❝ᴘᴀx ʙʀιᴛᴀɴɴιcᴀ❞ ᴱᴸᴵᵀᴱ ℒit

An Englishman's Breakfast:

A snack of savage beastie	7.4%	[ 35 ]
A tasty little fanged fiend	6.1%	[ 29 ]
A deliciously advanced roleplay	16.5%	[ 78 ]
Crumpets and tea	24.5%	[ 116 ]
Violence with a dash of chivalry	45.5%	[ 215 ]
Total Votes:			[ 473 ]

[Pax Britannica]

The Irishman squinted his sodden eyes at the wires before him, straining his brain in an attempt to remember which one went where. If he got it right, the fireworks would go off as planned and make for a great spectacle. Wrong, and the damn thing would just blow up. Either was to his liking, but the later had the annoying side-effect of setting him on fire. I hate being on fire, he thought, his pliers shifting from one wire to the next in the feeble hope that it would remind him where he was supposed to cut. Was a time long ago Brandwyn would have settled his nerves with a drink. Sadly, it was impossible for vampires to get truly drunk. They could drink themselves on power, on vengeance, even on chaos and slaughter; but if he hoped to have a pint and have it matter there were precious few ways open to him. Mixing blood into the alcohol had some effect. Unfortunately, their King Poofter had them all on starvation rations to keep the people from noticing their presence. Subtlety, he was always saying, was the key to their survival. Brandwyn did not do subtlety, no better than he did sober. Combining the two left him on edge and made his head feel as though it were packed in cotton. Not the best mindset to be handling explosives in. Green one, he thought, easing his pliers around the thin little wire. Sure of it.

No sooner had he touched his tool to the machine than a red-headed nuisance swelled into his vision. Brandwyn started away from the sudden face, his lips peeling up from his silver fangs in a snarl of annoyance. “The feck you gawking at,” he raged at her, tossing the pliers in the dirt. “Canna see I’m trying not to blow myself to flitters here?!” Amelia regarded the Irishman with the same distaste she always seemed to reserve for him. She was another late comer to Mercia’s little party, having shown up the same night as Brandwyn. Aside from that though, the two shared nothing in common. Brandwyn’s rough-and-tumble nature was a grating thing to the soft-spoken Amelia. Likewise, the Mad Brand had neither time nor patience for a ‘bowsie git’ with her nose stuck up in the air. They largely avoided one another, but when they did meet it was almost always destined to end in a fight. Brandwyn wasn’t feeling at his best as it was, so the fire-headed girl was something he sorely didn’t need. From the look on her face, Amelia felt the same, but she pushed ahead:

“I’m not sure if you’ve managed it yet, but we did discuss the fire pit below the high wire. I’m positive you’re more than capable of the task, but keep in mind we need to be sure that the illusion is that we’re in danger while we’re out of harm’s way. I leave it your hands that this will be the case, yes?”

Brandwyn snorted in reply, turning his back on the woman. “Who do ya tink you’re gabbin’ at? Finished that mess over two hours ago,” he threw over his shoulder, picking his tools out of the dirt. “The ring’s all set, but I don’t see why you’re all in arms about it. Even if you did get burned you could just be a feckin’ man about it and-“ Brandwyn turned to find he was talking to himself. Amelia had slipped off somewhere through his answer, and that had the Irishman grumbling and cursing to himself anew. Bloody hell. Little babby comes begging after an answer an’ she don’t even hang about to hear it. Mayhaps a touch of the torch will take some of that ice off her. His glowering darkened with thoughts of arson and explosives as he went back to his wires, considering them again. Blue one, he thought. Sure of it. Brandwyn raised his cutters up and took hold of the wire in question, touching his tool to it.

And all the lights went out.

[********, what did I touch?!” he cursed, fumbling in the box for whatever it was that had knocked them all into darkness. But before he could set to fixing the problem, a set of spotlights kicked on, and the show was underway. The brawny vampire sighed a breath of relief. Right, the show. Luck, that. Kes would like to have flipped his cap if I’d – whoa! Brandwyn’s train of thought was suddenly derailed as Mercia made her entrance. Leather straps bound up flesh as pale as the moon, and cut that deadly figure into an assortment of soft curves that had the eye of anything with a y chromosome. The Irishman in particular found himself hypnotized by the way her thighs looked astride the werebeast, his mouth pulled up into a fierce grin that sent his silver fangs to glinting. He and his sire might not see much eye to eye, but Brand could have hugged the b*****d for that outfit alone. What he wouldn’t have given to trade places with Noora in that instance.


“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, I welcome you to Il Carnevale di Morte! Prepare for the greatest show of your life, but take care it does not prove your last!” The little death god’s voice carried over the roars from the crowd, sounding like a horn of battle amidst the charge. Brandwyn felt his own clockwork heart start to thumping with the sound of it. She was a pretty thing, aye, a fine bit of stuff, but the power in that voice was what really got his legs to quaking. He wasn’t dead sure yet whether he wanted her or wanted to drain her, but damned if he was anxious to try a bit of both.

Those thoughts however were blasted out of his head when he heard the first firework cannon sound. The chain had begun, and Brandwyn seized upon the last in the line sudden panic. He needed to have it fixed now, or else the thing would boom like it was supposed to, and it’d throw off the whole thing. But which wire was it?! Clover eyes darted from the cannon to the one’s approaching, and Brandwyn reached his decision.

[******** it.”

A bronze hand tore all the wires from inside the cannon at once. The explosion was immediate and deafening. A plume of oily black smoke poured up from the cannon, and small fires took root along the circus floor. It served to ‘startle’ the beast just fine, as well as everyone else in the tent.

It wasn’t until Mercia had sufficiently calmed her beast and won back the crowd that Brandwyn emerged from the smoking ruin, his face covered in soot and his clothes on fire. The brawny Irishman had started the course of their little show dressed in green and black motley. Of that, only tatters remained, along with his own kilt, but by and large he seemed no worse for the wear. He made his way back stage, patting out the flames and smelling of smoke, cursing the whole way.

“The feck is that fairy? I need me another shirt,” he demanded of no one in particular.

[Hamletmaschine]

XXXXShe was stunning.

Standing opposite Jack on the platform at the other end of the tightrope, his sister's form was elegant and poised. The audience, raving mad with bloodthirsty delight, loved her. They fell for her whimsical charms and devilish smile. Up to this point, Jack had no idea how she would take the on the audience, though she had always been welcome to others watching their practices, and encouraged Bernardo on many occasions. She held no nervousness like Jack had, no sweat on her brow and no twitching of her fingers. It was as if she had done this all before... She had moved with a liquid's grace in their fight, and absolutely did not hold back her strength and determination to win. This was not an act. This was a fight she would win, and at the end, Jack would die.
Through the thick ocean roar of the crowded tent, Amelia's focus was only for him, her gaze piercing and her stance confident. She was ready to embark. Jack had no choice but to follow. It was all part of the plan.

A steady foot forward, Jack followed her with a shuddered breath. His focus did not waver to the jeering and screams of the mortal crowd, nor to the licking flames below them. But his nerves were not quite keeping up with his feet, and the vampire began to feel fear starting to kneed a home into his chest, behind his lungs. Amelia's eyes kept Jack confidence and her arm came up, sword in hand, ready to meet his as they stood barely 5 paces apart.
Inhaling sharply, he took the first swing of attack, and she parried with ease, her grin widening with a laugh of delight. Jack's feet altered with the movement of the rope, following to his knees to balance out his weight correctly. Once the movements began, it came effortlessly and flowing, moving in waves, in time, to the rope and the other person. They moved a little forward, a little backward, an occasional jump and switch of places. The crowd was a kettle, on the verge of bursting.
With every jab and swing, Amelia countered and blocked like second nature, like they had practiced. And every so often she would improvise and toss in a surprise Jack had to act upon. She teased him, and the angrier he got by it, the more aggression he implemented into this act.

Amelia came up high with a blow descending to land on Jack's head, but he lifted his hand up to press weight against the end of this sword, barricading her sword with his own in a horizontal blockade. Sword biting sword sent a shockwave down and Jack's knees took the weight of the attack as he pushed upward with a sharp grunt. But Amelia held firm on her force pressing down upon him, her eyes flashing and sweat beading down her face from the heat of the flames.
She slowly released her weight as Jack pushed up to break the attack, but Amelia had another improvised vision.
Jack suddenly felt weightless, and it was from his feet losing sudden contact with the rope beneath him. It was not from her movement, but from his involuntary falling. His sister pulled his foot out from under him, with her own, and stepped back as Jack fell back suddenly.
The action sent a fear-induced cry to tumble out from between his lips. He was no longer in control. Jack's back hit the rope, propelling his body to bounce and roll off. He was falling. Down to the inferno pitted below them.

Not part of the plan!
Not part of the plan!

Screams sounded in time around the room, women and children, men standing to their feet. Instinctively, he threw his hand up, snatching the rope with his hand, sword still clawed in the other, and swung back and forth, gasping hard with wide eyes. He had caught himself, just in time.
The room fell silent in sudden unison, and then it came back like the tide. Applause and cheers roared harder than before. Jack looked up to Amelia, who stood effortlessly upon the rope above her brother's hanging form, a grin upon her lips as she addressed the crowd with a wave of her sword, bowing graciously.
They adored her.

Her eyes came down slowly to meet Jack's after a long moment, his glaring a smouldering crimson. She winked, and offered a hand to him. Taking her hand in assistance would mean dropping his sword, and surrendering the fight, which was not an option.
In disgust, Jack shook his head violently and a roar of anger came from deep within his chest. His sword came up in a heavy swing at Amelia's feet, which she stumbled back in surprise. Jack seethed as he watched her, and her eyes narrowed with a deep frown. He raised his sword once more. This time, he would not miss.
The crowd gasped as metal tore fibres.

Jack cut their rope, sending them both toppling down towards the flames. Though unlike Jack, Amelia had to scramble to grasp the rope on the way down, where her brother would have the upper hand and swing through the flames. With a large part of the ground covered in flames, Jack had no other place to land but within the crowd.
Nothing from here out would be to plan.
As soon as the mortals noticed it, they began to jump and bound over each other, nearly being trampled as Jack landed heavy upon the bleachers, wood cracking beneath the force. He breathed hard, the people surrounding him drawing back as they were suddenly now no longer spectators, but apart of the show.
Jack's eyes scanned the room quickly, looking for the woman of his blade's desires. Shrieks and gasps from across the room drew the vampire's attention, his sister also standing within the crowd, beckoning him to meet. A bloody smile drew up Jack's lips and he stalked forward to claim her head. The crowd parted for them as they shoved and trampled their way to each other, no one able to quite get enough of what was going on. They cheered as they moved and then everyone closed in again on the action, a swarming of wasps.

The siblings met first with sparks from swords, then Jack's fist came up to meet Amelia's palm. This fight was nothing like how it was supposed to be, and from her eyes, Jack could not derive if that was what she had intended all this time. She struggled back against his strength, no mortal brave enough to get between them as the fight became more barbaric. Fist met jaw, blade tore skin. Blood spattered the crowd and they demanded more.
Brother Jack grappled Sister Amelia, and together in a knot of limbs they toppled down through the bodies and wood towards the floor of the ring. Jack's face hit dirt as the landed next to one another, blood soaking the grit and dust. With a heavy breath, he opened his crimson eyes to the blinding lights of the spots above them, and rolled away from the woman, sluggishly regaining composure as he got to his feet. Jack watched as Amelia spit blood and wince as she too got up again. It took all of Jack's strength not to pummel her to the ground right there and end this thing. Instead he waited, body aching and sweat stinging his eyes. When she turned to him, she was ginning again and he heard her voice in his head, "Ready?"

