Ҁaravan of ϛteam [Open] {Accepting} (In Progress)

[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

In a world where steam and mechanics rule the world there is little room left for those who follow the rules, manners, and ways of the old world. For decades, the Nomadic Romani have been fighting to keep their place in the world whether being known as entertainers, scoundrels, or both. Now, more than ever before, the shrinking community of performers, thieves, and fortune tellers have not been regarded as entertainment but superfluous tramps; unnecessary vermin that pollute the outskirts of towns, poisoning young minds with sexual performances and lies. The general populace now believes that clans of Romani need to disappear from the world by any means necessary. At first the Romani viewed these beliefs as little more than fear, something they were accustomed to from generations of the general populace not understanding their eccentric culture. Slowly, though, news of entire families disappearing, with their camps left as if frozen in time, started trickling to the clans, scattered throughout the towns and with the news came uncertainty and distrust.

The disappearances were slow at first - just a family here, another there - until it seemed the idea of removing the Romani from humanity spread like wildfire. Families were forced to either disband or travel under the growing fear that, one night, they might go to sleep and the next morning their caravans would be a standing ghost city. For the Petulengro, ruled by a stubborn patriarch, there is no question about disbanding or dying; it is making the choice between dishonor or death. For him, there is no choice. But some in the family no longer agree with the view and wonder if becoming part of society isn't the better option. Leaving the family, however, is not as easy as simply walking to the nearest town; once you are blood, you are always blood. And then there are those that see the Romani lifestyle as something to be idolized, the life of legends and dreams. Can they find the courage to join the caravan life and face certain death? Or will someone find it within them to change the mind of the populace?



The Owner: GRIN---Mr_Cheshire
The Editor and Mod: Langwell
The Inspiration: Interest and motivation
The Graphics: Photobucket and dA, edited by GRIN---Mr_Cheshire
The Level: Lit+
Status: Open and In Progress! Still accepting characters!


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Ooc---Profiles

[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

1〗The rules of literacy are a bendy, flexible lot though they seem to run along the same general lines these days. What I will expect is either a 300 word minimum, or three beefy paragraphs. Regular grammar/spelling rules found in Barton.
Writer's block is a thing and I understand that it happens more frequently than we all like to admit. All I ask is that you give us a heads up and then do your best at helping to continue the plot. Even if you end up posting just a paragraph that's only a paragraph long you've probably given someone something to work on and it gives you a chance to push through your block.

2〗I love having active Oocs. Like, cannot stress how much I love it. So please, for the sake of my happiness, hang out with us in the Ooc. Also, do plot with people, and make a point of trying something new with a character you might not interact with. I think it makes things that much more exciting.

3〗Gaia TOS is a thing. We follow that there.

4〗Please respect everyone who enters this thread. We all have different life-views, beliefs, religions etc. In running this thread I welcome characters who are questioning their sexuality or are interested in the same sex. If you apply for this thread then please be willing to be open to these ideas if they crop up.

5〗To apply for this thread please first fill out the reservation form and post it to the Ooc, making sure to quote me. Once reserved you can fill out the profile skeleton which will be added to the main thread. Again, with the profiled skeleton, please quote me in the Ooc. The information you need for the reservation is 'finding time'

6〗There will be specific relationships required but each person's role in their society is up to you. IE Someone needs to be the eventual heir to the family but they can be a dancer, thief, etc. Also there will be a limited number of 'sympathizers' allowed for each side. That does not, however, mean that your character cannot change the viewpoint of another character in the span of the Rp. Because, after all, isn't that the point of the roleplay?
Also, your character may technically fall under two categories in the Romani family. For example, you can have an illusionist who works through puppetry, or a thief who dances. This, however, is not necessary so you can have a straight up fortune teller. Not all Romanis are thieves!

7〗What I look for in my roleplays is for a way to challenge myself as a writer. While a certain level of literacy is expected I still want to provide a place for people to improve their writing skills, refine character development skills, or experimenting with things that are new to you. Although having fun is a laarge part of this thread I also want to offer a space where people feel comfortable doing new things. If you have no interest in pushing yourself then no need apply.

8〗No, but seriously... HAVE FUN!

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[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

The RomanithisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholderThe Rubes



Although technically family, the Romani arethisisaplaceholderthisisaplacehoKnown as the general populace,
not necessarily related to each other by blood.thisisaplaceholderthisisaplacethe townspeople are split by class
Free Flowing and open with eachthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholderolder.but within each class there are
other, sex becomes more of a comfortthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholder.those with mixed feelings about the Romani.
rather than a taboo.



