ ☽☾ ♡ ღ ☻ ☺ ❂ ◕ ⊕ ☉ Θ o O ♋ ☯ ㊝ ⊙ ◎ ◑ ◐ ۰ • ● ▪ ▫ ｡ﾟ ๑ ☜ ☞ ☂ ♨ ☎ ☏ ✍ ✡

ಠ_ಠ ◕ ◡ ◕ °__° ಥ__ಥ (-`ω´- ) (●ゝω)ノヽ(∀＜●) >_< ⊙▂⊙ ⊙o⊙ ⊙︿⊙　 ⊙ω⊙　⊙△⊙　 ⊙▽⊙ (◡_◡) (◕-◕) (◕o◕) (∩_∩)

×º°”˜`”°º× ×º°”˜`”°º×»-(¯`v´¯)-» ×÷·.·´¯`·)» «(·´¯`·.·÷×*∩_∩* ╬ ╠ ╣∷ ღ ∆ ? Õ Ő ő ∞ © ‡ † ?

ஜ ஒ ண இ ஆ ௰ღ ஒ ʚ ɞ ɷ

▫—(•·÷[ ]÷·•)— ·÷±‡±±‡±÷· Oº°‘¨ ¨‘°ºO •°o.O O.o°• ¨°o.O O.o°¨—¤÷(`[¤* *¤]´)÷¤—•·.·´¯`·.·• •·.·´¯`·.·•´`·.(`·.¸ ¸.·´).·´`·»

█┗┛↘↙→ ↑╰☆╮ ≠ ♥☞ ─ ▄ ┻┳═ -─═┳ ∝╬══→ ::======>> ☆═━┈┈━═☆　┣▇▇▇═─ ■◆◣◥▲◤ ◥∴ ▂▃▅▆█ ┌┐└┘『』

┄ ┅ ┆ ┇ ┈ ┉ ┊ ┋ ⋮ ⋯ ⋰ ⋱─ ━ │ ┃┌ ┐ ┍ ┑ ┎ ┒ ┏ ┓ └ ┘ ┕ ┙ ┖ ┚ ┗ ┛ ┞ ┟ ┢ ┡ ┦ ┧ ┩ ┪ ┣ ┫┝ ┥┠ ┨├ ┤ ┬ ┭ ┮ ┯ ┰ ┱ ┲ ┳ ┴ ┵ ┶ ┷ ┸ ┹ ┺ ┻ ┼ ┽ ┾ ┿ ╀ ╁ ╂ ╃ ╄ ╅ ╆ ╇ ╈ ╉ ╊ ╋ ╌ ╍ ╎ ╏ ═ ║ ╒ ╓ ╔ ╕ ╖ ╗ ╘ ╙ ╚ ╛ ╜ ╝ ╞ ╟ ╠ ╡ ╢ ╣ ╤ ╥ ╦ ╧ ╨ ╩ ╪ ╫ ╬

± : . : ± : . : ± : . : ± ▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄ ╔══════════════╗
╚══════════════╝ ┏━━━━━━━━━┓ ┗━━━━━━━━━┛

๑۞๑ ๑۩ﺴ ﺴ۩๑๑۩۞۩...¤¸¸.·´¯`·.¸·..>>--» [[]] «--<<..·.¸¸·´¯`·.¸¸¤... .•:*´¨`*:•.☆۩ ۞ ۩ ۩ ۞

۩☆•:*´¨`*:•. `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ٩(̾●̮̮̃̾•̃̾)۶ __̴ı̴̴̡̡̡ ̡͌l̡̡̡ ̡͌l̡*̡̡ ̴̡ı̴̴̡ ̡̡͡|̲̲̲͡͡͡ ̲▫̲͡ ̲̲̲͡͡π̲̲͡͡ ̲̲͡▫̲̲͡͡ ̲|̡̡̡ ̡ ̴̡ı̴̡̡ ̡͌l̡̡̡̡

︻︼︽︾〈〉︿﹀ ∩ ∪ ﹁﹂﹃﹄﹝ ﹞ ＜＞ ≦ ≧ ﹤ ﹥ 「」︵︶︷︸︹︺〔〕【】《》（）｛｝ ﹙ ﹚ 『』 ﹛ ﹜╳ ＋－ ﹢ ×

Alphabet

ＡＢＣＤＥＦＧＨＩＪＫＬＭＮＯＰＱＲＳＴＵＶＷＸＹＺ
ａｂｃｄｅｆｇｈｉｊｋｌｍｎｏｐｑｒｓｔｕｖｗｘｙｚ

α в c ם/∂/δ є ғ ɢ н ι נ к ℓ м и σ ρ q я s т υ v ω x ץ/ч z

⒜ ⒝ ⒞ ⒟ ⒠ ⒡ ⒢ ⒣ ⒤ ⒥ ⒦ ⒧ ⒨ ⒩ ⒪ ⒫ ⒬ ⒭ ⒮ ⒯ ⒰ ⒱ ⒲ ⒳ ⒴ ⒵

Ⓐ Ⓑ Ⓒ Ⓓ Ⓔ Ⓕ Ⓖ Ⓗ Ⓘ Ⓙ Ⓚ Ⓛ Ⓜ Ⓝ Ⓞ Ⓟ Ⓠ Ⓡ Ⓢ Ⓣ Ⓤ Ⓥ Ⓦ Ⓧ Ⓨ Ⓩ
ⓐ ⓑ ⓒ ⓓ ⓔ ⓕ ⓖ ⓗ ⓘ ⓙ ⓚ ⓛ ⓜ ⓝ ⓞ ⓟ ⓠ ⓡ ⓢ ⓣ ⓤ ⓥ ⓦ ⓧ ⓨ ⓩ