He breathed deeply and came up to meet her in another clash, ringing echoing before becoming lost to the sounds of the crowds. Jack swung high as Amelia blocked and came in low. He jumped and came down from above, and she pushed him aside and attacked in a spirt of multiple thrusts. Jack blocked as she pushed him back in retreat, but a solid footing stopped him and Amelia stumbled back at his defence. Now it was his turn to be on the aggressive, mirroring her attack until she stumbled over her own feet and crashed down to the floor. Jack knelt down on her chest and heaved his breath over her with a sickening grin of triumph. The crowd roared and heckled dangerously as their Hero was about to be stricken down before them. Jack could not help but laugh and shake his head as Amelia snarled beneath him, writhing to get free.
The audience would watch as Jack took up his blade, both hands on the hilt, above his head, ready to take her life. But Jack did not see Amelia take up her blade at her side. She swung hard and the metal slid snug and tight into Jack's leg. He roared, standing up off of her and stumbling back in pain, as she ripped the sword from his leg, scrambling to her feet.
Jack looked up just in time to see the tip of her sword come inches before his solar plexus.

It didn't quite feel the same as when they had rehearsed it. They only had done the hit a few times to get him conditioned for it. It was similar to when Christa had cut him open and nearly yanked the heart from his chest. But nothing could really compare to the sudden shock and then overwhelming pain of the blade's bite sliding into his flesh and piercing through his back. It wasn't for effect that Jack screamed out in pain, but in the reality that it did actually hurt that much. Even for an immortal. He cringed and gasped, and doubled over as he cried out.
The crowd stood in ovation and the tent lit up in a deafening cheer. She ripped the blade from his body, blood splattering on the ground as Jack collapsed to his knees and then to the ground in a heap. His sister rose a hand to address her followers with a triumphant and gracious smile, bowing before the lights went to black.

Jack waited only a moment to feel a gentle hand on his shoulder, and groaned as he got to his feet, moving with as much of his vampiric speed as he could before the spots flicked back on to reveal the two had disappeared like magic, to the crowd's delight.
Jack slowed as he entered the safety of the backstage darkness and drapery. He coughed blood and closed his eyes as he breathed deeply. Amelia said something to him, but he couldn't really hear her. He felt a kiss upon his cheek and a squeeze on his shoulder. When he opened his darkened eyes, she was gone. Gingerly, Jack placed the sword back in his sheath and placed a hand firmly on his gaping wound to slow the bleeding. He would have to wait a while for the outer skin to heal, and then the internal would take a little longer. The burning and biting pain was intensive, but he cleared his eyes and focused on his breathing as he made his way in the darkness, around the other performers and crew, to find Bernardo... and a place to sit.

XXXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

[zfatal]

“The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.”
— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
-----------------
----------------- It was early morn when they finished their flight, having scouted the outlying countryside to Maeve’s satisfaction. On the wing, Blitzen had scoured the great expanse of wood-covered mountains, noting the location of each small hamlet and every isolated game trail. Here and there, especially nearer the eastern coast, larger cities sprouted out of the ground, their position betrayed by the specks of dull torchlight. His keen eyes even detected movement through the darkened wood, noting each and every lumbering bear, hunting wolf pack, and even the occasional lone mounted horse. With the endless night, time was too arbitrary a factor to rely on when you hoped to sneak underneath the sleeping nose.

Flying with that other bird wasn’t too troubling a task, like the owl had anticipated. There was no use for them to fly together, or in formation; so she split them up and sent Blitzen in the opposite direction. He preferred it this way; better to forge his own path than to trail after the blathering harpy who took every opportunity to flaunt her authority over him. You may have filched the Queen’s favor, harpy, he thought with malice, but without that you’d be nothing. I would drive you to the ground right now. After all, there was no greater predator in the night sky than the Owl, and it was the Endless Night.

Still, he had to endure the semi-hourly checkups, when he would feel the tug of her telepathic leash as she touched his mind and accepted his report. It was easier to hide his resentment of her underneath the silent, brooding mask of the Owl, though. Immediately after she withdrew the mind link, he returned to his dark thoughts, contemplating her downfall, and the downfall of many others besides. For Maeve, he would have to cage her somehow, some time far in the future. Cage her, poke and prod her with iron, and clip those feathers. Would he tar her then, or proceed to the waterboarding? Such fantasies helped him pass the time.

On their return, he watched her descend to her caravan, shifting into human shape to land softly and gracefully at the last moment. She stopped outside the door where Ambrose sat with a book, to exchange a friendly word of conversation. She rested a hand on his shoulder for a moment as he returned to his literature, then climbed the steps and disappeared from sight. Blitzen watched the subtle interaction, inwardly seething. How cozy you two are, up on your pedestal, high above the rest of us maggots. He had a position of power right up there with her. It was because the shark could kill her in a heartbeat, just twist her head off, and everyone knew it. But Ambrose wasn’t the only creature capable of killing Maeve Donovan. I should show you that.

With thoughts of Maeve and Ambrose and murder in his head, Blitzen the Owl returned to human form without thinking twice. The shift of perspective and of minds unsettled him as always, and the world felt unbalanced and evil. He used a tree to support himself until the disorientation faded, sneering at Ambrose all the while. That shark sat there, seemingly relaxed and comfortable in a way Blitzen’s second set of skin never could feel. Curse you for making it look so easy to give up your freedom, he scowled. Does it come with age? Or are you just so far gone that the shark never surfaces? Or maybe … maybe the human side of you isn’t there. He thought of Malphas, that twisted soul that bled death into his thoughts at every twist and turn. Maybe your inner demons took over. Maybe there’s nothing left of you but the shark now.

With a scowl he left the shark sitting there, because there were more important things to do. Blitzen threaded his way through the woods until he came upon the beginning of the clearing that the main circus tents occupied. The tents were all erect now, and the rogue had to weave through clusters of his fellow monsters, all focused on their final preparations. Here Brand was fussing over the wiring of a cannon, and there he saw Noora discussing the placement of the torches for the best lighting. Blitzen was only interested in junk, however. Over the course of the past two weeks, he had been slowly sifting through the trinkets, the clothes, the personal belongings that the dead left behind. He’d taken what he wanted out of odds and ends, but he’d also been assembling a costume out of ragtag bits and pieces: carefully selected, choice things that went together to make up the perfect macabre outfit he had in mind.

I have inherited the belongings of all the dead, he mused as he pocketed a golden watch here, a dagger there. For his wardrobe ensemble, Blitzen added a small ear stud in the shape of a sun, then picked up a pair of dark, fingerless gloves and thumbed a makeup kit he wasn’t sure if he wanted to use yet. Perhaps I should use the face paint for a skull or a snarling animal, or even a vampire with vicious fangs. He took a moment to appreciate his own little brand of irony, just then. As long as we’re hiding in plain sight… His chosen wardrobe was not dark enough to warrant a skull or some horrible creature, he decided just then. The ensemble was stunning crimson, and he’d even added feathers for his own unique flair. I shall be the phoenix tonight, plain for all to see, he knew. He would wear brilliant, flashing golden rings and a shimmering crimson vest studded with light reflecting beads. Perhaps he would use the face paint to paint himself a fatal cut to the throat, to signify his rebirth…

He was giddy on rum as well as his own fantasies. One of the first cargoes he’d relieved the storage caravans of had been the alcohol. He waved the golden flask about, as close to drunk as he was like to get, composing the final touches to his fiery golden look. A Phoenix, they will see. He was about to leave when his hand came upon a sleek instrument of delicate metal. It was thin, very fragile looking, but the metal felt very strong, heavy and dense in his hands. What is it the gypsies have here? he wondered. Inscribed along the side of the dear instrument, a long delicate fork by the look of it, were words in Latin, or maybe Spanish. Whatever the language, it was clearly an expensive instrument, a treasure. My treasure now. Blitzen took a moment to kneel in the center of the mess he’d created, with the silver and steel treasure in his hands. I thank you for your patronage, he said to the spirits of the dead. Rest easy that your treasures find their way to someone who can truly appreciate them.

It was later that night, and nearly half a crate of booze later, that Blitzen found himself watching their very first crowd. It was an interesting and elaborate choreography, and he didn’t take part. Not only would his glaring red costume ruin the atmosphere, but he was a Phoenix. They cannot witness rebirth before they see death. And then Death’s brood herded the mortals to her tent and the show, like lambs to the slaughter. The fate of mortals doesn’t concern me tonight, though. Blitzen took another swig of his rum and retreated to his caravan, where he waited for his own performance to begin. It wasn’t a public performance, but he knew that the most important guest would show up. I’ve only watched you practice your route dozens of times, Ambrose. You think you’re untouchable. The shark rubbed it into Blitzen’s face with the swagger of his very walk, and with those dark, disdainful eyes. Always judging. You and Maeve and all the rest. Blitzen’s eyes glowed with death that night. He waited on the steps to his caravan until the right time, when Ambrose was sure to be walking to the show.

Blitzen took out the slender, silver tuning fork and slid his dagger along the tines. He paused, listened, strung the tines twice more. Another pause, then another slice of metal on metal. He could feel the instrument reverberate in his hands, and even hear the low hum. He’ll hear it too. He’ll hear it anywhere. And he’ll come. Blitzen tapped the tuning fork against his rum bottle, almost purposefully. The tines reverberated dutifully again. Blitzen waited until he judged that Ambrose would have turned. One last tap of the tines, and then he slid the slender instrument into the long neck of the rum flask. It still carried a note, as he knew it would.

He watched Ambrose approach, blatantly staring at the dark Spaniard with no trace of fear. A wicked smile even crept up his face. Am I bothering you, comrade? Have I caught your attention yet? He had, but when Ambrose recognized him in his costume, his expression immediately lost interest. I am but a worm to him, of course. For a comical second the shark didn’t seem to know what to do, but it didn’t last. He turned to leave, to head on his way and carry out his little act. But maybe the bird can provoke the shark yet. He called out. “Where are you going, Comrade?”

Ambrose’s pause was almost imperceptible. He kept going. Blitzen tried again. “Don’t leave, Comrade, what are you in such a hurry for? Don’t tell me the b***h has put you in one of her ridiculous circus acts? What are you, some sort of strong man?” That made Ambrose turn to face him again, and Blitzen’s smile grew. “Drink with me, forget about the circus. Do you really think she or anyone cares whether or not you are there?” It only took an imperceptible movement of the hand, as he shifted his weight, to rock the rum flask, and sound off the tuning fork inside.

And there I have you. With every twitch of the flask, and every sounding of the tuning fork, Ambrose twitched. The movement was subtle, at first, but Blitzen’s trained eyes missed nothing, nothing. He raised the glass high, offering a drink, a grin, and more sound than Ambrose cared to deal with. “Come now, one swig won’t hurt will it?” Ambrose tried to push past him, but Blitzen was not so easily shoved aside. “Are you that curious of my sleeping quarters?” he asked maliciously. You won’t find the source of your annoyances in there, comrade. Just here, just me. But Ambrose just stood there, staring at him. He told Blitzen to move. For a moment it even looked like the shark would take him seriously … but no. He just sidestepped, aiming for the door of the caravan once more. No. Blitzen planted himself in front of the shark, fearless. “Inviting yourself into my home?” he sneered. “Nobody else want you around? I couldn’t imagine why.” He met Ambrose’s gaze, eye-to-eye. You’re not as stoic and stone-faced as you let on, he saw. Your eyes reveal more about you than you want to right now. You want to kill me right now, I can tell. The shark just stared at him though, pretending his emotions were still invisible. But if he didn’t care … why was he still here? “I must be pretty important to you if I’m making you late,” he prodded again.