✦Theatrical Entertainersthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholder✦Upper-Class


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✦Thievesthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceh✦Middle-Class


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✦Magical Entertainersthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholdertho✦Lower-Class


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✦Otherthisisaplaceholderthisisaplaceholderthisisaplacehold✦Government


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[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

OPEN FOR POSTS FROM MEMBERS

[kdke]

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x x x x x❧ Dawn had finally split the sky with oranges and yellows and stained the morning mist that lay low near the ground. It was cold but refreshing during Pasha's morning stroll, even as the dew from the grass wet the underside of her feet. This was the best time to wildcraft whatever smaller plants she could find. It was cleaner here, far from the main road, away from the impurities of people and their wasteful habits. She wrapped her brown shawl around her shoulders and arms more snugly and spotted a patch of chamomile in the distance. As she neared, she could smell the sap from the surrounding trees, weeping from the summer insects that were now dying as fall approached. It smelled sweet and sharp — nectar of earth. Pasha squatted down near the small patch, now wetting the hem of her long skirt. Again, it didn't matter; water was nothing compared to the dust and dirt that would collect later in the day as she did her chores. She ignored the chill of the dew on her clothing, as well as her hand when it carefully picked the chamomile from the soil.

Chamomile... a mild relaxer, also good for treating irritated wounds and fighting infection, along with being a good aid for feminine pains. There wasn't much to wildcraft here, but it was enough to add on to her growing collection of already dried and infused chamomile preserves. Just enough to keep around for the children and younger people of her clan. No outsider really had a big interest in such a common, weak herb as this, so she rarely sold it when she went into town, or when the customers came to her. Pasha sighed, slightly flustered that she hadn't seen much else other than this small patch that was now bare from her taking what useful buds and flowers she could use. She would have to buy what she needed for a while, seeing as everything was going out of season, except for a few rarities, and even those, while she knew where to find them, called for a lot of patience in collecting. Luckily, she had kept seeds, bought and traded for more, and had started a new cycle of pots in her caravan. The children had helped her plant them, enjoying their little hands getting dirtied by the damp earth she had collected for them in pots. It was also less work she had to do, and more favorable company, the only company she really enjoyed from anyone as she got older.

The seeds had already begun to sprout, a good sign as the season grew colder. Pasha stood back up with her handful of chamomile and decided to head back to the camp. They had chosen to stay farther away from the outskirts of the town this time; the people were not as tolerant as they used to be, but it didn't stop what few who still chased after what the Romani could offer them. Pasha had found familiar clientele at her caravan more than once since her clan had arrived. Word got around quickly, especially when there were people always watching them, more than ever now. She pushed away a lock of her red hair from her cheek. She felt damp from the mist, and couldn't wait to get inside her fragrant, dry home to start her daily regimen.
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[Koolio Kitsune]

You see, the thing about actual theivery;
is that if you're caught,
you lose much more than your hand.

The night before the morning had been a most peculiar one, not in the least because of a certain heist that may or may not have taken place. No, last night had been unusual because of one little thing. Asterion the Great had been caught in the act. You may ask first who this person with such a grand title is or maybe what act he had been 'caught in'. This question can be answered simply; Asterion the Great is a fool. An absolute bloody idiot. Why? Because he got caught. Doing what? Robbing a rich mans house. How will he get out of such a situation you ask? Well so far... he has not. For the past hour, twenty minutes and... Fifteen seconds, Asterion the Great has been sitting on a bench, in a house as grand as his self-proclaimed title, with his arms chained up behind his back in a tight bind, deeply cutting into his wrists. "Well this is annoying." The boy spoke out loud, "Oi, guardsman, how long have I got left?" Asterion directed the question to a man in uniform standing a few feet away, prim and proper with a gun by his side. A gruff sounding voice came from beneath the guard's scarf as he answered, "About a half' hour ye' cretin and then ye'll be handed over to the governor." The guard had adjusted his scarf as he spoke, showing his face to be scarred on one side - no doubt from a past infiltrator who had successfully escaped. "Oh wonderful." Asterion responded, "I suppose that he'll be in a really jolly mood then?" The guard scoffed at Asterion's words and shook his head in irritation, "Look lad, just shut yer gob and--"