Å Ȁ Ȃ Ȧ Ӓ Ӑ Ʌ Ⱥ Ά Α Λ Ѧ Д ᾈ ᾉ ᾊ ᾋ ᾌ ᾍ ᾎ ᾏ • ȁ ȃ ɑ ɒ ɐ ȧ α ά Δ д ӓ ӑ ᾀ ᾁ ᾂ ᾃ ᾄ ᾅ ᾆ ᾇ ᾰ ᾱ ᾲ ᾳ ᾴ ᾶ ᾷ ą
Ƀ β Ѣ ℬ ß • Ђ Ъ Ь ъ ь Ϧ ɓ ʙ ϐ ѣ б в Ҍ ҍ
Ȼ ʗ Ͻ Ͼ Ͽ Ϲ Ѽ Ҁ Ҫ ℭ • ɔ ȼ ς ϲ ѽ ҁ ҫ c ɕ
Ð • ɖ ɗ ȡ ʠ δ ∂ đ ם ɖ ɗ δ
Ȅ Ȇ Ӗ Ɇ Ѐ ℰ Ȩ Ȝ Έ Ё Ε Ξ Σ ξ Є Э Ӭ З Ѯ Ҿ Ҽ Ӛ Ә Ӟ Ҙ ℇ ℈ • ə ε έ з є э е ϵ ϶ ȅ ɘ ȇ ɇ ȩ ѐ ё ѯ ҿ ҽ ӛ ӟ ҙ ӗ ӭ ℮ ℯ é ɘ ə ɚ ɜ ɝ
Ϝ Ғ Ӻ ℉ ℱ Ⅎ ƒ Ғ • ϝ ɟ ʄ ӻ ғ ╒
Ѡ Ѿ • ℊ ℐ ɠ ɡ ʛ ɢ ɞ ʚ ɕ ɢ g ġ
Ȟ Ή Η Ң Ҥ Һ Ӈ Ӊ Ҕ ᾘ ᾙ ᾚ ᾛ ᾜ ᾝ ᾞ ᾟ ℋ ℍ Ħ • ʜ ɦ ћ ʮ ʯ ɧ ȟ ɥ ђ Ћ н ӈ ӊ ң ҕ ҥ ℌ ℎ ℏ ɥ ɦ
Ȉ Ȋ Ί Ϊ Ῐ Ῑ Ὶ Ί • ȉ ɨ ɩ ɪ ȋ ϊ ΐ ῐ ῑ ῒ ΐ ῖ ῗ ι į ї ɨ ɩ ɪ ɫ ɬ ί
Ɉ Ј ℑ • ɉ ȷ ʝ ϳ נ ʝ
Ќ Қ Ҟ Ҝ Ҟ Ӄ K • ʞ ɮ κ ќ қ ҝ ҟ ҡ ӄ
Ƚ ζ ℒ • ℓ ʟ ɫ ɬ ʅ ɭ ȴ ʃ ʄ ʆ
Ϻ Ӎ ℳ • ɯ ɰ ɱ ϻ ӎ м
Ƞ Ν Π Ѝ Ҋ Ӣ Ӥ Ώ Ω Л Й ℕ• ȵ ɲ ɳ ɴ ή π η и й ѝ л ҋ ӣ ӥ ᾐ ᾑ ᾒ ᾓ ᾔ ᾕ ᾖ ᾗ ὴ ή ὴ ή ℵ
Ȍ Ӧ Ȏ Ȭ Ȫ Ȯ Ȱ ʘ Ό θ Ѻ ϴ Ӫ Θ Ѳ Ю ф Ὸ Ό • ȫ ȭ ȍ ȏ ȯ ȱ ɵ ɸ σ ϕ ό Φ ѻ ѳ ӧ ӫ ℴ ø
Ρ Ҏ Ῥ ℙ • ρ ϼ Ϸ ϸ φ ҏ ῤ ῥ ℘ þ
Ɋ Ϙ ℚ• ϙ ɋ Ϥ ϥ ϱ q
Ȑ Ȓ Ɍ Я Г Ѓ Ӷ Ґ ℛ ℜ ℝ ℞ ℟• я ɹ ɺ ɻ ɼ ɽ ɾ ɿ ȑ ȓ ɍ ʀ ʁ г ѓ ґ ӷ ѓ
Ș Ϩ ϩ Ϛ § Ş • ϛ ɛ ɜ ɝ ʂ ȿ ș ჷ
Ț Ⱦ Ҭ ₮ • τ Ϯ ϯ ȶ ʇ ʈ ț т ҭ т †
Ȕ Ʉ Ȗ Ώ Ω ц • ȕ ȗ ʮ ʯ ʉ ʊ υ μ ϑ ϋ ύ ΰ ů υ ü ŭ ῡ ῢ ΰ ῦ ῧ
Ʌ Ѵ Ѷ • ɣ ʋ ʌ ѵ ѷ v
Ϣ Ш Щ • ϣ ш щ ѿ ѡ ʍ ώ ψ Ψ ω ϖ ᾠ ᾡ ᾢ ᾣ ᾤ ᾥ ᾦ ᾧ ῲ ῳ ῴ ῶ ῷ ὼ ώ
Ϫ Ж Җ χ Ӽ Ҳ Ӿ Ӂ Ӝ • ж ϰ ϗ ӽ ӿ ҳ ӂ ӝ җ x
Ȳ Ɏ ϒ ϓ ϔ Ύ Ϋ Υ Ў У ц Ѱ Ӱ Ӯ Ӳ Ӵ Ҷ Ҹ Ӌ Ῠ Ῡ Ὺ Ύ • Ч џ ў ү ұ ɣ ɏ ȳ ʎ ʏ ɤ Ϟ λ ϫ ӯ ӱ ӳ ӵ ҷ ҹ ӌ у ץ ч ჸ ұ
Ȥ • ɀ ʐ ʑ ȥ ʒ ʓ ȝ ℨ z