It only took a handful of words. “I won’t ask twice.” Blitzen gave his flask another shake, his tuning fork another hum. “Ah, but you just did.” The next thing he knew was pain, a great pain in the middle of his face. Ambrose withdrew his fist, and let Blitzen fall to the ground. The pain lanced through him like a knife; the nose was broken for sure. It took no time for blood to drain out of his nose, mouth, across his face—hell, it felt like it might be draining out of his eyes and ears too. For a few agonizing seconds, Blitzen couldn’t pick himself up. It was all he could do to brace a shaking hand on the ground, and lift his bloodied face out of the dirt. A murderous glance back told him that Ambrose was in there, in Blitzen’s domain, searching through Blitzen’s things.

Somehow, he got himself away from there. With one hand clutching his bloodied, mud-caked face, Blitzen half-ran, half-hobbled his way to the safety of the nearest stand of trees. He somehow kept the drained rum flask with him, which he upended over his face. Only a trickle poured out, but it helped to clean his face some. He did it, he hit me, Blitzen thought, without any real surprise. Why does everyone raise themselves above me? He lifted the flask and hurled it at the ground. With a great smash it shattered, leaving glass fragments and the silver tuning fork. A tuning fork that he picked up, and weighed thoughtfully. You’ll regret that, Ambrose. You won’t underestimate me ever again.

He ghosted after the lumbering werebeast, the pain of his broken nose all but lost to him now. His target moved slowly, carrying the weight of the lifeless mechanical horse with him. There wasn’t a soul in the grounds now, save for the two of them. The big top was still a good walk away. Blitzen trailed behind Ambrose, edging closer, closer, until he was close enough to strike. The Phoenix rises again no matter the injury, he thought. While the Owl strikes from the darkness. But the Blitzen always goes for the kill. He burst forward, covering the distance between the two of them in mere moments. Ambrose turned his head at the last moment, seeming to detect his approach, but far, far too late to react. By the time Ambrose’s free arm had swung half round to block, Blitzen had already sunk the tuning fork deep into the center of the shark’s spine, and ducked away. But there was no need; Ambrose couldn’t continue the attack. He spasmed, dropped the immense iron horse, and fell to one knee, convulsing.

Wary for counterattack, Blitzen rocked on his feet, but none came. After a few seconds, when Ambrose did not move, he chanced moving closer. The shark was still convulsing; each time the spasms died down, he tried to move again and reignited the thrashing. His arched back shined sleek with blood, while his hands clutched at the dirt and reopened, again and again. Finally, those dark eyes looked up at Blitzen. He expected rage, maybe battle lust, but instead the gaze was calm as always. I know you’re furious on the inside, Blitzen thought. How dare Ambrose sit there and pretend that being stabbed in the back was nothing. He couldn’t hide his pain, nor stop his body from convulsing. “You may not want to show it, but your body betrays you. The pain you feel, and the rage. Now you know how I feel. Don’t ever underestimate what I’m capable of,” he spat.

There was no warning when Ambrose reached over, latched onto the metal horse, and heaved. The throw was clumsy, but with great strength; it flew fast and far. Blitzen twisted out of the way, was knocked a few steps away as one metal hoof caught his shoulder, then narrowly slipped past. The steel steed slid through the dirt for a few feet, the attack missed. Blitzen glanced back at Ambrose’s motionless form. He’s stuck there, Blitzen laughed deviously. He had immobilized Ambrose, severed his spinal column. You have to take it, b***h. The glee Blitzen felt was palpable. With one last smug grin, still meeting Ambrose’s eyes, Blitzen simply stepped back and faded into the darkness. And then he was gone.

When Ambrose finally regained enough stamina to rip the tuning fork out of his spine a few minutes later, and after he managed to stand up and stagger back against a wooden post a few minutes after that, he would glance down at the blood-stained inscription and read the words written there.

Alegría, Vida, Música, Risa






Alegría, Vida, Música, Risa; Joy, Life, Music, Laughter

[caffeinektn]

M Y filler D E C L A R A T I O N filler E M B E D D E D filler D E E P filler U N D E R filler M Y filler S K I N
A filler P E R M A N E N T filler R E M I N D E R filler O F filler H O W filler I T filler B E G A N

cassandra davenport══════════
unlock the dark d e s t r o y e r that's buried within

Ah, Spain. Such beauty to be found in its cobbled streets. But Cassandra Davenport was not in Spain to see the country’s assets. Perhaps at some point she would have liked to and maybe would have enjoyed herself. Perhaps if things had gone differently, her mother had not died in childbirth, her father had not abandoned his children in his grief. If he had not sold his daughter to the highest bidder every night. But her mother had died minutes after Cassandra was born, her father had drank himself into a stupor, and her brothers were forced to work for the family until her father decided she was more use to him as a prostitute. Spain for pleasure and sight-seeing was out of her reach.

No, what had brought this little redheaded woman from Bristol was revenge. She stood at the window of an inn, looking out across the darkened streets through the grime. She seemed a good deal out of place in her blue satin dress, the very picture of a well bred English woman. Save for the soft tick tick tick in her chest. She listened to it now, her own ‘heartbeat’ so to speak. The thing that had given her a chance to get out of the hellish life she had been thrust into. She did not remember the man that gave her this gift, nor when or where she woke up. All she remembered was standing in the rain outside her home, staring at the door.

And now she was staring at another door. An entirely different door. A tavern that boasted of good spirits. Cassandra was not there for idle chit chat and alcohol, though. She had not the time nor patience for such things. She was waiting for her second eldest brother to come out and head home to his beautiful young wife and two children.

As if on cue, he did so. He had grown into an old man. She had not seen him for just over twenty years. He even had a beard now. Cassandra turned from the window and smoothed her red curls. She stood out in Spain, but she did not mind at all. She strode briskly towards the door and down the steps, taking to the cobblestone streets. Her boots fell audibly with each step she took, but she was not trying to conceal herself either. Not until he reached his home a few streets away from the tavern. That was when she drew back and stopped. He did not seem worried that he may have been followed. Her golden eyes peeked through the open windows, watching him when she could. He kissed his wife. He hugged his children. He went upstairs to the room he probably shared with his wife. Cassandra stepped back into the street and strode over to the door, rapping on the wood loudly. A moment later, it opened to reveal the pretty young wife. ”Puedo tener un poco de agua, por favor?” She flashed a small smile, apologetic for possibly butchering the language. Her Spanish was very rusty.

The woman nodded and smiled, opening the door wider so Cassandra could enter. ”Muchas gracias, senora.” And with that, she slipped a knife out of the hidden seam along her dress – disguised as it was by ruched satin – and reached for the wife of her dear brother just as he came down the steps. He was greeted by the sight of his sister slitting his wife’s throat. The gash opened wide in a red smile, dripping blood down onto the woman’s clothing. Her children screamed in terror. Cassandra smiled at the look of complete fury and horror on her brother’s face. ”I promised you I would come for your life, brother dear.” She tossed his gurgling wife aside and, quick as a flash, was behind his children. They whimpered and cried and begged her not to hurt their father, begged her to spare their lives. She slammed their heads together with a sickening crunch and their whining ceased. ”Now, Garreth, it’s just you and me.”

He bolted for the door, shouting for help. Cassandra was quicker though. She dragged him back and threw him to the floor, the malice in her eyes making them glitter in the semi darkness. ”You had your chance to run, brother dear. You had chances for many things and yet here you are.” She stroked his cheek, pinning him with one booted foot. ”At my mercy.”

“Mercy,” he whimpered, pleading. “Mercy please Cassi, I didn’t want things to be like this! I swear it!” He stroked her boot as if it were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His eyes pleaded, his lips pleaded.

”Begging for your life, Garreth? As if it were worth living?” She grinned at him, revealing her fangs. In fresh terror, he struggled beneath her foot, pushing and shoving, trying to dislodge the woman that had come to kill him. ”My brothers should have protected me. We should have banded together against our father. Instead I had nothing, nothing but torture at the hands of a family who should have grieved as one, not fallen into such darkness.” Her words came out as a hiss, her anger making her golden eyes more eerie than ever. ”What right had you to start anew? What right had you to happiness after what you did to me?”

She reached down with one hand and yanked his tongue from his throat, watching as he gurgled and choked on what remained of it. With a gleeful smile, she watched as her older brother began to drown in his own blood. His eyes bore into hers, but his hand reached for his children and his wife, their bodies so close yet so far. She held his bloody tongue in one gloved hand and moved towards his wife. ”One last kiss for your beautiful wife?” She bent down, her skirts dipping into the pool of blood as she laid his tongue over his wife's cooling mouth. ”There, what a nice farewell present to give her, don’t you think?”

Garreth was watching in horror, but he could not help his already dead wife. Nor his children. You cannot even help yourself now, dear Garreth, she thought. Her smile was wide as she leaned against the door. She could hear shouting on the streets now, someone nearby must have heard the screams. She was not worried, though. In fact, she strolled across the room as her brother took his last gulp of blood, selecting his wife’s shawl as he died. ”Oh how lovely! Don’t you think, Garreth?” She turned to look at her brother, then pouted. ”Oh you never were much help. Which is exactly why I had to kill you. But your wife has fine taste. I should keep this shawl.” She draped it over her arms, looking down at herself. The hem of her dress was dirty with blood, as were her gloves and one sleeve. ”Oh drat. You’ve gone and ruined my dress, Garreth. I liked this dress.” She sighed and tugged the shawl around her tighter.

The shouting from the cobblestone street was getting louder now. Cassandra stepped over her dead brother and his family, making her way to the back door. It was quiet out this way. No one had thought to come around back. She tucked her hands together around the edges of the shawl and stepped lightly down the alleyway, away from the shouting outside the home she had just left.

Now to find something to do with my time, she thought. Cassandra had a vague idea. Ever since she had reached Spain, she felt a pull. A call. A leader’s call. There were other vampires nearby, powerful ones. She still had one more brother to find, but she felt so refreshed after killing Garreth. Perhaps she would drop in and see what the group had to offer. There was still time to find the eldest after all.

On she went, headed in the direction of the carnival. She had seen it, but not entered it. She had been far too intent on her own vengeance to heed any other call. As she walked, she could hear the unmistakable boom! of an explosion. This piqued her interest a bit and she picked up her pace, soon finding herself at the edge of the carnival. It seemed a show was just starting. Cheered from her brother’s death, she decided to stay and watch. She could feel immense power from vampires in the vicinity. Perhaps she could learn a few things by sticking around.

Her golden eyes moved over the crowd, then landed on the man she found herself standing by in an out of the way area with a view of the show. A were, she thought, lifting her chin up a bit. She eyed the beast warily. In her short years, she had only encountered a few weres and killed even less. Her fight was not with them when she could help it. She was all about her vengeance and weres played a very small part in that. She knew there was a war between weres and vampires, but knew no one involved. Cassandra’s gaze fell on the tear in his coat and her lips quirked in a smile. ”You should get that sewn,” she said in a polite, conversational tone. ”I hope you don’t mind my asking, shouldn’t you be in a cage?” She fixed him with her golden eyes now, barely concealing her smirk. Her hands tightened on the shawl around her shoulders, not bothering to hide her blood stained gloves.

The show definitely caught her interest. She had a fondness for knives and sharp pointy things, so the swordplay had her smiling faintly. It was an odd sight, to see Cassandra smile like that. She watched avidly, though, enjoying the sound of singing metal, just barely audible over the crowd. Perhaps if she stayed for a while she would have the pleasure of seeing the show up close. And the end! All that blood had Cassandra grinning from ear to ear. Oh yes, so far it had been a very good day.