You see, the thing about thieves, true thieves, is that you should seldom look away from them. Always keep one eye trained on their person. They will always take an opportunity when it comes along, and in most cases said opportunity usually comes at the cost of another's valuables, or possibly their life depending on that particular thief’s point of view. But sometimes, just sometimes mind, a true thief will purposefully get themselves caught. Not for any particular reason, perhaps just to add a bit more of a thrill to the chase that is bound to come afterward. Just that little bit of an extra push that makes the euphoria you experience at the end of the trial that much more rewarding. Asterion the Great, though still a fool, is certainly great. For in the moment that guard closed his eyes Asterion’s hands had slipped, using his blood as a lubricant, from his binds and in one swift motion he had pulled loose the bindings and wrapped them around the guard’s neck. Now, the thing about this certain thief's point of view is that, he's not really a killer. While he hasn't got it in him to take a life he can still seriously injure people without any issues. And thus, suffocation was his primary goal as the guard’s body went limp beneath the ropes. Patience and surprises go hand in hand.

"Well now." Asterion spoke out loud again, seemingly to the unconscious body, "I wonder what keys to where you have on you, eh?" As he spoke his hands had begun to deftly search the pockets of the man’s uniform, his ears fine-tuned to search out the jangle of a ring of keys. Footsteps echoed through the hallway, though from which direction they were coming was hard to discern, especially for Asterion who was still looking out for the jangle of keys. At the last minute a man in similar attire to the unconscious one on the floor rounded a corner of the hallway speaking as he went, "Hey, Gabe, govern--" before he was able to continue his message however a fist came crashing into his mouth, sending him momentarily hurtling backwards into the ground, his gun thrown away from him. Asterion had leapt over the man’s body before he could react and shouted behind him as he ran down the corridor, "You know the thing about thieves? We never stop to apologise!" Just as quickly as Asterion had bounded down the corridor a sound of gunfire had shot off behind him, though it hadn't seemed to be aimed at the thief, but instead a warning shot in the air. "Should've knocked him out as well.." Grumbled Asterion before he turned sharply and leapt forward, arms raised in protection of his head, through a weak framed window.

The smashing glass fell in a shower to the alley below, no doubt for a future drunk to fall into and harm themselves, and Asterion landed on the rooftop opposite to the house which towered above, tiles sliding beneath his wrapped feet. Another important thing to note about Asterion the Great, is that he is well equipped for all situations, or most at least. In this case he had purposefully the night before coated the bottom of his foot wraps in a sticky solution - specifically made for the texture of tiles and brick - so as to be able to run across roofs without a care in the world. Alarm bells rang out through the air as Asterion ran across the slippery tiles, wet with the morning dew no doubt, leaping gaps between roofs where necessary and judging in advance whether or not it was life risking to him.

And Asterion kept running across those roofs, slipping very rarely on wet patches, until he reached his den, his and his comrades haven among the streets --an abandoned house with working utilities. He dropped down to the cobbled street below, being sure on landing not to break anything important, and stood beneath an awning hiding from the cold, while his hand behind him rapped on the door in three quick knocks before pausing for a forth. As his mouth spoke the magic word, "Abracadabra."

[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

One way or another I'm gonna find ya

LALIAwestbrook▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

There's something about marble that draws the attention of people in power. Even in a world full of dirt and soot where keeping anything white was more than a challenge the Parliament chose to reside in a house of marble. Cleaners could be seen daily, on all sides of the building, scrubbing hard to make sure the façade stayed spotless. All in all, it was a little ridiculous. Yet to Lalia Westbrook the whole procedure was expected, and a bit impressive. She'd grown up visiting Parliament with her father and though she had long since grown out of the awe that came with shiny white things, she could still appreciate the vision the building presented.

Now, however, she just wished they had more comfortable seating. Having arrived with the sun, when the building first opened for the day, Lalia had spent the better part of two hours sitting on a bench outside of a clerk's office, waiting until she was called in to have her aviation license renewed. Several positions had been attempted, but no matter what she tried there was no escaping the fact that the cold, white marble simply made her butt hurt and the only way to fix it would be to move. Ideally she would get up and pace, perhaps look out the window – find something to do but the hall she was in was cavernous and the echo her heels made was deafening. Her butt was unfortunately glued tight to the marble bench.