℔ №

Colors

pink, lightpink, palevioletred, hotpink, deeppink, red, tomato, crimson, firebrick, indianred

darkred, maroon, brown, sienna, saddlebrown, rosybrown, tan, darkkhaki, BurlyWood, chocolate, peru, darkgoldenrod

lightcoral, coral, lightsalmon, salmon, darksalmon,
orangered, darkorange, orange, sandybrown, goldenrod, khaki, gold, yellow

Honeydew, YellowGreen, greenyellow, lightgreen, lawngreen, chartreuse, lime, springgreen, mediumspringgreen,
limegreen, green, forestgreen, darkgreen,
seagreen, mediumseagreen, darkseagreen, Palegreen
olive, olivedrab, darkolivegreen

azure, aliceblue, lightcyan, paleturquoise, lightblue, lightsteelblue, powderblue, cyan, aqua, aquamarine, turquoise, lightskyblue, skyblue, mediumaquamarine,
mediumturquoise, darkturquoise, deepskyblue, cadetblue, cornflowerblue, steelblue, slateblue, mediumslateblue,royalblue, dodgerblue, lightseagreen, teal,darkcyan, blue, mediumblue,darkslateblue, navy, darkblue, midnightblue

indigo, blueviolet, mediumpurple, mediumorchid, purple, darkmagenta, darkviolet, darkorchid, lavender, thistle, plum, violet, orchid, magenta, fuchsia, mediumvioletred

darkslategray, dimgray, gray, slategray, darkgray, silver, Gainsboro, Ghostwhite, Lightgrey, Lightslategray,

Antiquewhite, Beige, Bisque, Blanchedalmond, Cornsilk, Ivory, Lemonchiffon, Lightgoldenrodyellow, Lightyellow, Linen, Mintcream, Mistyrose, Moccasin, Navajowhite, Oldlace, Palegoldenrod, Papayawhip, Peachpuff, Seashell, Snow, Wheat, Whitesmoke

((stealing this so I can stop stalking test threads...))

Promise of Bliss

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Anxious Loiterer

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Post: 83347663_71 created on Wed, 24 Dec 2014 22:19:33 +0000
Posted: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 22:19:33 +0000

________________________

My Basics

My Full Name is Presea Driselle Renaldi and I am [Nineteen] years old.
I am a human
People have measured my height and told me that I am Five feet, two inches.
The weapon that I prefer to fight with is Dual Chakram

________________________

Elementals

I was chosen by the Shadow
To prove such I am marked on my right thigh
And my marking is a band of interwoven strikes around her leg, measuring about five inches wide.