[Tummeh Fiend]

ℋ owever stunning the main tent had been, in its candy-striped sweetness which hid the carnage that was promised for the price of admission, the real spectacle was the ringmaster herself. Though Bernardo had not expected less than stunning, he hadn’t known entirely what to expect from this first show. While preparations had been hastily made around the grounds, he had secluded himself mostly to his own costume car and performed his duties there. Whether the show would fail miserably or be received with overwhelming applause, he knew not. He only knew that either way, they would be dressed for both occasions. But as the lights dimmed a bundle of nerves and pent up anticipation gathered in his chest. Out of the darkness, a beam of light illuminated a young woman with hair like the sands of Spain, and below her the sharp muscles of a beast flexed as if from a dark legend told to the village children. No matter how glorious the lights of the carnival, the tents, the excitement bouncing from person to person; Mercia Addison was the one that each would be haunted by in the vivid hours around midnight. Even the tailor was captivated, inching closer to the sidelines to peer out at this manifest dream. Bernardo’s eyes followed her closely, followed the contours of her body as she moved with the wolf underneath her, no doubt Noora. Someone stupid had stuck the queen into a costume that he had not designed, and although it left little to the imagination, it did nothing to accentuate her beauty. Her supernatural, alien kind of beauty that no mortal could feign hope to achieve. The fabric squeezed too tight in places, not tight enough in others, and he made a mental note to get her into his car as soon as possible. He would give her a costume that belonged in her world of enchantment and dreaminess, and that he was positive of.

Bernardo was sure that he would have watched the remainder of the opening act, had it not been for a strange presence that was slowly working its way around the perimeters of the tent towards him. He saw the shifting of a body, weaving through the crowds and the backstage managers. The tailor inched an eyebrow upwards towards this man… No, wait. Not a man, but a monster. As he caught the stranger’s gaze, a cold and yellow stare, Bernardo could tell that he was dealing with someone feral. It was the way that he walked which was a little too fast for a mortal, too agile, and too accustomed to slipping soundlessly into the night. He was a foreign Were, and for some reason, he started to approach him with an amused expression on his face. The tailor returned the favor.

It was the newcomer that spoke first, his voice rich with the accent of a far off land. His home, Bernardo presumed. If there was one thing that creatures carried with them, it was the unmistakable lilt of their culture’s speech, which each proudly hung on to even when other places tried to erase that artifact. He still carried the unmistakable accent of London and always would. As the stranger spoke, Bernardo smiled to himself. Russia. That was the distinct voice of a Russian saying, “Excuse me. I am curious as to where I may find Mercia Addison?” The tailor looked at him quizzically, as if to imply that he should already know, before nodding his head in the direction of the ring. There she was, in all her captivating glory, under the harsh lights of the tent. She was born to be noticed by the passerby, by the masses, by this entire tent. And now, she was given her dues as the Russian stopped to admire her. Bernardo took this opportunity to quickly look over this newcomer. He had the build of an army man. Broad shoulders, muscular arms based on the size of his jacket's sleeves. His legs were not built for agility, but instead to power forward, to propel. The stranger certainly fit in with their misfit army in a way that he, himself, would never know. But his face... it was stern and scarred, with also the ability for compassion. His jaw wasn't set enough in place, his brow not darkened from years and years of disgruntled living. That fascinated the tailor. However, he allowed his gaze to drop as the Russian addressed him once again, “It appears you have thought of everything for this… Carnival.”

Bernardo smirked at this statement, a humor in his eyes as he replied, "Well, I personally did not think of everything. I was simply in charge of the creative process, specifically, the costuming. For this spectacle we have created..." the tailor stopped then, his mouth still open as he tried to forage for the phrase, "Forgive me, but I can't really find words to describe it. I am still in shock that this harmony exists in the first place, much less enough harmony to create instead of destroy." Bernardo brought his finger up to his lips, his brows furrowing as he relapsed back into his thoughts. He knew he had the capacity to speak on a subject that he had long mused about in his solitude, but to see it manifested was a completely different matter. It had stolen his eloquence. A small notion nudged at him, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the background noise of the performance was enveloped in a deafening explosion.

The tent seemed to whirl then as his environment reacted faster than him, pulling him along in the frenzy. He was suddenly pressed against the newcomer's chest, tightly held by his arms. Indeed, his assumptions had been right. He was strong. Bernardo's back hit the wood chips uncomfortably and then everything was dark. For a moment, he thought that he had blacked out, but the commotion he could still hear around him affirmed him that he was still present. It was only a minute that he stared, wide-eyed into this darkness before the shade over him was discarded. It had been the Russian's coat. They both still crouched on the ground, the other man using his body as a type of shield in case another malfunction threatened them again. He smelled like alcohol and sap, like a forest. Bernardo swallowed the lump in his throat, straightened his glasses and slowly rose to his feet as he was given room. His clothes were brushed off with a muttered, "T-thank you... yes... um... thank you." His ears still rang painfully from... what exactly? He followed the direction of the smoke to the cannons, still steaming after what seemed to be an implosion. Once again, he was reminded of what it felt like to be the one needing rescue. The stranger appeared unscathed except one detail: the elbow of his jacket. That would need some mending.

The tailor started to extend his services but was interrupted by the two figures bounding from onstage. It was her. The ringmaster. The Russian stepped forward to introduce himself as Vilen Lagunov before extending his hand to Noora. So they seemed to know each other in some way, no doubt some long-ago connection. Supernatural creatures rarely forgot the past and their alliances, especially in a world plagued by war. Bernardo watched their interaction for a moment before his stare traced upwards towards the Jackal herself. Their eyes joined together briefly until he hung his head and swept himself into a polite bow. And then they were off, leaving the two men in company. The tailor cleared his throat before extending his hand in what he supposed was a firm handshake, despite the nerves that crawled up his throat. "Bernardo Maverick. If you stop into my costuming car soon, I'm sure we could work out a deal. You need a sewing job, and I require other...services, which I think you will find more suited to your specialty." He took back his hand, offered up a quick but reserved smile, and then made his way back to the side of the ring in order to observe the next act. The siblings...

Everything was practiced. Everything had been prepared. He had been a witness during their antics in their acrobatics and precision. Bernardo's nerves were calm, calm for Jack who would need the silent encouragement from the sidelines. As the vampire stepped out into the spotlight, his white hair glowing, Bernardo sent him a wave of positive vibes to push him forwards with confidence. Their steps were perfect and rehearsed. One foot after the other, carefully balanced and poised. The clashing of their swords was vicious, biting, but still both hung unto the rope below their feet. As if they were anchored to the tightrope, pulled there by some force, they jumped about on the thin platform as if it was second-nature. As if was effortless. The tailor admired from afar, his eyes following from position to position rapidly. Truly, the siblings were magnificent. They were graceful and entertaining, but he couldn’t imagine being in either of their places. His body was not conditioned enough to even attempt their stunts. Amelia, it was to be said, was beautiful. Her lithe form danced in space, held up at times, it seemed, by not the rope but thin air instead. And Jack, he was determined. Bernardo had expected nothing less from the man. Even from the far distance, he could see the way that his brows were knitted downwards, focused completely on the task in front of him. The costuming had been a smart choice. The contrasting blues and oranges added to the dance of their swords. The fabric breathed, it billowed, it stretched with as much gusto as each put forth. He was pleased… With each shift, the brunette’s heartbeat slowed a little bit, soothed by the perfect mechanics of their choreography. He found a nearby pole that supported the awning the performers and backstage managers gathered underneath, and he leaned gently against it to settle in. This was going to be a treat.
His contentedness was shattered too quickly. As his gaze carefully watched them, he suddenly saw a glimmer in Amelia’s eyes and a change in her demeanor which he did not trust. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. The footwork was suddenly different. No! This was wrong! This was all wrong! Before the tailor could properly react, Jack’s feet were suddenly swept out from underneath him. Bernardo panicked. His hands grabbed for the beam next to him, frantically trying to keep himself in place as his legs burnt to push forward. A jumble of awful thoughts popped into his head, all undermined with one sickening message: what exactly could he do now? What help would he offer by flinging himself into the mix? As Jack plummeted downwards towards the licking flames (surely they would not have to face hell so soon!), Bernardo could only helplessly watch, stricken with terror. The noise of the crowd turned to a watery roar in his ears. Everything was utterly canceled out, except for that one body free-falling. He seemed to be descending too slow for reality. And maybe this was a dream, a nightmare, after all. Maybe he had only imagined Amelia’s folly, produced it in his nervousness for his friend’s safety. He would wake up in his bed in London, alone, and all of this would have just been the product of a dream…

As Jack’s hand clawed unto the tightrope, and his body jolted with the abrupt stop, the world started to move around Bernardo again. The beam under his fingers felt tangible and solid. The roar of the crowd came back full-force. And his mouth was so dry, his breath so desperate. And Amelia… AMELIA! The tailor glanced up at the sister and was sure there was a smile upon her poisonous lips. But the fight wasn’t apparently over… far from, in fact. The siblings both lost the rope under their feet now as the string was cut, and into the audience they both crashed. Bernardo brought his fingers up to the bridge of his nose to pinch roughly. None of this was going according to plan. A ball of fury exploded in the back of his skull at the red-haired woman still fighting the man she had betrayed. The so-called-sister. She had known all along that Jack had trusted her with his safety, with this act, and now she had blown the illusion into fragments that could never be picked up again. She had risked his well-being for a cheap stunt, and Bernardo could not condone her thoughtlessness. This grudge simmered dangerously, even as he tried to expel it, for he knew the atrophy of a grudge, it stuck to his mind like tar. His eyes watched again, nervous and enraged.

There was blood everywhere as they grappled. Army life had not conditioned him to blood as he assumed it would, and he still felt squeamish as the siblings tore each other apart. Their bodies became canvases, the marks upon their white flesh inflicted by sword and fist and teeth. The cuts zigzagged gruesomely, cutting through fabric that Bernardo was now grateful for making black. At least then he couldn't see all the red. They fought for too long. He wanted it to be over. He wanted Jack to finally wrench her sword from her hand and hold the blade to her neck in victory. They had already taken the plans and dashed them against the rocks, so he secretly egged his companion on to take what he was denied during practices. But such was not the case. Amelia still had the upper hand. She had rehearsed winning, it felt fluid and natural at her fingertips. So when she finally had the sword at his heart, holding the point there gently to secure her triumph, Bernardo pursed his lips. At the last moment, when it didn't count, she had stuck to the script. Brilliant! How bloody wonderful. It was just like they had practiced. Amelia would force her brother to his knees and grab the scruff of his neck as the audience cheered for her. She had defended her title. That was what the tailor expected... How wrong he had been.

He knew something wasn't right. Jack wasn't sinking to the ground, and she wasn't taking her blade away. Bernardo did bound forward then, only making it a few steps before the sword slid down to the cradle between the blonde's ribs and was shoved forward with a proud thrust. The Were's breath caught painfully, bringing him to a halt. He was going to be sick. There was so much blood, and what was he going to do with that? No, he wasn't dead, but if he had been a human... How many times had they sat in his kitchen and talked about, hoped for, humanity? For mortality? He wasn't dead though... Bernardo had not gone to every practice, he had not seen where every bruise and gash originated, but surely he had not been so secluded as to not notice something as painful as impaling. Surely this had not happened before. This awful, sickening kind of torture. Amelia. Amelia...how did she find it in her? To her professed brother? Everything was all wrong. The blade stuck like a claw from his lover's back, dripping and alien. The vampire screamed, the weapon was extracted, and the lights were killed. Bernardo shook in the darkness. It was a violent shaking that possessed his muscles and joints. But in the blackness, all he could recall was the image burned into his eyes. He blinked, and again, but it would not flee from him. He didn't want it in his dreams, but knew it would be there. He didn't want it there in the morning, but knew that there was no morning. Only a series of nights, laced together and mocking him without end. He didn't even know if he wanted to find Jack, because what exactly would he find? A brave man, a determined man, a defeated man, a shell of a man? The only defense that he had against the shock of whatever he found in his friend was a sowing kit in his right pocket and a pistol that would be of no consolation. Armed with his meager wares, he stumbled towards the back of the tent.