Letting out a huff of air the young woman shifted again, slouching forward and propping her elbows on her knees to stare at the boring white floor. She was an interesting character to look at, if one actually bothered to look. Part aviator, part lady, there was no disguising the way she held her back straight even as she slouched or that, despite the fact that she was often working on her own plane, there wasn't a speck of grease under her impeccably kept nails. There was no doubt that Lalia belonged to the upper-class and yet she had the unmistakable air of a (somewhat impatient) working woman. The choice to follow her father had only been partially conscious and, at the time, had only been an excuse to get away from her mother's misery. Two years after that it was different; she was glad for the career as a means in which to keep not only her money, but her reputation as well. The scandal with her mother had ruined her chances with the few suitors who had been interested in her and had left her on the outs with the families who had once called her parents friends. With her job she was slowly able to regain her rightful spot at the top of society, all while becoming a legend of sorts and that fit her just fine.

Of course, the fame had only increased Lalia's assumption that the world ought to bow down to her so sitting outside of a lowly clerk's office was seriously starting to grate on her. A small scowl had formed on her lips and as she straightened up to lean back against the cool wall behind her and her foot began tapping impatiently on the marble floor sending an eerie, constant click to echo throughout the hall. If it hadn't been for her new license she wouldn't have bothered waiting this long – anything else and she would’ve been gone within a half hour. Instead she figured the place where her knife typically sat, missing for the duration of her time in the parliament building, and started imagining all the different ways she could make this particular clerk's life considerably more difficult.

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_One way or another I'm gonna getcha

[kdke]

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The morning market goers had been spilling in for the past few hours. They chatter like monkeys... that's what they sound like, thought Raz as he stood in his space. Though small, and only decorated with a few carpets, his space in the market was usually one of the more sought after areas in the early morning. One had to get to Raz's items quickly before his regular customers did. There was always something different, something unique and foreign, though foreign wares were at times overrated in his line of work. Anyone could find something "special," but what mattered to the high buyers were the items that the average buyer didn't care to take a gander at more than once. That's where Raz came in.

It was slow today, though, even after seeing a few familiars. His list of supplies was growing, items that people wanted and knew he could find them. They were so gullible. He began to bite absentmindedly at his thumb nail while eyeing the crowds. He never tried to actively bring people to him; he never needed to. In reality, anyone not willing to look over his wares was never interested enough to put out for them, either. Besides, he knew a potential customer when he saw one. Raz's looked over one person after another, and noticed a boy a few yards away eyeing him and his items. Probably a pickpocket, a young, amateur thief hoping to get something of value so he could make his way into a gang. Raz didn't blame him; it was too risky living on the streets on one's own. It was a quick, painful death for the ignorant.

He watched the boy near, watched as those brown eyes hungered for something, anything to snatch. Clear desperation, but Raz wouldn't let the boy steal anything. Not like he had the swiftness or skill to, that was obvious.

"Boy," Raz said, making the boy flinch and look up at him. He gestured the boy towards him with a jerk of his chin, in which case the boy was obedient and came forward. So naive. Raz gently knelt down and sat on one of the carpets he had laid out on the market's street. "Do you like something here, boy?"

"Nuh, sir. I promise." The boy's voice had a tone of timidness. Raz smirked and then looked down at his items. After a few short moments, he picked up a small, dark glass vial closed with a cork. He held it up for the boy to see. "How about this?" He asked, watching as the other's eyes gazed at the vial curiously. The boy shrugged, "...Wha' is it?"

"This here," Raz began his eyes taking on a narrowed, mysterious gaze, "is filled with a gypsy potion made from an ancient recipe."

"Yeah, sir?" The boy's interest suddenly peeked immensely. His dirty cheeks rose a little as he tried to hide a pending grin. "There's only one Romani who knows the recipe. Not like I'll tell you, but I happen to be the only one that is allowed to sell this. You see... this little vial," Raz moved the vial closer to him, watching as the boy's gaze never left, "has the magical power to make anyone tell you the truth. Maybe you wonder if someone is betraying you — sneak this into their food, and in an hour, they'll tell you their deepest of secrets."

"Anythin'?"

"Anything." Raz reassured, inching the vial closer to the boy. He could see that the other wanted it. Why wouldn't he? If the liquid inside this vial did work, it would be of great advantage to the boy in his predicament. "But you know... it's much too priceless. Even I could never afford this." Raz placed the vial back down on the carpet. The boy blinked. "How is it magical?"