________________________

My Views

To sum me up simply -
[xxxxxxx]Presea grew up with practically nothing, so she needed to learn to live in whatever way she could. She is a cunning young woman, able to... acquire food, water, and other necessities in whatever way necessary to survive. She is a stuffy sort of person, with a six-foot wall of stubbornness between herself and her emotions. She is guarded, unwilling to let people into her heart because she is not willing to endure all of the damage that getting close to others incurs. She's a flighty person, quick to hide and observe in situations that seem tense or dangerous; this stealthiness is made easier by her nimbleness and light-footedness. She's sharp-witted, smarter than she often lets on. She can assess an area, a person, and find the best approaches and most useful weaknesses in a moment. Her strong empathy with others only serves to increase this wit; she is highly adept at, not only understanding others, but rationalizing others' behavior. As such, it is difficult for her to hold a grudge. She is more likely to dismiss the behavior in some form or manner due to someone's perceived 'personality issues'. That does not mean, however, that she is above fighting. In fact, Presea is a highly hostile person, sharp tongued and venomous in her accusations. She often believes those around her are against her in some way, having a bit of a victim-complex. She is mildly paranoid, and highly untrusting of the vetted aristocracy. She does not seek conflict, but certainly does nothing to abate it should it occur. Even still, it is incredibly uncommon for her to shout or raise her voice. She's a quiet person, speaking only when necessary or when accompanied by a trusted comrade. She is fiercely loyal to those who have earned her trust, and even is warm and gentle with these honored few. With these people, she can be kind and earnest, though still subdued compared to more outspoken, extroverted people. Despite all of her negative qualities, Presea is a good-natured person, and is kind to those who she deems to deserve the treatment. She is amiable especially to children, who she believes to be less privileged (and less tainted) than many of the citizens of Yelaria.

Here is the story of how I got to this point of my life.
[xxxxxxx]Presea was born into an impoverished, pauperized area of Yelaria. She knew that her parents were alive when she was very, very small, but from what she can remember, they were always gone. Some of the older women in the area told her that her mother had gotten sick when she was just a baby, and that her father had left on a job when she was four and never came back. If she focused, she could almost see him waving goodbye the last time she saw him. Without her parents, she did not have much option but to fend for herself growing up. It was not a safe or lucrative way of living. She had to fight for everything she had, be it against authorities, against the aristocracy, or against other people struggling to survive. The only people she could trust were those in her age group, a rough-and-tumble group of children who satirically called themselves the Shadow Espers. These children were the closest thing to family she had growing up, relying on them for support and affection. Being so young, they did not understand how insulting and frankly disrespectful the name was, and once they were, they frankly did not give a damn. The children worked in the shadows, hitting up the main street for funds dipped from people's pockets, for food lifted from stalls and shops, for blankets and clothes taken from any place that they could manage. The survived on intuition and care alone. She knew no other life than scavenging, thieving, and working in the shade. Growing up with these renegade youths, it was certain to her that she would never amount to anything as long as she stayed in Yelaria. She was doomed to a life of penury, damned by the despotic aristocrats who lorded over the area. There was no purpose for her, and no reason to stay. Until she awoke marked...

These are also my family members and how I view them
[xxxxxxx]☨ Ravenor - a slightly older man who taught she and the other orphans the ropes. It is thanks to him that she knows all she does about combat, pickpocketing, and hiding. He kept her alive all this time. In a way, he could be seen as a father figure to her.
☨ Monalise - A member of the Shadow Espers, and a dear friend. She was always a timid little thing, and Presea had to, more than once, help her out of trouble or danger.
☨ Yandra - A member of the Shadow Espers; she is essentially a student to Presea. At the moment, she is mentoring her as Ravenor did she so long ago. She's only nine, but she is strong and agile. With just a little push, the girl has all the makings of the new head of the Shadow Espers...

Things that please me
[xxx]☨ Fauna - Presea is somehow calmed by the presence of animals, and they seem to like her, too. Well, ones that would reasonably like people. A feral wolf or a lumbering bear would obviously have no amiability toward her, but cats, dogs, and the like tend to be nice to her. They have a calming effect on her.
☨ Stars - The night sky is just gorgeous. Having rarely had a roof growing up, being able to see the stars is a great comfort to her.
☨ Open Space - The ability to stretch out wide and take up as much space as she can is highly enjoyable. She likes vast, open areas.
☨ Drawing - She's actually quite the artist, and tends to doodle things in the sand with sticks. She's never really had access to anything substantial that she could use to do art, but if she did, she would likely be very good at it.

I disprove of
[xxx]☨ Confined Spaces - She does not like to be restrained or confined, be it in a cell or with any sort of rope or what have you. Presea loathes it.
☨ Aristocrats - In her eyes, they're all entitled, arrogant bigots who would as soon send you to the gallows as look at you. They're avaricious, pompous, and Presea cannot stand them.
☨ Gold - It's ugly. Plain and simple.
☨ Being Ignored - Presea doesn't have much to say, but when she does, you damn well better hear it, lest she make you.

________________________

Et Cetera

The song listed below is something some would say is my theme song.
[xxxxxxx]Corpse Shell Release

Here is a phrase that I believe strongly in:
[xxxxxxx]"Light thinks it travels faster than anything, but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first and is waiting for it.

Extra Tidbits:
[xxxxxxx] ☨ Presea cannot read. It was never terribly important to her to learn. She is not stupid, and actually has a very vast vocabulary despite this, but the actual symbols could just as easily be nonsense.
☨ Presea is extremely physically competent in combat; while she is not trained with any weapons really, she is adept at improvising and at hand-to-hand combat (though it is fairly crude work, it does the trick).

The one who controls my actions is xXx Fox Trot xXx.