The lights blinded him as they illuminated the canvas enclosure once more. He stopped for a minute to adjust, that was all he could afford, because he needed to propel himself forward. Through the backstage crowd, he scanned. He saw nothing of Amelia, which he thanked the stars for. He knew not what his simmering rage would do if she appeared. Instead, he looked for the mop of white hair that was unmistakably Jack. All around him, the creatures swarmed and jostled him from side to side. In the commotion, he bumped into the man.
In a flurry of hands and looks, he was pulling him away from the mess of the army towards a deserted area. There, crates were stacked and packing hay littered the floor. There, he beckoned Jack to rest while he paced. He paced forcefully, as if he could take enough steps and suddenly forget. He closed his eyes. The image was still there. After a bit, he mumbled with a faltering voice, "She- she had no right... reckless brat..." Bernardo ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the roots before sucking in a loud breath and adding, "I could try to sew that up... I could try..."

[Phoelidae]

Kestrel stood in the center of the stage, grinning at the audience like a cat that had just caught and plucked a now-helpless canary. Music swelled and then fell away into silence, but the vampire did not so much as move a muscle, standing perfectly still with his hands clasped behind his back, as though he was waiting for something. The silence stretched, and the audience stirred, restless with anticipation and lingering unease about the safety of the show they had come to see. Kestrel let them wait, biding his time until the perfect moment to take their breath away.

Welcome! the tall, handsome man spread his arms wide, and a perfect ivory dove burst from each sleeve, giving his white-gloved hands the appearance of taking flight. The audience gasped in unexpected delight at the innocent illusion, and the mortal children pointed and squealed as the cooing birds fluttered overhead. Kestrel smiled his most charming smile, letting the fools believe that there was beauty in the world for a long moment, and then with a chillingly wicked laugh he swept both hands forward to clap sharply in front of him. The sudden harshness of the sound broke the moment – and in a brilliant flash of light, both doves exploded into a fall of shimmering silver ash that showered over the audience in a macabre mist, drawing startled and horrified gasps.

The humans turned to the man in the center of the ring with betrayal in their eyes, but he was laughing, a laugh so devilish nuns would cross themselves and curse him simply at the sound of it. He swept his feathered tophat from his head and bowed so low his black hair nearly touched the ground. ”Come now, you didn’t think to see ordinary magic at the Carnival of Death, did you?” he asked the crowd as he straightened again, replacing his hat so that it shadowed his darkly gleaming eyes. He moved forward with the pacing grace of a feline, his grin only widening as the crowd recoiled from him instinctively. He fixed his eyes on some woman in the front row of the crowd and strode straight toward her, delighting in the fear in her eyes when she realized that she was his target. The man at her side wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders as Kestrel came to a stop before them, his muscled form looming over both of the seated mortals. He paused, listening to everyone in the tent hold their breath, and then a rose appeared between long fingers, offered to the terrified woman even as Kestrel smiled at the man beside her. ”Come now, why so serious? Where is your sense of adventure?” He punctuated the last question by whirling to face the audience, another rose appearing in his hand as he moved across the ring to where the Jackal stood poised between acts. Her loyal lapdog was looking fearsome indeed, snapping her slavering jaws at the vampire’s approach, but he reached heedlessly over her furred head to twist the thorned rose into Mercia’s air, letting his eyes sweep down her scantily clad body in a heated caress as the audience gasped to see the magician so fearless of his provocative ringmaster.

He turned again, a sweep of crimson and black and sapphire silk, and faced the audience with his eyes full of wicked glee. Now, now that I have paid homage to my mistress of death, the true act may begin!” There was a crack and a sudden plume of white smoke rose up from the center of the stage, and with his cloak flared the magician appeared to soar to the top of it, buoyed into the air on the insubstantial mist that soon swirled away and left him appearing to hover high above. ”She will not let me be ringmaster, ladies and gentleman, so she leaves me little choice but to steal the show!” From a hidden pocket he pulled wallets and coins, jewelry and keepsakes, even a few toys, all lightly lifted from the audience as they walked into the tent. He’d been pleased to know that even in a new body, the muscle memory of his pick-pocketing days remained. With a wicked laugh he tossed out his arms, showering the crowd with their own stolen goods as they gasped in outrage.

”Oh come, no need for anger, everything has been returned.” He stepped from his seeming levitation and leapt to the ground some 15 feet below, landing with the effortless grace of a cat as his cloak flared around him. He whirled, and the cloak vanished from his shoulders, leaving him in a neat vest as he rolled up his sleeves to the elbows and showed the audience his empty palms. ”You’ll see, I am a man of many talents, and I have very nimble fingers. There’s only one thing I cannot get my hands on ...” The grinning vampire shot a meaningful look at Mercia, and the crowd answered with nervously appreciative laughter. Everyone loved a stubborn suitor, after all. For the rest of his act he wowed them with tricks both mundane and miraculous, some aided by his superhuman abilities, some made possible by Brand’s gadgets, and still others just tricks he had amused himself with over the years. He concluded his act with a very interesting new trick that involved a concentrated lightning strike created between one magnet and another, which gave the illusion of creating blue-white lightning within the tent, to the shock and delight of his audience. It only impressed Kestrel insofar has he thought about how delightful it would be to have that power in truth, and then he took his bow and exited for the next acts.

Everything was going beautifully, even those acts which featured some manner of cooperation between the warring factions. If Kestrel had given a damn about peace, he would have been overjoyed, and if he’d given a damn about war, he might have had very serious concerns. Kestrel gave a damn about neither of these things, and his main source of interest was watching the Jackal with obsessive interest in the hope that her outfit might … slip. Not that Mercia’s naked body was exactly a rare commodity (he doubted she understood the concept of modesty – and why should she?), but nonetheless there was something fascinating about the idea of her losing her coverings in a situation that did not involve disembowelment. But then again, he almost missed the Midnight Jackal in all of her divine, bloodthirsty glory, the way he’d first met her on that black night when first they had fought and danced this hellish dance they’d been doing ever since.

It was the shocked gasp of someone behind the stage that drew his attention back to the macabre performances, just in time to see the severed tightrope spill both performing vampires toward Brandwyn’s flames and the audience. The reaction that rippled through the other circus members told him that indeed, this stunt was not part of the act, and Kestrel tipped his head to one side and watched curiously as their first disaster unfolded in front of him. He knew both vampires, albeit vaguely – at the time of his death, he’d had suspicions that Fletcher was rutting one of Mercia’s bitches, and since his return he’d heard mutterings that he was now involved with a seamstress who was beast only by blood. He did not recall the willowy man as having platinum hair, but then he always had seemed a man to change with the times, and clearly he had not minded Ataraxia’s rule. The woman, the red head … was it Amelia? She had attached herself to Kestrel in the way most ambitious and blood-thirsty newcomers did, eager to prove her devotion to him and to their cause … or some such nonsense. He had been thoroughly amused by the report of her confrontation with his twin, even if it had lowered his estimation of her intelligence. If he remembered correctly, she herself was Jack’s sister, but that didn’t seem right, seeing as she was now trying to kill him with very real intent in her eyes … though then again, cutting a tightrope out from under him sounded exactly like something dear Raxi would do, so maybe fratricide was more expected than he would have thought. What was it with sisters that they simply could not let things go?

Kestrel watched, curious, as a passable soldier without conviction fought against a better-practiced b***h with a chip on her shoulder. Predictably enough, the b***h won. Although even the leech king was vaguely surprised when Amelia ran her brother straight through in front of a watching audience of mortals that probably numbered into the hundreds. Blood sprayed across the stage and bubbled from the pale vampire’s lips, and several members of the audience screamed and shouted until the lights suddenly went dark. Kestrel cursed and swept out onto the stage to do damage control for that bloody fool – they’d been very careful to make sure that all of the acts toed the line of belief so as not to draw attention to themselves. Running a man through in the middle of a show was just a touch too authentic to keep their movements away from the notice of the Templars.

As he stepped out onto the blackened stage, for a split second his eyes met his sister’s, and an understanding passed between them. They would simply have to shuffle the program a little for a seamless transition back into the believable.

In the center of the stage, a flame suddenly appeared, kindled in the outstretched palm of the magician, thanks again to the mad Irishman. Beside him he found the Jackal, clearly sharing in the same thought that the show must go on. ”Now now, ladies and gentlemen, there’s no need for panic. Are you still so keen to believe that a man dying before your very eyes is a thing of horror? You think that you know what to fear, but there are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!” Too late he realized the beauty of the quote would be lost on his audience of plebian lack-wit slugs, and resisted the urge to sigh. Mortals, with their tiny little lifespans, really were such dreary things, swarming and trifling and dying like fruit-flies around a rotting apple. But he was playing for just a little time for Ataraxia to ready herself.

”The woman at my side rides a monster, and I conjure fire in my palm. Yet you scream at the sight of a little blood? Why? Was it too real for you, my friends?” Kestrel lifted his fistful of fire so that it made goulish shadows on his face in the darkness. ”You are all too easily fooled by a little firelight – don’t you know you cannot trust your eyes …?”

Right on cue, Kestrel closed his fist around the flaming device in his palm, just as the spotlights exploded upward, where a dark figure crouched on one of the narrow beams that supported the roof of the tent.

[KuntKake]

The trimmed and proper man before Vilen raptured an eloquent London accent, which the soldier tilted his head to in curiosity. A bit far from home, are we not? The two spoke just louder than the hum of the audience and the fantasia of the performance. So the man was not the director of this here carnival? Just a tailor? "Well, you certainly fooled me, Comrade." Vilen had complimented graciously before the blast had gone off.
After much of his life serving various military groups over Europe, the beast was incredibly conditioned to expecting the unexpected and acting rather than reacting. Sometimes, he supposed he was always searching for the next blast, gunshot or marauder to kill, and that was why he never found comfort or peace. For a century Vilen had been trying to hide away from war, to release himself from high priority violence, in hopes that it would curb his restlessness. But, so far, it had been to no avail. He continued to lay awake for hours at night, to dream of those situations in which many died by association to himself, and even looking over his shoulder in unknown territories. He was always going to be pegged as a wanted man by certain individuals and groups. It was the life he chose and the life he would die with.
It was not out of his character, it was as if he almost expected it, to have grabbed Bernardo and push him to the ground under his weight. He cared only for wellbeing of others, never himself. Especially in this day, with Vampires and Mortals roaming about, ready to slaughter anything that moved relative to their kind, one had to be extra vigilant and careful.
Once everything was clear, Vilen helped Bernardo to his feet and looked over himself, and the other man, nodding at the Tailor's thanks, "It's no problem."
The show continued, to the delight, and relief, of the crowd. Noora put on quite a performance, once the Russian had not expected. He was not aware of her skills as a performer, and that made him smirk a little deviously.

Vilen, though often times bitter, could not help but feel a warming in his heart at Noora's presence here. He should have known that the she-wolf would be right at Mercia's side. The woman had incredible strength, will, and determination. There was, in the Russian's opinion, no better a candidate for Mercia's General than Noora. He admired the woman for year, worked with her for just as many, and respected her with roots deeper than any sycamore.
He was pleased to find Noora so friendly. Though they never left on bad terms, it had been a very long time since they had worked together, let alone seen each other. A lot of time and events had happened since those days, and those sorts of things could really change a person. There had to be a cautiousness, unfortunately.

When Noora and Mercia passed on, he turned to Bernardo once more and found the man's hand extended to him. He took it welcomingly and shook it firmly. The man's hand was warm, soft with long fingers and calloused fingertips. Vilen studied it for a long moment, and turned the name over in his mind, Bernardo Maverick.
"Vilen Lagunov. The pleasure is mine." he nodded in respect and retrieved his hand to his side. Bernardo established a sort of deal that had the Russian's head tilt in curiosity, and then look to the tear in his coat, nodding slowly, "You have my attention, Comrade Maverick." Vilen spoke slowly, voice a little low as his eyes narrowed and expression changed to a more serious tone, "I will see to your caravan at my earliest convenience, should your schedule and carnival duties allow for it." he nodded again as the Tailor smiled and turned to leave him for a closer view of the show.