"That's a secret, but it definitely is magical." Talking to kids was much easier than trying to convince adults. He wouldn't bother to try and sell the vial to this boy, though; he could offer Raz nothing of importance, not even an errand. However, his spiel happened to catch the attention of a passerby who had been standing a few feet behind the boy for the past couple of minutes. Raz knew this, but pretended to be much too occupied with the boy. This other man, well dressed but definitely not upper class, might have plenty to offer for such an item. He waited quietly, exchanging a glance from Raz, before the boy finally lost hope and wandered off.

Raz gave a soft huff of amusement from the little aspiring thief before standing and allowing the older man to approach. "That was quite a tale you made, young man," the gentleman said with a chuckle. "If only there was such a magical potion that existed, it really would be priceless."

"Just because it's a tale, doesn't mean it's not true, sir." Raz said. He crossed his arms and watched as that same look of interest sparkled across the man's eyes as did the boy's before.The man snorted, grinning while waiting for Raz to grin back, to end the joke. He never did; his face remained stoic, awaiting for the gentleman to speak again. "You're serious."

"A liquid that can force anyone to tell the truth? Aye, that's not an impossible feat, though no one said it wasn't difficult. The magical part was a lie, though." Raz could tell the older man was having a hard time believing such words, but was definitely snatched up by the prospect. Another client who could use such an item. "Getting a man drunk, sir, can be tedious. Not every drunk is an honest man, let alone an easy one to keep still. This... remedy makes the victim go into a state of utter relaxation. Nothing can break him away, other than it wearing off after a long nap."

"And how much are you selling it for?" By this time, Raz and the older gentleman were standing but half a foot from each other, speaking in low voices. Raz shrugged softly, looking down at the ground. "What would you give to hear the truth from someone you can't trust? From someone you believe is a traitor, a liar? Who is it are you hoping to use it on?"

"I was just curious to know-"

"You wouldn't bother to know about something that most people think can't be made, not unless you wanted it. You're desperate enough to go along with it, even if part of you doesn't believe me. In that case, you might have little to lose, except your pride. But then again... you might've already lost it." This struck a cord in the older man's face; its expression grew a bit darker, somber. It wasn't that hard to read through that, and Raz saw it the minute the man started asking questions.

"...How about this." The gentleman pulled out a coin purse and handed it to Raz. He took it and pulled the satin strings apart so he could look inside. He kept his stoic expression, but inside he was laughing. They were always so gullible. The liquid in the vial would work, but was it worth a months' worth of hefty food supplies? For him and his half sister? And possibly more, if he was frugal. Probably not, but this man was eager. Raz wouldn't want to spoil the moment for him. "Take it, sir," he said, watching the older man quickly snatch up the vial. "And if you need anything, I'll be here next week." The gentleman gave him a look subtle shame before he walked away into the crowd.

The young merchant smirked to himself. He most likely wouldn't run into any of his other customers, seeing as the morning was coming to its high. His customers favored the privacy of empty streets. Raz's hearing suddenly perked at the sound of something on the roof above and behind him, and felt a sprinkling of water on his head. He looked up, only catching a glimpse of a figure up high. Perhaps another thief, some bandit running away. He tsked and tried to brush the droplet off his hair while looking back towards the market. He couldn't wait until noon.

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[GRIN---Mr_Cheshire]

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I'll spread my wings
I'll learn how to fly
I'll do what it takes
‘til I touch the sky

Ráhel

Shadows - people often discredited their own shadows. The shadows of others, items, even clouds tell a story to the everyday person. They incite fear, sadness, even joy and yet, for the most part, shadows are ignored; passed off as a common place occurrence. Such was never the case for Ráhel. The ability to read shadows was her inheritance from her family, the magic that only some Romani were blessed with. It was an odd gift to have, not only the ability to read the absence of light but to be able to, with limitations, manipulate them. The Rubes called it black magic, choosing to focus on the eerier aspects of shadow play rather than the grace and beauty that Ráhel instead found in her work. And yet those feared shadows shows were what earned her the most when it came to entertaining the Rubes. Children enjoyed the shows, begged their parents to let them go see, and parents will pay to make their children happy. It wasn't her forte, not like reading shadows was, but there was a certain enjoyment to be had from making stories out of shadows, seeing them coming alive, and watching children's reactions.