Promise of Bliss

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Anxious Loiterer

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Post: 83347663_72 created on Thu, 25 Dec 2014 03:46:41 +0000
Posted: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 03:46:41 +0000

◣Ｐｒｅｓｅａ

xxx

Ｄｒｉｓｅｌｌｅ

xxx

-----

xxx

Ｒｅｎａｌｄｉ

◥

█████████████

██

█████████████

██

█████████████

██

█████████████

´¯
´¯
´¯
´¯

┏━━━━ ◙ ŞҺ ɑ ɗ ѻ щ ◙ Ȩ ȿ ρ е ɍｌ━━━━━┓

Something was wrong. Well, perhaps wrong was the... well, wrong word. But something was assuredly different. Presea's eyes opened slowly, squinting against the sunlight that warmed her cheeks. She'd fallen asleep in the field again- the one they used to grow crops. If they found her, the farmers would be furious (of course they were furious every time they found her- it had never really been a deterrent more than a mild irritation). She blinked slowly, sitting up on her elbows and looking around. The Shadows were around her: little Yandra snoozing carelessly on her side, Monalise curled in the fetal position, wrapped in her cloak carefully. A few others were littered around her as well, the crop bending beneath their bodies as the slept. She slid her glassy, sleep-dazed eyes over the motley crew. It was her job to make sure they were all safe, that they were all looked after. No one appeared to be any worse off than they were the previous night; they were all dirty, but that was typical. Perhaps today was a good day to take to the river again and clean off. Looking them over, though, no one seemed to have been... well she didn't know what she expected. Them to be stabbed viciously in their sleep? Them to suddenly be jaundiced or otherwise ailing? Presea wasn't sure what she was searching for as she stood, swaying a bit in her barely conscious state, but she would find it. She crept between the wakeless forms, watching their chests rise and fall in rhythm like the lapping of the ripples on the lakeshore. Perhaps it was just her paranoia acting up, the way Ravenor always warned her it did. It was always like this- suddenly, something was just wrong, and she could not leave the lurking beast to hide just out of sight. She would not be felled by what she did not know. But as she worked her way through her troupe, through her dear companions, nothing revealed itself. She knelt down gently beside Iliana, brushing her dark blond hair from her face. She looked peaceful, like she could be dreaming of careless days by the sea, of leisures and luxuries far outside their capabilities. Presea grinned a bit despite herself. You're overreacting. she mused, leaning back on her heels where she crouched beside Iliana. And for a moment, she was convinced. For a moment, the breeze on her cheeks was soft, a tender and comforting embrace of nature. For a moment, the sun shining down on her was not a glaring irritation, but a warm reminder that the troupe could live together for another day, survive just a little longer. For a moment, everything was as it should be.

Until she looked down.

She was wearing what she always did: The outfit was simple, primarily a slate color with accented black. She wore a black half cloak (as close to a uniform as the Shadows ever got) over her shoulders, and at the moment her hood was down, allowing her untamed tresses to spill down her back. None of this, however, caught her eye. No, it was the rip in the fabric of her right leg that alarmed her. The mar eyed her venomously, its inky strokes stark against her pale skin. That... that wasn't there... She eyed it warily, nervously peeking around. No one had stirred at all. Perfect. She stood carefully, lithely dismissing herself from the circle in the crops her crew had forged. She wove through the tall (well, relatively) stalks until she deemed herself far enough from the others to examine the injury further. Had she been branded in her sleep? She couldn't image that she would not have awoken from that.... and did people even do that anymore? She was not certain, but what else could it be? She took a deep breath, gripping the frayed edges of fabric and tugging them apart.

The world stopped. The breeze no longer bowed the stalks. The sun no longer warmed her flesh. She looked at the mark, her incredulous expression morphing into a twisted combination of disbelief and horror. A mirthless laugh exited her, betraying her inner panic. "This is a mistake."

But there it was, gleaming back at her, arresting her body in its wake. The mark of an Esper is undeniable. There was no mistaking it. While she had not been brought up in a proper household, had not been terribly well educated, she was vividly aware of the Espers and guardians. And this...

"A mistake. A mistake. It must be a......a-!"

They would hate her. She stiffened abruptly, looking over her shoulder in the direction she had fled from. The Shadow Espers were satirists, firm believers that Espers were just an especially entitled lot that relished in their histrionic tendencies above all else. There was no way that the vetted theological hierarchy would even know she drew breath, much less entrust her (entrust her? Please, condemn her) to become a guardian of anything, besides perhaps a couple renegade orphans, and even then she somehow doubted it. But if they hadn't made a mistake, and she was some sort of... potential guardian of some nonsense... She would embody exactly what her comrades despised. She would be an enemy to their cause, a shameful example of the enemy embodied. She cringed at the thought. Presea did not precisely have a family, but she was not terribly keen on losing the few people she associated with. Had she not had enough disaster in her life? Enough hardship? She was seething now, her hands balled into fists. No, she would not take this lying down...

