☆*･゜ﾟ･**･゜ﾟ･* x☼x ☼x ᓮ ᙅ ᗩ ᖇ ᑌ ᔕxxx ℱ ᒪ ᕮ ☂ ᑕ ᕼ ᕮ ᖇx ☼ x☼x *･゜ﾟ･**･゜ﾟ･*☆
T h e xx A c r o b a txxxxxxxxxxx
I am Morgan von Faustus, damn it!
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tab tab Do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive
tab tab tab tab Do every stupid thing to try and drive the dark away Stupidity only breeds failure...
Morning was upon the Cirque and the Ringmaster felt the drapes of slumber slowly drifting from his mind, the sunlight barely beginning to seep through the window as it fell upon him in a gentle attempt to drag him from the confines of rest. The mighty Ringmaster of Tromperie stirred lightly as he attempted to turn on his side away from the sun. He still wanted a few minutes of rest. In the back of his mind, he was pleased with himself for giving the troupe a day off because that also meant he could steal away a few more precious moments of unconsciousness before he would be pressed by obligation to get up and begin the day. Morgan released a soft breath, the sound coming out oddly enough, but not on such a level that would warrant worry. Instead, he chalked it up to the hollering and grandeur he had put in the show yesterday while announcing acts. His voice was often coarse with disuse and in the case of the previous day, it probably would lead to a brief afternoon of soreness. Nothing that would bother him in the least. When he turned, however, he found that it was rather difficult to roll onto his side and in fact, it felt as if he were being almost...constrained by something. Frowning, he meddled with the blankets a bit to see if perhaps he had managed to wrap them around himself last night. Though, it would be odd if that were the case. Only in the throes of nightmares did he toss about so haphazardly. Memory would serve that he had no such dreamless images. Huffing now, he attempted to roll the opposite direction and found it just as difficult. He began to realize he was not in his bed. This scratchy and rough texture was not his firm mattress and the itchy and thin blankets around his body were not the stifling comforter that encased him. What in the world... Finally prying his eyes open, the Ringmaster stared into...well. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. A room, clearly. But not his room that he has slept in for over a hundred years. A mad flutter of panic coursed through him and he threw his arms up, attempting to free himself from the damning pathetic shroud called a blanket. "Why...with this...peasant's quilt!" He tangled it around his arms to try and amass it to toss it away, but he ended up pulling it taut around his knee. "Grrragh!" Then, he was kicking and flailing the cover from his body until at last, he shed it from his body. Breathing heavily, he slowly tried to push himself up on his elbows, however, the fabric underneath him gave way and heaved the Ringmaster to the floor, spilling him over in a tumble of limbs. But landing on his toes and hands like a cat.
His eyes widened in confusion as they fell over hands with freshly forming calluses that faintly painted over soft peach skin. Skin that was not ghastly pale. He frowned as slowly leaned back on his legs, kneeling now as he raised these stranger's hands up so he could better examine them. This...this is strange... They were not his hands. Clearly. His nails were trimmed back but naked. There were no black paint and even the size of his hands were all wrong. Instead of long delicate bony fingers, strong smaller fingers waggled in front of his face as he twisted his wrists back and forth. He followed the smaller fingers to the wrist and from the wrist to the naked forearms. Was I not in a blouse last night? No. He was sure he had fallen asleep in his usual attire. This shirt that was two-sizes too big was not what he had gone to bed in. With the sleeves missing, his eyes suspiciously crawled over his forearms to where he could see a lack of scars staring back at him. Breathing out softly, he ran his hand over the soft skin before his eyes continued to roam up the length of his arm to his chest. This is most assuredly...not my body... Morgan thought as he pulled on the neckline of the shirt to peer down into the fabric where he could see a well toned abdomen fleshed out like Adonis himself. Dropping the neckline, he stood up now and when he stopped moving, he thought perhaps he was stooping for some reason. A pulled muscle in his back. A crick of the neck. Something. Because he mostly certainly couldn't be standing straight. No. Shaking away the confusion, Morgan pulled his shoulders back and attempted to pull from his stoop. But nothing appeared to work. He was still too low to the floor. Frowning, Morgan looked down to see a pair of...shorter legs leading back up to this foreign body. The Ringmaster hissed and pulled up the loose sleeping slacks only for his eyes to widened when he realized THAT'S AS LONG AS THEY WERE. "Something is very...very wrong..."