For Ráhel these shadows were a sort of escape for her; a place where she could move away from the family for awhile and find solace in those who didn't know her. Dawn and dusk were her favorite times of day to find the shadows – a time when they stretched and told her more of their stories than any other time of day so that's when she chose to disappear from camp. Of course wandering on her own, especially as a Romani, there was always that element of danger that followed her, but Ráhel always felt confident that the shadows would look after her.

Theis morning had been unfortunately cloudy as the run rose but Ráhel had chosen to take her walk regardless as it had been enjoyable even without the distractions of shadows. They had naturally still spoken to her, but their stories had been faint, barely whispers in her mind as she walked and thus hardly worth her attention. It was for this reason that she intentionally stayed out longer than she typically would, risking the bustle of an early morning market crowd as she made her way back to the camp. She kept to herself, keeping her eyes down and using her grace to stay out of people's ways. She was dressed more like a Romani than she should have been, with a loose flowing skirt and her hair falling in her face so it was hard not to attract unwanted attention, but she did her best considering the circumstances. At one point she slid past Raz's booth where she would have stopped to say hi had he not been talking to, what looked like, a well paying customer. Instead she waved at him with her fingers, not caring whether or not he caught the gesture as she moved quickly past him.

Once she was off the busy market street and onto a far less crowded and quieter side street Ráhel let herself relax again though not by much. She still did her best to meld into the growing shadows but she took her time to let their stories sink into her skin. One street lamp in particular seemed to ensnare her more than the others though that was no surprise as street lamps often cast her favorite shadows. They moved with the sun during the day but at night once they were lit cast their own unmovable shadow that picked up far more interesting tidbits from the shadows that crossed paths. This one in particular was telling her of a tricky shadow, one that only really emerged at night and such an idea fascinated Ráhel. Not many Rubes were night people; the government discouraged it. And yet here was a shadow that relished the night… Ráhel never would have guessed that that very shadow would literally drop down on her.

Asterion's arrival startled Ráhel out of the slight trance she had entered and made her take a step back from the shadow she had been standing in, to the darker shadow cast by the over hang of the building. Immediately her eyes flicked to the intruder's shadow, a habit she had with everyone she encountered, and read all that she could see there from this distance. It wasn't much but what from the lamp post's shadow had told her she deduced that this was the trickster, the shadow that spent his nights out and about and his days inside. Watching from her shade Ráhel held her breath as he knocked on the door and murmured to it. She could only imagine what someone like this might be up to and so the anticipation of that door opening kept her glued to the spot when she knew she ought to move. After a few tense moments however it became clear that the door wasn't going to open and she wondered if the man was simply a fool who had fallen from the roofs. Frowning gently to herself, she stepped forward again and brushed her fingers along the cool metal of the lamp post. Seconds later and against her better judgment her mouth opened to address him.

"I don't think that door will be opening anytime soon... Or talking back to you for that matter."








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[Pulchritudinous]

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Brown eyes heavy with sleep gazed at a ticking clock. Attempts to normalize breathing, punctuated with soft grunts and gasps of pain was the only sound she made. As her ladies skillfully strapped her into the torture device (more commonly known in the Stafford household as a corset), the older woman paced about her and chattered. The girls worked silently, and Evelyn uttered not a word, other than interjecting a demure “Yes, mother” to the prattle. Her mother, while graceful, had the most unpleasing, nasally voice, and it was the only sound at this ungodly hour. It took all she had to keep herself from visibly wincing, both from the corset and the voice.

“The Brahm’s have called for our company tonight.” Agatha Stafford purred delightedly as she patted her complex coiffure. “You remember their son Alfred? He’s returned from University, and they’re having a little party for him. He’s grown into quite the gentleman; wouldn't he make a fine husband?”

Evelyn couldn't bring herself to agree, so instead remained silent. Alfred Brahm was not quite the gentleman, he would not make a fine husband, and he was not pleasant to look at. He was lanky, awkward, and his only remarkable trait was his over-pronounced overbite. Her mother seemed to share the latter sentiment.

“He wouldn't do for attractive children, though.” She frowned, and then bestowed a brief smile onto her daughter. “Fortunately, you are beautiful enough for two. Hopefully, your offspring will take after you, should you marry Alfred.”

She shuddered at the thought, but as always, replied with “Yes, mother.”