Besides, there was no time. Regardless of her faith in the accursed thing, she was well aware that they would expect her in the church in town, and quickly. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. It was a mistake, one that the church would surely remedy the moment they leveled their gazes on her. She was underclassed, filthy, illiterate, pathetic, worthless, damaged--, and most certainly not suitable to their purposes. There would be no disappointment when they turned her away, she insisted. It was just.... how it would happen. Doing her best to move soundlessly, she made her way back to the camp grounds, collecting her things in silence. Her bag now draped over her shoulder, menial supply and armaments recovered, she took off running.

For her size, she was a speedy little thing, and it took a bit less than average to make her way from the farm land into town. Just over an hour, she guessed, checking the sun's journey across the sky. She heaved her breath, attempting to recover from the hustle. Presea stood now before the church, collecting herself. She almost never came to this part of town (and when she did, it was generally for nefarious purposes, so she did not tend to linger). The breeze caught her hair, her bangs dancing in the way of her eyes. At least some part of her was excited. She assuredly wasn't. Presea's whole body was buzzing, though, that was certain. She felt nearly sick, electric, rooted momentarily to her spot. Was she really--?

It's a mistake. Now shut up, buck up, and tell them to keep looking.

Presea gave a short huff, nodding to herself. The building was old, but somehow inviting despite it's weathered appearance. The ancient espers in the stain glass gazed down upon her, scrutinizing her as she made her approach. They knew she was not worthy. They knew she was not one of them. Now she simply needed to make the pastors comprehend what the supposed divine already gathered.

She pushed her way through the doors more meekly than she would have liked. Presea was a commanding person, an ice queen, a tyrant. To be so sheepish was unbecoming of a woman of her stature. But nonetheless, that was what she had in her at the moment. The inside of the church was more impressive than its exterior, sporting great wooden archways, ribbed and emblazoned with each of the elements. Her eyes raked over each of them (which even was she supposed to be? In her panic, she had not even thought to absorb such vital information), rapidly taking in all of the novel information before setting on the seven figured in front of her.

Seven.

She was that late?!

Stupendous. Let alone did they screw up on an incredible scale, but now everyone is here to witness it... And today had such promise...

The door creaked shut behind her, but no one turned to observe her entrance. Perfect. Let them remain ignorant of you. They would do well to forget you, beside. They won't see you much longer anyway, Press. Get in, get out, go home. It took a moment for her to realize that their attention was diverted for another reason. An old man stood before them all, his beard longer than any she had seen prior. His skin sagged aggressively- it was uncommon for someone in her walk of life to see anyone achieve such an age, so she was a bit shocked at first to observe him. His robes were exquisite, more fine than she had encountered and billowing about his form as he effortlessly soared into the center of the room.

"For those of you who are not before your keystone, please move into the appropriate spot. Be sure to face the center of the room."

It was a simple statement, and all at once she realized that she was the only one standing away from the intricate arches. She glanced around, her oceanic eyes zeroing in on the empty vassal. Sha...dow....? She scoffed loudly. Her hands flew violently to her mouth, slapping her lips hard enough to echo in the chamber. She was not exactly known for manners or propriety, but it was positively ghastly to be so offensive in a place of worship. She was rude, not a monster, and she would be angry if someone scoffed at her things in her home (granted she had either of those, but she could understand the sentiment). She pinched her lips into a flat, stoic line, her mind racing. She could... she could just step to the alter and tell him quietly when he approached, right? It was... it was simple. Presea swiftly stepped across the room, her flat shoes padding soundlessly across the marbled floor, then turned to observe the proceedings.

"Once the previous command has been fulfilled, please expose your markings."

From there, he approached each of the Espers in turn, reciting the same scripture, performing the same actions. Until finally, he stood before her. Presea struggled (she hoped successfully) to hide her nerves. "Mister Pastor, uh, sir," she whispered, stealing her glance to either side. The others were busy with themselves, not paying her much mind (not that she cared much for what they were doing- she just wanted to ascertain this was truly a more private moment than she had dreaded). "I'm afraid there's been a kinda mess up here..." But her voice lost momentum. Looking at the man now, his steady eyes awaiting the mark, she could almost believe... she could almost allow-

She cocked her knee, exposing the banded brand that had wormed its way around her leg in the night. The pastor unveiled a small vial from his robe, exposing his finger to the odd liquid- she idly wondered if it was in fact liquid- that was stored within. He spoke, "May the Guardians of old be replaced by the Espers of new." The obtuse substance dripped from his grasp, carried by fate from its limbo to her flesh. Her body went numb on impact, the room around her darkening. It was not an oppressive darkness, not something to be feared or struggled against. It was an embrace, much like the one the wind had provided earlier. It was a part of nature that had always been there, but had simply been hidden away, ignored and forgotten. It was familiar, safe, like the brush of unconsciousness just before you drifted to sleep. As it enveloped her, she could feel herself slipping, surrendering herself to the unbidden approach of the darkness around her. As though listening through thick cotton, she heard in the distance, "The Element of Shadow has been awoken within you, Presea Renaldi." So he did know her name... this wasn't a mistake. This splendid, terrifying, life-rending change was not a blunder in the theocratic system. She was... chosen? It made no sense, but she would not resist if it mean feeling this... this...