Whirling around, he looked for the source of the voice. He could have sworn it sounded like Icarus. But a quick sweep of the room revealed a lack of the boy. Furrowing his brows, he reached up to run his hand through his hair, a habit of his when he was beginning to feel nervous. And when his fingers came into contact with the soft, short, silky locks, the Ringmaster stopped. He ran both hands to the back of his head where the length ceased to exist. To to mention his bow. ....this is not good. Eyes darted about the room to find his desired target and quickly moving to the reflective surface, Morgan paused short of the mirror. The familiar tension gripped him and he hesitated. What if the face that stared back at him was the very same visage he had been avoiding for nearly a hundred years? What if what was reflected back to him was nothing short of some sort of horrible nightmare? A terrible vision? A horrific ghost? Slowly slinking closer, the Ringmaster held out his arm where his fingertips gently brushed against the cool surface before he pressed his hand against the flat surface. Seeing that a normal hand was currently taking up the silvery gaze of the mirror, the Ringmaster deduced that a normal image would follow. Or at least he hoped. And when he pulled his body closer, the face of a young familiar performer filled his view and the Ringmaster stared in awe at the soft pink hue of the eyes crowned with pale lashes staring back at him. They were not his eyes. That was not his face. I am not me! "Icarus..." Not only had the name sound odd, but the voice as well and all at once, Morgan realized. I am Icarus! I sound like him, look like him, I am in his room...by the Gods...I am Icarus! Eyes wide with shock and confusion looked strange on Icarus' face and his soft lips parted as he breathed through his teeth. "Oh god...whats happened?" He slowly pulled away from the mirror as he began to look at his body once more. That would explain the lack of in height. And he didn't realize it at the time, but that was why he was able to land on his hands and feet perfectly like a cat.
Because I am Icarus!
This is some sort of dark magic...it has to be...I...I have to find out whats going on. I have to find out if the others... Morgan's mind drifted. If he had been affected by this switch (which clearly would constitute that Icarus himself was in a body and Morgan assumed his) then perhaps the others had been changed as well? He hoped not. The fragile peace of the train was more than often enough strained and the last thing they needed was a fiasco of this magnitude to stir up the troupe. Morgan turned and ran for the door and with one fluid movement, he pulled it open and immediately flew from the room and practically smashed into the opposing wall. He had not expected a wall there. There was never a wall in front of his door! Pushing away from it, he turned sharply as he caught a glance of a figure just a few strides from him. Soft pink eyes landed on Flynn who was standing in front of Puck's door. Typical... But right now, he needed to gather information. Was that really Flynn standing there, or...?
"Flynn!" His voice was so much lighter. Airy. It came from him breathy notes and not at all like his true voice. He made his way quickly to Flynn where he quickly grabbed his arm and where if he was Morgan, he could nearly grab the man's entire bicep. But as Icarus, he appeared to merely be pinching the Juggler. The moment his soft hand made contact, he tried to feel for the signature of the soul's occupancy of the body. However, nothing came back. No hint as to who he was. No true way to discern the soul. Nothing. He gripped his arm tighter. But still, nothing. Icarus' eyes widened in shock as Morgan realized that he had no control over souls. His power was gone. Looking up at Flynn with wide eyes, he quickly retreated his arm. "Ah...Morning, Flynn...say, have you seen Ica- I mean..have you seen Morgan yet?" Saying his own name felt strange and foreign.
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My spirit sings loud and clear, even in here. Stop singing in my train...
{ Location: Outside of Puck's Door || With: Flynn }x
⊱⊱ Cirque de Tromperiexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