Things had seemed to roll along with the show fairly quickly. Performances went in and out with thrills and chills, faster than perhaps the mortal audience could really grasp on to. Though, Vilen supposed that was the best way to do it. One staring long enough may notice their supernatural quirks, and the gig would be up, and they would be very outnumbered.
He watched the show, each performance bringing it's own spice of life to the overall theme. Some were much better than others, some more elaborate and others more gruesome. Though in the end they all captivated him enough to continue watching without losing interest. He occasionally watched those shuffling around him in the darkness of the backstage, performers and crew alike, and even found interest in their duties too. Only when he turned his attention back to the show did it get pulled in a completely different direction.

He had felt her approach, though he did not really think much of it. Just another vampire in the hundreds here. But, what did cause his eyes to slant towards her person was the distinct scent of fresh blood. A curious and stern brow arched upward as he turned his head to observe the female vampire now making herself comfortable at his side. She was of average height and build. A young face, though. She was perhaps too young when faced with the rebirth. Was it choice? he wondered silently to himself, and then slowly turned his attention back to the show, crossing his arms over his chest and swallowing.
“You should get that fixed.”
He quirked a brow again and shot her a glance before nodding, “Yes, thank you. I will be soon. A very fine tailor has offered me his services at my leisure.” He replied to her with a slow inhale.
The words that followed her lips after had him smirking and slowly he turned to actually face her and look over this fiery thing. Young face, yes he saw that before. Golden eyes, but not hot. They were a cold gold, deadened and they complimented the soft pale pink of her lips that turned just slightly downward, naturally, at the corners. Her hair was somewhere between red and brown, in the poor and changing lighting it was hard to tell. Dressed to the nines, she was either a performer, or just dressed to impress. However, the blood on her person suggested neither, and maybe this was just a special occasion, or her usual attire.
No matter, he was staring.
“Pardon my English, but should you not be murdering some nice family, stealing their mortality and creating havoc, unprovoked?” he replied in question, turning back to the show before them.

The performance now was getting interesting, enough to have Bernardo on the edge of his seat at the violence taking place between the two acrobats. Something seemed off, but Vilen continued to watch in silence. He chanced a quick glance to the female, still at his side, and shifted over a little so she could see better and not strain so much. He tilted his head and sighed to himself. Vampire or not, she was a lady, and he had the habit of tenderness towards ladies drilled into him since his youth. He couldn’t shake it. Though there were many types of women, just as there were men, they had been taught to respect them all, show it to the ones who show it towards themselves. Most of the time, they were the ones dressed proper and who held their chins high. In the war, though sometimes true, Vilen learned appearances were far from the inner beauty, or ugliness, of a woman, and often found more comfort in those he least expected. However, it was always a lady, out of society, who was on the receiving end of his gentlemanliness.

[Berylis]

These being the words of Asa S. Danforth....
"In preparation for the resurrection..."

The doctor’s naked body was a grotesque sight, yet beautiful in its own way. His emaciated limbs showed the devastation that cancer had inflicted upon him, and the self-inflicted red scars and burn marks on his abdomen, as he tried and failed to save his own life. Fresh for all eternity. Naked, he stood on a small platform, as Maeve opened the door to the small room.

“Behold,” Asa said theatrically, motioning to himself, “the body of cancer.” From his experience in private practice, few mortals save doctors had seen a body so ravaged, for hospitals hid all but the patient’s face from view. “Each day the patient dies a little bit more, and part of the world is closed off to him forever. In most cases, the mind is the last to die. But do you know what cancer cannot kill?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Asa was not expecting a response, though he paused briefly to offer the opportunity for one. “Hope. Either in a cure for future generations, or meeting again in the afterlife. Or, in my own case, the medicine of a notorious quack practitioner” Asa smiled. Already those days seemed so long again, and the pain a distant memory – yet not even a full year had yet passed.

“Mortals go to desperate lengths to prepare for the future, even when reason suggests the best course of action is to let go of life and quietly prepare for death. That is the purpose of my act – our act – to help humans prepare for death, by restoring their belief in the order of things. There will be no need to question God, to resort to science, to mountebanks. It is not something that is easy to put into words, but as you guide the humans through the cave, you will understand. You live the sublime, more than I ever will.”

His attention turned to more practical concerns, such as the ingredients that Maeve had asked him to procure for his show. “The blood is in a beaker on the table,” he explained. “From a boar, so as not to rouse any of our kind to undue hunger.” Asa gave a self-implicating smile, for everyone knew that he occasionally succumbed to uncontrolled blood-lust.

“Truly, I am grateful for your assistance. You have saved me a great deal of time – both in the application of the body paint, and in learning the methods of application. It is a practical art, for more than disguising Odysseus from Menelaus : espionage could benefit from your talents. Where did you learn your skill, if I may ask?”

He listened avidly as Maeve told him the tale, flushing slightly as she told him that he would pick it up quickly. Of course Asa knew he would learn fast --- he had always outpaced his peers, in matters of applied skill. But that was a private matter, and he, like the Owlbeast, preferred to be underestimated. How strange to hear someone else vouch for his skill with such casual conviction. For the first time in their interview with one another, the doctor did not feel like the investigator. Instead, he felt curiously naked (in spite of his sartorial status), and his posture shifted slightly. Asa tried not to cringe as his own movement rolled a drop of blood into his eyes, causing a painful stinging. Determined to ignore the irritating feelings, Asa proceeded placidly with his questions.

“Perhaps this is too serious of a question to be asked in these informal settings, but there has been a matter of curiosity, if I may. What is the source of your devotion to your Goddess, Mistress Addison? Not, of course, that I would question its worthiness – indeed, the crux of the matter may be that I am a wicked atheist, incapable of feeling such attachments. In which case, quid erat demonstrandum.” He smiled with self-deprecation, and his tone grew more and more playful as he continued speaking. “As such, I am reduced to the inferior tools of science to try to understand. Is it like the pack of dogs, who obey their alpha’s wishes by reading thoughts? Do you possess such an enviable ability to read minds and souls? What are you, Morgana?”

Asa had taken pains to cloak his questions in humor, less an observer take offense at such candid talk. But the heart of the questions was absolutely earnest, for Asa had observed no such devotion on the part of the vampires towards their own fractured leadership. Yes, the enigma of Brother and Sister! Asa sensed that most of the devotion of the vampires towards their leaders had been out of fear, or in some cases a personal attachment, as Asa had felt friendship for Julienne.

It was hard not to laugh when thinking of friendship with Ataraxia. It seemed that she had transcended such pedestrian needs, or at least comported herself as if she had. The truth, Asa surmised, lay somewhere in-between: why else would she travel willingly with those who were her reputed enemies? Superior numbers in the face of a common enemy was no longer enough of an answer to satisfy Asa: the troupe had left their common enemy back in England, and there had been ample time to disperse. Instead, each waking moment kept vampires and werebeasts in close proximity.

Why, indeed. Asa suspected that as he aged he would, perhaps, have a better answer to the larger question behind Ataraxia’s actions – the meaning of supernatural existence, as they themselves defined it. What was pleasure to one so old, or pain? Why did Ataraxia do anything at all?

Twenty nine and already overcome with ennui. A fine specimen you will make for the ages, Danforth. Giving a half-smile, he watched Maeve carefully for answers. Those that he received simply stoked his curiosity, though he knew that there was no time to ask follow-up questions. Mentally, he echoed her words: Through Mercia I’ve been given a life worth living, without fear and without having to hide what I am. What had been given? From his etic perspective, all that Asa could see was a charade to hide themselves from the humans and a war with no end in sight. A war whose proponents seemed to be the prime movers, the alpha and the omega. He bit his lip. Like the oroboros, or the gladiator that fights his own monstrous manhood. They kill to create, to sustain themselves.

“Perhaps we may continue our discussion later,” Asa said softly, stepping down from the platform. He eyed himself in the looking glass, approving the transformation that Maeve had worked on him. In the light, the colors appeared heavy-handed and obvious. But re-imagining Asa's face cast in the shadows of the cave, illuminated by torch-flames licking at the darkness, he would appear beyond a mortal, indeed.

Smiling, he offered his hand to Maeve for a firm handshake. “You do good work,” he said earnestly. “One look at me, and I will have to prove that I am not a spirit, or a god. A shame, that,” he regretted, but as usual cheered up a moment later. “But oh -- what a show we will deliver!”

[Phoenix Skyy]

It had been a while since Asa had left her tent to go take care of some of his preparations, but in the mean time Maeve practiced for a silent moment in her head how exactly to do her individual side show. She was but an addition, a side job in his. The guide for the souls to be caught in his trap, and what a daring one it was. Even as they went over it before she couldn’t quite grasp what he was telling her, but if it was acceptable there would be no helping it in the end.

Opening the curtain, she stood at the entrance, one hand on her bright green adorned hip the other holding on to one of the polls of the structure, looking like quite a succubus of fortune. This was enough to grasp the attention of some of the crowd that made it's way around the main tent. The women looked at her in disgust, some even in fascination that she dared show off so much of her body. Men shifted uneasily next to their wives or courted matches, and if they were alone, well, Maeve made it obvious they were welcome to look, but she was well out of their grasp, an unattainable Venus. A brave two came up to her with cautious eyes, looking behind her into the space she had created just for them and others as brave as they were to know what the future held. A sharp grin crossed her face. “Gentlemen, would you like to know what your future holds, or would you like me to unravel your present?” So far from coy, so clever in her double entendres that they couldn’t grasp the sarcasm in her voice. Eyeing each other before shifting uneasily they nodded as one quietly said “yes”.

A single index finger ushered them in as she fluidly drifted her arm into the space to show them where they were to sit. A final goodbye smile to the others that passed and stared inside the tent before dropping the curtain cutting them off from their wide open spaces and the seemingly cluster phobic room. Turning her attentions back onto the gentlemen that stepped inside she offered them a calm smile as she lit a few more candles near the table. ”Don’t be afraid, gentlemen,” she softly cooed as she sat before them, crossing her legs and sitting back comfortably. Her hand rose to the side of her face as she considered them. “Let’s get to business, shall we? You’re here because you would like to know solutions to your problems: past, present and future. Well, boys, I require payment and the spirits of the dead require sacrifice. My bargain is a few shillings, however both of you will have to sacrifice something more... personal, to those departed. It gives them something to feed off of and read your fates.” The men had lost all color in their faces but they nodded in response. Did they suspect anything less after the display in the main tent? Somehow, she still read them as skeptical beneath the sheets of white. laughed and gave them a warmer smile than they deserved. “Come now, gentlemen! No need to fear, they’re not asking for your lives. Simple thing a few drops of blood will do though. You’ll be protected, don’t worry. That’s why I am here. I am your translator and their medium, if you wish it to be so. If not you can handle your problems on your own without any insight from your relatives, ancestors, or those wiser than you or I, do so. Now then, pay your shillings there in the plate like good lads and we can begin. Once I’m done blessing our space, you may ask your questions, no need to wait for me to say so. You’ll know the time.”