Strapped into her ‘Sunday best’, Evelyn accompanied her mother and the kitchen girls into the market. As far as she knew, the upper class rarely graced the market with their presence. Her mother insisted it was so she could ‘supervise’ her girls, but Evelyn knew. Her mother wished to flaunt their newfound wealth. Like a male peacock preening it’s plumage, Agatha walked with exaggerated motions, straightening her updo more often then necessary, picking nonexistent lint off her expensive dress. She made sure the early sun, what little was not obscured by the clouds, glinted off her sparkling diamonds and many precious metals. The market was frequented by the lower and middle class, and many of their gazes eyed the Stafford’s with envy. Sighing inwardly (she’d never let that woman hear any semblance of protest cross her lips), Evelyn trailed behind her, her eyes downcast.

Strange shadows danced on the cobblestone, tearing her gaze to the roofs. Evelyn kept walking as her eyes followed the strange figure across the rooftop, gasping audibly as it suddenly disappeared. Then she gasped again as her feet trod on a delicate trinket, a consequence of not watching where she was going. Her words tumbled over each other in apology, but her mother cut her off briskly.

“Never mind never mind. I’m sure this fine gentleman will not begrudge you, dear. It was an accident. Besides, I’m sure he has plenty more where that came from.”

She seriously doubted that. She recognized this particular merchant and his wares. Romani. Before her brother had run away, he had slipped out unnoticed many early mornings to patron this specific dealer, bringing home mysterious wonders, for their eyes only.

“Raz is this fellow’s name.” He’d confided in her. “You need something, anything, he’s the man for it. Spent a small fortune of my money… Father’s money, on his wares. He’s got only the best, you see.” He had laughed, and Evelyn found herself giggling along.

Her mother was none the wiser as she prattled on.

“So, uh, what are these delightful goods?” Agatha queried, reaching into the folds of her gown. Her mother didn't know, she realized as she shifted uncomfortably. Her father and his kind actively fought against the Romani, and Agatha, for the most part, shared his views. She’d never purchase from him, had she known his origin. She doubted that mattered to the merchant, however; Gold was gold, and he was good at what he did. She’d seen him work, cleverly peddling his wares, quite unlike the others who shoved their goods into your face, yelling loudly. Unbearably. No, Raz was definitely not a novice at his trade. Suppressing a smile, Evelyn watched as her mother attempted to barter with ‘Romani scum’.

[kdke]

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Raz loathed wasting time when it could be spent networking with his trusted contacts. His gut had told him there was little reason to stay in the market that day, and yet part of him decided to keep around for a while longer, just a while for that one straggling customer. He sighed and leaned against the wall of the building behind him. An old warehouse building, cold from the morning chill and shade. He could smell a far off booth roasting up fried bread and nuts, and his stomach protested. Breakfast was a rare luxury, and sometimes lunch was his only meal, so he tried to eat well, even if meant buying something nice and little of it. Raz looked in the direction of the fragrant smoke, listening to the merchant call out to hungry market goers.

His stomach growled softly again, only his attention and gaze snapped towards the clumsy steps of a young lady near his wares. He stood up from the wall and sauntered a couple of steps towards her and what seemed to be her mother, maybe an aunt. Raz wasn't sure just yet. He didn't recognize them as he quietly studied their appearance and verbal exchange, or one-sided conversation from the older woman. Raz stepped closer towards them looking straight into the older woman's sight before bending down and picking up the trinket the younger lady tumbled over. His dark eyes looked over it carefully. A round compact made from silver and precious stone; while it was pretty and expensive, itself was not the actual rarity, but what was inside. Once he was satisfied that it hadn't been cracked or bent, he looked at the older woman before giving a quick glance at the younger.

"I suppose it depends on your definition of 'delightful,' my lady." Raz said with a small grin. "Are you looking to find anything particular? Perhaps you don't know what it is until you find it. This, for example," Raz held up the compact, "is 'delightful' on its own, but listen." He held the compact a few inches from the older woman's ear and gave it a shake, allowing her to hear the sound of dried goods moving inside. "Inside is a special mixture of exotic minerals from across the sea, only brought over once every few years because of their rarity and demand. The minerals inside are very precious, and hold properties that I've not found in any other stone in this land, except through the very man who brought this small supply right here.