"May the great God lead them down the right path, and may they not dip towards destruction."

She slumped heavily against the keystone behind her, her chest heaving in deep gasps. She felt light headed all of the sudden, like she had resurfaced too slowly from a deep dive. She allowed herself to drop to the floor, her back pushing hard against the keystone behind her. As she returned to reality, the man continued his soliloquizing, expressing to them the future journey that now lay before them. Journey? Yes, to a Castle- Cethiena, he claimed- where they would be tested for their worth. Their worth? She had never had any before- were they trying to doom her? Her faith in the whole ordeal was surprisingly short lived, even by her standards, but she glared at the pastor nonetheless as he spoke. So me and these... um... guys... gotta shack up and take down a Castle? Good God who uses the word "thee" anymore I thought they retired that crap in the dark ages... Presea was unamused.

A great wave of excitement erupted from the crowd outside, the shouts and hollers assaulting her with their misplaced joviality. Her breathing was normalizing, thankfully, but she had no intention of walking through that door. Some girl was coughing up water, she was not the Shadow Esper, the darkness in the room was not subsiding like she had thought it would, she was not the Shadow Esper, the others were moving toward the doors, and she was not the Shadow Esper.

She stood all at once, vertigo hitting her like a freight train. She ignored it though, supporting herself against the keystone behind her. "This is stupid..." she muttered darkly, her hand flying to her eyes. She rubbed her temples with her thumb and middle finger, her eyes hidden behind her hand. "Who just lets the church ******** up this royally? I can't even say I'm angry more than impressed..." she chided. She was never a loud person, so her voice did not particularly carry her sentiments far, but the room was not so great that she would not be heard. Someone would know she didn't belong. Someone would fix this. Someone. Anyone.

┗━━━━to light a candle is to cast a shadow...━━━━━┛

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Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_74 created on Thu, 25 Dec 2014 16:37:13 +0000
Posted: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 16:37:13 +0000

xxx

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Tʜaт ɴɪɢʜт ʜε caɢεd ʜεr

"Please, Ava and I can handle this one. Take care of whatever you need to." Nova was consoling him. Despite all that she had witnessed and been through, she was making the effort to relieve him of her care and see that he was taken care of. Reluctantly, Damuron nodded, turning back to his work. The scrubbing had been agonizing, far more painful to him than he had expected, but it looked like it was not for nothing. While most of the warning signs of infection still remained, the wound looked a slight bit better in the wake of his onslaught of iodine. He sighed, steadying himself against the counter. Now was not the time to get wobbly on the girls. They had enough to deal with. Behind him, Ava patiently (surprisingly patiently, he noted) went about removing the scraps of glass from the acrobat's hand, exchanging smalltalk for a a short while. Nova answered Damuron now, "I can't smell much of anything right now, heh. We'll scrap the alcohol then, it should be fine with just soap and water. We should probably save the iodine for your cut, if it's bad. You'll need to clean it out with it a few times a day.. not that you don't already know that." He rifled through the cabinet as she spoke, fishing out extra gauze pads and bandages that he would need for his arm. He must have had a fever; let alone did he simply feel warm, but he consciously had to suppress a disdainful, "I know that," when she spoke. He was a doctor, after all. He knew how to treat wounds, illnesses, broken bones, and more. He was professionally accredited and trained, despite how people may view a circus doctor. And he knew that the deplorable state he had allowed his wound to reach was positively unacceptable. But in the past week's nonsense, in all of the hectic mess in the wake of the train attack and travels, it had simply slipped his mind. Damuron knew that he tended to get infections a lot, though; this was not really anything unusual. The only difference resided in the fact that he had blundered his attempt to hide the issue from his compatriots. He stood up straight, steadying himself on his now strained ankle. He hissed a bit at the sudden jab of pain that shot up his leg. It was really not a bad sprain at all, but in his single-mindedness, he had simply forgotten it was there. Funny how he kept spacing on his own injuries, but he knew about the entire Cirque's collection so aptly.

"Dam, you should sit. You don't look well. We can help you with that in just a sec--" Nova silenced with a short hiss as Ava pulled another piece of glass from her palm. Ava offered her as close to an apology as she would, which was more of an explanation of why she was qualified and that the process would hurt regardless of who did it. Damuron chuckled a bit as he listened. Ava was a strong person, he had to give her that. Listening to them, peering around the room, it was almost easy to forget why they were all engrossed in their work, why they were all burying themselves neck-deep in each other so that they could blind themselves to the world outside of the infirmary. But he still ignored her instruction to be seated. He had a good angle with the light where he was and Damuron did not want to have to finagle his arm to a strange angle from where the other seat was in the room.

At Ava's inquiry, Nova reddened. "You two... I thought... Well I certainly would never hope to find you in the infirmary under any circumstances, but finding you here unclothed was just a bit of a shock. And certainly with all the noise and... I wouldn't have wanted to intrude upon you two."