Standing up, took a moment for them to put the money in the metal dish like she had asked while she gathered a long black candle stick on the table beside her. Tipping it over another candle Maeve began to recite a false incantation with practiced cadence and emphasis. “Dis Pater, I call to you as I cast the circle. Protect us as we enter your domain, and summon those who go before us.” As she spoke she began to walk around the circular table, eyes closed as she sensed her way, and lit the candles placed in their directions. Yellow for air to the east, red for fire to the south, blue for water to the west, green for earth to the north, and at the center a deep purple for spirit, the tie that bound all the cardinal directions. “Air, the breath of the living and echo of the dead. I summon you to the circle to cleanse the space and protect us from the winds of Death. Fire, the flame that burns within the soul and destroyer of the wicked and righteous. I summon you to the circle to cleanse the space and warm us in the presence of cold, lurking Death. Water, the purifier of all those beneath the sky and taker of life who fall into your fluid grasp. I summon you to the circle to cleanse the space and purify our souls in the face of judgement of Death. Earth, the purveyor of life, guardian of wisdom and stability, and home to which we find ourselves enveloped after our end of days. I summon you to the circle to cleanse the space and rigidly hold us to our mortal casts as we are faced the pull of Death. Spirit, the core of all beings alive and dead, the truth of all that is and could be, I call you to the circle to cleanse and energize the space. Allow for my body to be used as a medium for those who wish to speak to the living, but dare not cast my soul aside as Death lingers near. I thank you for your protection and guidance, Spirit, Earth, Water, Fire, and Air. Let it be until the circle is closed.”

She managed to get around the circle perfectly without faltering. It proved to be the task moving around the men and meeting each candle, but she was able to sense their placement from numerous times of practice. She could hear their breathing quicken and hearts race, fascinated and distraught over the pagan ritual. Unsurprising in the face of Christians, but it needed to be done. The black candle was set down to her right and she sat again in place, eyes still closed. A question through chattering teeth. “My farm is failing, my father left it to me. The tax collectors threaten to take the land from me and leave me and my family to the cold bitter winter. Could he tell me what I need to do so that my family doesn’t starve?”

Maeve opened her eyes and the men recoiled back. Her eye color had shifted from the dark green orbs to a frosty, pale blue. The contrast was so extreme it caught the men off guard and it was all Maeve could do to not smirk. “Your father is here. He cannot speak through my tongue, boy. Take the dagger there and cut your palm. Let the blood fall over the shillings and he may tell you more.” The man did as he was told with reluctance, but desperation clung to him as a disease. With the sharp end of the shining blade he dug into the skin of his palm and rusty scent mixed with the humidity of the closed space. The blood dripped over the table and then slowly ran over the shillings with a calm drip. Taking in a dry gasp of air Maeve shifted her voice into a deeper, darker tone with rasp added on the ends for good measure. ”Sell the land to the highest bidder. Carry your family and what necessities you deem worthy. Your father does not wish for you to suffer as he did as a child when the farm saw poor harvests then. Go to the city, your passion for mechanics will see your family through till death.” The man stared at her in stunned silence as the younger seemed to lose his breath in the tight space. He was frightened beyond words. What she could see and they could not was the grease and oil on his ancient denim pants, the scent of gas looming on his shirt, and a common cycle of harvest and drought patterns Maeve was familiar with through her centuries. Shegleamed at them with a knowing smile as they recoiled from the unnatural, chilling beauty. ”Would you like to refer to the cards for further information? Opening the gates further through the depths of Dis Pater’s reign will gain you more knowledge on the subject. The dead are happily to oblige for a payment of blood sacrifice.” They could only rush to shake their heads.

Proceeding to close the circle, she went opposite of the original incantation, thanking the elements for their protection and presence in the circle. The only difference was in putting out the candles, she cut her own palm and put the flames out that way, her eyes cold and icy in blue staring straight ahead without focusing on the candles. As she met the end of the track and sat down once more, she closed her eyes and opened them to their natural dark emeral green. Before she could even ask how the reading went they stood, thanked her for her time, and hastily walked out of the tent. Crossing her legs, Maeve shook her head as the curtain closed again. “Damn, there goes my only clients.” It was true. Before long she was snuffing out the candles of her tent before making her way to Asa to assist him with his costume and makeup efforts.

Reaching the changing tent she stopped for a breath, gathering herself to handle being around him. The torque was a constant reminder for Maeve for the woman they both lost. She could feel her grief in the pit of her stomach every time she was in close proximity to Asa, but not once did she reach out for someone else that felt as she felt. It wasn’t fair to either of them, it wasn’t fair to the spirit of the dead. Mourning in silence was far easier than anything else, and she would be able to let go in her own time. She hadn’t taken death so hard in several centuries, even the loss of all of those she fought with had been less of a blow. But she had nothing to hold on to, nothing to remind her. Now there was a braided beacon on the doctor’s neck every time they met. Bracing herself, Maeve stepped in. For a moment she stood in stunned silence. She hadn’t expected the good doctor to be waiting for her in the room entirely nude. It was the naked form that made the air in her throat be caught, not the years of ruin and turmoil that it had endured showing on the surface. Maeve’s eyes locked with his, her head tilted innocently to the side, but her gaze was nothing but quizzical. It was when he began motioning to himself and acting theatrically that the spell was broken. He asked a question, but it didn’t seem to require an answer. Instead she watched how he moved, the scarred flesh subtly revealing the scarred tissue beneath. There was much that the vampire transformation could do, but healing scars of the past was not one of them. As appeared the case for the doctor who continued to insist on rambling.

A lot of it was nonsense to her. She had witnessed enough death in her lifetime to know no body would be prepared for their end, save those who knew their time had come in the final moments. Her mother was the first of many she’d see, and soon it would be her father, and Abigail to follow. After a few centuries of avoiding her kind, she returned to it all and began comforting the dying in the last moments, if they had them to spare and suffer. A gift left to her, she nurtured and carried them as if into a peaceful sleep. There was no telling how she could manage it, she doubt her tone or voice had anything to do with it, but there was something about the dying not feeling alone that calmed them. Maeve had a knack for it, knowing that death should be respected and not feared, giving the dying a final goodbye. The Daughter of Morrigan was the name they gave her for this. She didn’t much care for the title, Morrigan was a level of power she could never achieve and suited the Jackal far more. If they wished for a goddess of death and war, she was that incarnation. Maeve simply fought for the war and protected the dying. Then there were those she killed and the surprise and shock in their eyes before the light went out. Vampires and mortals alike never saw it coming, and each time she thanked her lucky stars and Morrigan herself for letting her live. Maeve knew when her time came to die on the field she too, would likely be filled with terror and bewilderment. However, she was one of the few whom would greet Death as friend and welcome his cold embrace.

Asa ensured she would understand. She was surprised he did not in spite of his occupation.

He motioned for the beaker and she went for it. She was fortunate that he managed to find other collections that she could use for his theatrical make-up. Some of it was likely to have been stolen, either by other performers or mortals. Without resistance to using the stolen products she began moving about him. His body was much larger a canvas than any face that would benefit from covering its imperfections, but Maeve was able to work as she needed to. She covered the scars as best as she could with pale powders that were close to his virtually non-existent skin tone. Ivory white covered dark patches as she covered them as best as she could. It wasn’t perfect, but the lighting of where they were headed would help well enough in the end.

Her favorite part was working with the eyes, and she had to bring herself up on the pedestal to match his assisted height to work. He was still talking to her, until he came to a question.

With her free hand, Maeve covered her lips with her index finger. “I’ll tell you, but I need you to keep your mouth shut lest you want my hand to slip and stab you in the eye. Khol is expensive and easy to waste, so be still. And for the Goddess’ sake, shut up!” He finally kept quiet for a minute as she began to line his eyes. She didn’t speak either while she did this part seeing as she had to be close to him to ensure it was close to the lash line. It wasn’t until she was beginning to line his lower lids she answered. “Most girls learn from their mothers how to do such things. Some learn because of their occupations on the streets. A very good and gentle friend of mine taught me how to be a woman of our day. Essentially how to dress, how to act and behave, and the wonders of make-up. The funny part to all of this is that we worked together in her family’s blacksmith shop in men’s trousers and shirts making swords. She taught me the same way I’m showing you: she did it the first few times and left the rest to me. You’ll learn quickly with those hands meant for surgery amongst other things.” Stepping away he was still silent and it allowed for her to get the beaker and start to apply the blood. Some ran into his eye and she rushed to stop the flow. A frown threatened the corners of her mouth as she worked to prevent any more ruin of the work she had already completed. A hint of surprise worked inside of her, the vampire’s restraint impressed her a great deal. She could smell his age on him, and one so young usually failed to handle the thirst within at such an age. It was often a wonderful way to attract them to be prey to ambushes back in Londontown’s war.

Still applying, the silence that once seemed a blessing, came to a halt. His question and observations piqued her interest at once, but at first they were not well received, at all. She resisted pushing Asa off the platform and against the wall. Perhaps even tearing his throat out. Shivering at her own dark desires, she managed to regain some sense of control over the emotions the questions sparked. His history was little more than a puzzle for her, and his questions probably stemmed from a lack of such knowledge that they requested. He mentioned it several times already, he was a scientist and as such wanted answers for the mysteries he had encountered.

“A recommendation, Morgana or The Morrigan is a triple goddess of great power and reverence amongst the Celts. Don’t insult her by labeling me as such; it would be terrible luck for us both if we did. As for the goddess Addison, she is better suited to a title of a goddess, isn’t she?” Taking a careful touch of blood on her middle finger she began wiping along the doctors lips, hoping in part that he would resist any urge of bloodlust or talking. It didn’t take long for Maeve to pinpoint the center of her devotion. “I’m a creature of loyalty, by chance of birth and of individual nature. As such, my past is haunted with the skeletons that have collected from such loyalties, where both that of blood and lust were centered in my youth. She’s cold and dark, but she cares for the beasts that fight the war in her name, in her own way. The Midnight Jackal is loyal to the beasts that serve her in that she will never be weak to any others to ensure our race lives on, even if she alone stands on top of the pile of our decaying bodies. To fight and kill in the name of such an aim as the most basic, the survival of our species, I’ve believed in that since I became a slayer and soldier to the cause.”

Standing before the naked vampire, centuries of her deeds in the name of the queen were carried in her eyes. There was no regret, no second thoughts, only the years of death she had caused and comforted. The peace between the races was only the eye of the storm, and the worst of it was still to come. With Kestral back, it was only bound to be far worse than anyone could have imagined.


“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for her. I’m okay with this, and I’m okay with doing it again. I keep the peace, it’s what she wants. Other’s do the same because they fear her. I do it because through her I’ve been granted a life worth living, without fear and without having to hide what I am. I’m grateful for that. On a purely instinctual level, I suppose Mercia as the Alpha does have a part in it. We’re all tied to her in some way, that is undeniable. However, as far as telepathy... let’s just say it’s hard to drive a werebeast mad because we’re well adapted to keeping our minds closed to outsiders.”

[Berylis]

After the meeting with the doctor, Maeve returned to the cave in which Danforth had set up his operations. She could not help but roll her eyes at the man’s childish sense of humor as she saw a sign proclaiming “This way to the Grand Egress!” As if the visitors to the carnival would believe that the “grand egress” was an exhibit, instead of the exit. No one will be stupid enough to fall for it. Yet moments later a portly man with his wife stopped Maeve to ask her what they would see at the “Grand Egress.” Offering the couple a sunny smile, Maeve looked at the naive faces and declared, “It must be seen to be understood, sir!” motioning towards the exit.

As soon as the family left her sight, the fake smile faded, leaving a sensation of mild disgust. Did he really think that there was anything special or worthwhile in fooling the humans over something so stupid? It was so... like a vampire to waste energy on such infantile trickery. In response, Mercia’s image came up, unbidden, in her mind. The Jackal’s grasp was palpable in her chest. She was the spirit of honesty! Real! Undeniable. And Asa, for all of his pedantic uttering, had no chance of understanding someone so sublime because of his very nature. She existed, and it was enough! Asa and the other leeches were utterly blind.