"See here," Raz opened the compact and showed the fine, crumbled powder inside. A whiff of strong fragrance came from it like some exotic perfume. "It was once used for the worst of scars created by wounds and burns. The people overseas would mix this with water and rub it into the scar for a week, and the scar would slowly vanish. Could you imagine, then, my lady, what else it could do? ...Some of the desert nomads from the land this came from believe it holds holy powers; that this was never meant to be used by imperfect humans, but by the divine. I couldn't say if I believe that, however, it seems a fitting tale for something so precious."

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[Langwell]

x x x x x
x x x x x x x x x● ● ⊰ ( LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU )
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x( LET ME MAKE YOU SMILE ) ⊱ ● ●

let me do a few tricks -- some old and then some new tricks -- i'm very versatile . . .
let me do a few tricks -- some old and then some new tricks -- i'm very versatile . . .
let me do a few tricks -- some old and then some new tricks -- i'm very versatile . . .


and ιғ yoυ're real good ι'll мaĸe yoυ ғeel good

x x x x x x x x x x xi want your spirits to climb!





Discretion was never a word that was taken seriously. To be discreet was to hide, to cover, to shame one's self and one's family. No, to be discreet was a treason. Discretion was an immoral act.
Such was the thoughts of one such young woman, boldly wearing her long skirts, her uncovered stomach bare for all eyes to gaze upon, her dark hair loose and free. It was simple enough to guess that this girl was Romani, just by her eyes: the shape and color linked her with those clans, those nomads; all other physical attributes were just to loudly confirm this. Her skirts were all brightly colored, carefully dyed by a plethora of plants, sometimes with repeated dyings to create that perfect rich shade of blue.
Half of a dancer's worth was in her clothes; it was a worthy expense to her. This was much more worthy of the time, the fabric, the plants, the simple money than most other things. This would provide the food that she and her family needed; this would help to purchase those very few things that she could not find within the Romani world; this was a good cause.

Of course, after all this expensive time, why attempt to hide from the eyes? A dancer was meant to be watched, to be observed, to be longingly gazed upon with hungry eyes. Yes, attention was good, of any kind.

The dark haired woman had left not so early in the morning, but early enough in the market day that it would be full. Her gait was wide, her hips rolling with each step as she felt the beats of a typical market: the voices calling out, seemingly cacophonous but melodic in its regularity; the movement of carts throughout the streets; the click-clack of Rube shoes on the packed dirt and cobblestone. Together, it was a tune, a music, a set of rhythms making her feet itch to dance.

With a lazy smile, she found a small clearing near the center of the market and simply began to move as her body dictating. The movements were languid at first, slow and seemingly unintentional; it was not to be called dancing. Then there were subtle hip movements, rolling in a circle and then, with a flick, her arms reached up into the air and her stance became rigid.
It was then that eyes turned to her, if only out of shock or minimal interest. The women almost immediately turned away, their eyes cast down and in utter shock; most men would do the same, but a few-- her customers-- dared to look on further. She met eyes with them, one by one, feeling their gaze upon her, and her smile widened. 'Perfect.'

It was then that the real dancing came into being. To the untaught eye, her body seemed to be writhing, to be moving with an energy that was catching to the unwary person. All of her movements despite appearing easy and free were all controlled and made with practiced freedom, from her hips to to her arms and wrists to her feet. Each was carefully conducted with the utmost precision and delicacy, guided by the knowledge of her customers. She danced there, her music unknown to anyone but herself, alone but, out of the crowd that circled around her in both awe and disgust, came a coin. Then another. Another. It wasn't quite much, but it was enough.

The dance proceeded and, as it continued, the coins still flew from unseen hands. Markets were the best places: men could be somewhat anonymous in their actions, in their donations to the street performers. They could observe what they could never have, see the forbidden women, see the cherished wares, all the while pretending to the unobservant Rube that they were as "civilized" as the next man. Inwardly, the young woman laughed; the only sign of this was a light that shone in her eyes, hinting at a secret. These men were the worst of the lot, hiding their instincts -- lying -- and were too afraid to express themselves. However, they were the source of her money and money, in all cases, was quite a good thing to gain-- in whatever manner possible.

The stories about the missing Romani, about whole clans disappearing, were a ruse, just stories told by the Rubes to trick her kind to stay away, to create fear and panic, to scare away the foreignness that she embodied. In protest, the young woman merely continued with her ways, seemingly oblivious to the whispers about her clan, and danced on. Young Nataliya preferred life as such; it was simple then: dance and the money will come.


We'll have a real good time, yes sir!
We'll have a real good time