It was just as he feared, but somehow he could not find it in himself to be flustered by it. If they had actually been doing what Nova so delicately danced around, subtly hinting at rather than outright accusing, then Damuron would have had something to be flustered by. But thinking about it, he could understand how she would draw the conclusion. Ava was covered only by her intimates, he was shirtless and, when she had arrived, shouting (from pain, granted, but he supposed such a call could be misconstrued for... ahem, pleasure? He couldn't make the association between the two, but he supposed from one who didn't know any different...). It was a fair, albeit despairingly awkward conclusion to draw. He shook his head carefully, closing his eyes and suppressing a chuckle. The poor dear was abashed enough for the both of them, and it would do no good to make it wors-

"Wait, you thought-- Me and Dam? Ew." Ew? Damuron turned around a bit faster than he had intended, peering at Ava sidelong over his shoulder. He arched a brow inquisitively. Surely Ava must have realized that was what Nova was implying.... but still, ew? While the thought was repulsing to him, too, he wouldn't have said 'ew'.... that was just insulting. But she was smiling at him faintly now, the spark of mischief flickering through her large chocolate eyes. "Not that I don't love you and all, but ew. Now sit before you fall over." she insisted. She crossed the room now, tightening her grip on him and forcing him to lean on her. Quickly, he reached back and grabbed his supplies. He would wrap his arm himself. It was his job to be a doctor, and that included to himself. Putting it off on these young women was... well he didn't know what, but somehow it violated his sense of propriety and duty. She escorted him to a chair across the room, and he begrudgingly leaned on her (she was exceptionally useful with his bum leg) and sat down. Without a word, he got to work wrapping it himself. He had his dominant hand to help him this time, unlike the previous week, so he not only did not have to worry about contaminating his own wound, but he also had the full range of movement and dexterity that he would need to accomplish his task. It wouldn't take more than a few moments.

Ava set a hand on his shoulder, Nova lingering just behind her ask the lion tamer spoke. "You're not going to shoo us out, Dam. Let us help. I owe you that much." He stopped mid wrap, his malachite eyes slowly lifting to meet her gaze. She was... worried. Genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. Perhaps he was being too critical of both himself and the girls. Maybe they weren't interceding on his job more than they were trying to help a friend in need? But was he really in need? He was nearly finished with his dressings, and they were all helped with now. The concern was unwarranted, but with the duo before him, he knew that even if the wound was handled they would not let sleeping dogs lie. He was not sure who was in charge of any on train gambling, but he somehow believed he could trace it back to Puck or Flynn. If he could locate either of them at this precise moment, he would certainly put money down that Ava and Nova would spend the rest of the week prodding him to make sure he was keeping up with his arm. He let out a small huff of discontent. It was one over sight. He did not want to be babied for the rest of his time here because he had let something so minuscule be known. Besides, if people had any idea how much he forgot about in reference to himself, then they would really have something to worry about. It wasn't even uncommon for the doctor to forget to eat when he was caught up in a task, and wounds were something that came and went, so he often forgot which ones he had at which time. There was a reason he had so many scars...

Damuron shook his head, allowing himself a small grin. "The gesture is sweet, girls, but really I'm fine." he insisted, wrapping the rest of the bandages around his arm carefully and quickly. "It's been a long day, and while I will not shoo you out, I'm sure the two of you have better things to do than watching me fumble around in the med bay. Obviously you are both more than welcome to hang out, but," He lifted his arm to them, flashing a brilliant smile. He just needed to look better than he felt. He needed to behave as though he didn't feel his shallowed breathing rattling in his throat, as if he didn't feel better after having removed his shirt because the room was just a twinge too warm. Everything was in the presentation, right? "As you can see, I've dealt with the issue. I got careless and forgot, but I'll keep up with it, I assure you both." The bandaging was not his absolute best work, but it was considerably better than he could have done a week ago, and absolutely an acceptable job. "So... crisis averted right?"That was right, his problem was pretty soundly dealt with. But these two... they had just lost a dear friend, a sibling. He had his own reasons for feeling torn apart at even the merest thought of what had happened earlier, but now was not the time to wallow in his own misery. He could save that- he could be strong for them. For now, he could offer his assistance to the two young ladies who were straining themselves so, who were pouring so much into his care... especially when he had been the one to kill their friend. The realization was like a stab to the gut, and he could not stop himself from physically exhaling like he had been punched. He owed them more than he had even thought. Damuron blinked rapidly, then looked back to them; his mask was weakening. "Is there... ahem, anything I can do for you guys?"

✂⋯ ʟocaтɪoɴ: Doctor's Office⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ϻood: Some rest would be nice, but now I need to keep an eye on these two. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ωɪтʜ: Ava & Nova⋯

Promise of Bliss

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Post: 83347663_75 created on Sat, 27 Dec 2014 01:43:44 +0000
Posted: Sat, 27 Dec 2014 01:43:44 +0000

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