With a coy smile at this ineffable truth, Maeve checked her appearance in the looking glass in the back chamber of the cave. Surveying the perfect, doll-like face that glanced back at her, she saw that the creams she had used evened out her complexion and paled her skin just so. And her hair was bound in loose ringlets, with a hair band keeping he locks from covering her face. Her green eyes seemed doubly luminous in the darkness of the cave, the gaslight flickering in her irises, like a magic spell. Channel Persephone, the mistress of the spring, Asa had advised, but in the end Maeve had made her own style decisions, and was glad for it. She suspected that when Asa saw her, he would be, too.

Satisfied that everything was in order, she considered her role. A psychopompus for the guests, leading them through the underworld until the final confrontation with Asa, who intended to impersonate a god. He’d made no secrets about his act, and yet she was surprised that Ataraxia had allowed it. To Mercia, of course, Asa’s show was beneath concern, for there was no comparison. So too must have been Ataraxia’s attitude, Maeve reasoned, if the vampire was capable of any personable thoughts of all. Whatever motivated that woman, the chip she wore on her shoulder was palpable, her speech frozen. It was unnatural. Alien, to have such an emotionless life. Her brother seemed the opposite extreme, his bon-vivant style almost unendurable. The way he looked at Mercia--- Enough.

Shoving the thoughts of the leeches out of her mind, she walked to the front of the cave, glancing at the various contraptions that would be used to scare the guests. Everything seemed to be in order, and already a line was forming at the entrance.

She eyed a sign that proclaimed the guests would “Conquer Death!” with the subtext, “A Transformative Experience Like No Other!” promising the guests the world. The underworld. Would Asa be able to pull it off? Too much fear, and the supernaturals risked exposure. Not enough, and the show would be a joke. Somehow, she doubted that Asa would go easy on the humans. Not after his most recent experiments, which she had the misfortune of walking in on.

Whatever came of this night, good or bad, Maeve was determined to do her part to serve her Goddess as best she knew how. The show must be a success. I will make it happen!

“Welcome, welcome, to the Greatest Show under the Earth!” Maeve proclaimed boldly. “Take the journey of Orpheus into the bowels of the Underworld. Conquer your fears! Only the bravest of men and women may come, for this tour will be like none other – follow me, if you dare!”

“This better be more interesting than the Grand Egress,” a boy whined, and as Maeve glanced at him she realized that he was with the family she had encountered earlier. With a grin, Maeve promised him the world – and intended to deliver it.

***

“You are now in natural darkness,” Maeve said to the crowd, as she suddenly extinguished her gaslight. Scratching sounds came from around their feet and one woman screamed. Turning the light back on, Maeve saw that the culprit of the fright was a rat, who ran away from the group's attentions. Bones lined the corners of the caves, and the path ahead was dark with water dripping from the stalactites. When Maeve and her human party drew close, however, they saw that the ground was not damp from water, but blood. Maeve frowned inwardly. How could Asa be so wasteful?

“Is that—that—“ the boy asked, who had questioned Maeve earlier. She smiled beautifully but did not answer—he did not need to know from where the blood came.

More rats scampered as the group delved deeper into the cave. Around them the air stirred faintly. “This is the breath of the Underworld,” Maeve said, and motioned for the followers to crouch down beside the smallest passages in the cave. The air could be felt issuing forth from the holes.

“Play this up to the guests,” Asa had told her. “But know that this is really just a chance in air pressure between the cave and the outside air. The air moves faster through the smaller passages because larger passages lie behind them. The winds will blow either way depending on the air pressure system in the cave.”

Asa’s explanation had seemed pointless – as if describing a phenomenon was the same as experiencing it!

“We are getting closer now,” Maeve said. “The breath will guide us to the end.”

Within the next few minutes, although precisely when Maeve did not know, a rush fo wind would come down from a contraption installed in the ceiling. Her light would be extinguished by the sudden gust and she was not to turn it on again until the executions were completed. She imagined she could hear the condemned werebeasts and vampires, those few that remained, restless in the chamber that they hid in.

Asa Danforth.... whatever you do, you had better make sure those animals don’t get near the guests. Asa had delivered reassurances again and again that such a disaster would not occur, but Maeve did not believe him. Now would come the moment of truth.

As that thought completed, a gust of wind extinguished her gaslight. She made a noise like she had dropped the gaslight on the floor. “I’m so sorry! Just a minute,” Maeve explained to the guests. Then came Asa’s voice echoing throughout the caverns, perversely powerful: “Damnatio ad bestias!” Condemned to the beasts.

With a roar the beasts and vampires were at each other’s throats: from the strange acoustics in the cave, it was not possible to tell from where the fighting was coming. Instead it seemed to be omnipresent, and even to Maeve, so used to violent struggle, the experience was unnerving.

“Christ!” exclaimed the women. The men huddled over them. The boy was the only one who had risen up, recovered from his earlier fear: “Show yourselves!” he cried out in vain, his childish voice a bizarre soprano lifting above the cacophony.

And then the sounds ceased. Maeve reached for her gaslight and illuminated the silent cave, appearing like a glowing savior to the speechless guests. They looked at her, stunned, awaiting any explanation, but Maeve continued on as if nothing had happened, apologizing for taking so long to turn on the light. And everything was quiet, normal – there were no signs of confect or struggle. If they crawled through the hidden passage to their left, they’d see a different story. But none did, following their ghostly guide like a shepherdess.

The next fifteen minutes proceeded just as quietly. Maeve did not know what would happen next, or when Asa had insisted on keeping it a secret so that her reaction was genuine. There had been no arguing on this point: the vampire had simply said “Alternatively, I could lie to you about the final act. If I recant now and tell you what will happen, you will not know if I am being truthful. I am doing it this way because it is necessary. You will have to trust me.” The albino had offered an apologetic smile.

Alien.

So she too had braced herself for the terrible future, whatever it would bring.

And there he was.

Asa sat naked on a throne made of broken stalactites and stalagmites, his face covered in blood. Behind him a fire raged, whose heat warmed her face. His expression was extraordinary. Maeve had seen him mad. This—this was something else entirely. Asa’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his sockets, his arms casting powerful shadows that seemed to consume them all. He had become the flame. He would devour them all!
Kill him! Kill him now, before he destroys the world!

“Step forward, psychopompus,” Asa thundered, and without hesitation she rushed forward, her dagger drawn. With a roar she plunged it into his breast, feeling the muscles writhe in his chest.

And at that instant the fires extinguished. Blood rained over everyone. Animal blood, Maeve noted absently, unwilling to think about the fact that she had just dispatched the doctor. What madness had forced her hand? She touched her face, baptized with blood. Rage mingled with grief. The vampire had been a friend, and as close to Careus as she would ever get. Now he too was gone. What were you thinking, Danforth?

Something sizzled. Animal meat. A dim light came from the darkness, illuminating the empty throne that Asa had sat in. She saw the doctor rise to his feet, uninjured.

“Morte Ascendo!” Asa pronounced. “I rise from death!” Her eyes went to Asa’s pristine chest, and Maeve realized that she’d been conned. The writhing flesh had belonged to an animal. This was his game all along.

Fury tightened her grasp on her dagger: loyalty to Mercia, and her mission, prevented that dagger from acting. Asa nodded in approval, for he did not want the sanctity of the moment interrupted. And so Maeve assisted Asa in butchering and serving the small calf to the guests, all of whom looked on in wonder.

“Taste life,” Asa said, pretending to eat. Ravenous from their experiences, the humans dug into the food with gusto... and moments later passed out in slumber.

“Great job! Bravo!” Asa exclaimed to Maeve, clapping her on the back. This cavalier attitude earned Asa a glare, which seemed to do nothing to deflate his enthusiasm. “You play a dangerous game,,” she hissed, and the vampire finally apologized, saying that he hoped she understood why the deception had been necessary. Together the pair carried the bodies to the entrance of the cave and waited for the humans to awaken.

When the humans awoke, Asa explained to them that the entire experience had been an unconscious dream. “It is the new art of Mesmerism,” his soft voice spoke, utterly convincing – utterly lying.

“For a few coins, I can explain the meaning of your personal experience,” Maeve said gently. “I will tell your fortunes, help you understand your magnificent visions.” The guests readily complied, eager for her to tell them about that most unknowable of subjects, the self. Asa had suggested that it would be much simpler to steal the cash and let the guests awaken on their own, but seeing these enthralled, believing faces, Maeve knew that she had judged correctly. For she knew the sublime.

[Phoelidae]

As seemed to be happening all too often lately, Ataraxia was unsure of what she ought to think and feel as the carnival opened and drew its very first crowd. She sat in silence and watched the people trickle past, the air between them charged with nervous anticipation, yet they were oblivious to their true danger. The sad fools. Many brought their children, whole shrieking broods of them, and she wondered if it would be considered better parenting to take your children to a place called the Carnival of Death, or to never take them to any carnival at all. The Paradins had had no time or interest in doing such things with their children. In fact, they’d had no interest in doing much of anything with their children beyond the occasional lesson in being better party attractions.

She had gone though, just once. She couldn’t have been more than seven, for it would be only a few more months until their parents drowned at sea. Ataraxia had braided her long red hair and tucked it under a cap, and then squirmed into the clothes she’d stolen from her brother (though they were too short for her at the time) and then taken her hoarded pennies and slipped out the window to go see the circus that promised to be so full of the magic and wonder she craved. Aside from their height, she and Kestrel had looked almost identical at that age, so she had no trouble passing for an urchin boy who’d probably made his coins sweeping chimneys, and no one questioned her. It was the first, and possibly the last, time she’d ever felt so free. And of course it would be short lived. The show had hardly even begun when someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she found that her twin had followed her. He teased and he mocked, so surprised that goody-goody Raxi had snuck out, and he’d told her how all of the tricks worked, though where he’d learned such secrets she could not say. He ruined it, like he ruined everything, and she went running home crying before the show was even half over.

Funny how things turned full circle like that. She watched her brother perform his magic tricks, and now she was the one who knew all of the secrets, how everything that was meant to be amazing was really just lies and deceit. Nihilo had taught her that lies and ignorance were for the weak, and maybe that was true, but it was hard to deny that the weak were happier. Even when they were frightened, the crowd reveled in their fear, in the tightness of adrenaline-soaked muscles and racing hearts and the thrill of still being alive. What would Nihilo have to say if he could see her now, taking part in this charade and wishing that she was weak?

She was almost too preoccupied with her own thoughts to care much what came of the circus and the many acts within it – if anything, she did not want to pay attention. This was folly for a people at war, making the enemy relatable and personal instead of a faceless killer. How Mercia was ever persuaded to go along with this charade she could not even imagine. The Jackal herself had taken center-stage, as befitted the god among them, but her beautiful figure was as stiff and unyielding as always. As the other acts played out she stood nearby, still as a carved avenging angel beside her bestial general. And Ataraxia found herself wondering if Mercia truly was as empty as she seemed. The first time she had ever seen the Midnight Jackal in person, beside the docks of the Thames beneath a thin drizzle, those ruby eyes had been empty. Dead. There had been no soul in those eyes, only the hollowed out vessel of a perfectly broken killing machine. Long, long ago, Nihilo had told her that almost no one knew it, but Mercia Addison killed to avenge the gruesome murder of her entire family. By some cruel chance she had been the only survivor, and something in her broke, and a young woman who had been a loved and loving lass in the Irish countryside became a mass-murderer and infamous warlord. Her mentor had said that she must already have been warped to even be capable of the things she did, that some trick of fate had destined her for death and blood and war by one path or another. At the time, knowing only how little she had mourned her own parents, Ataraxia had taken that as a perfectly reasonable explanation. Now though … now she could not help but wonder. She looked at the monsters of this war, so ready to throw away centuries of animosity and bloodshed in favor of lost talents from their more innocent youth. She looked at herself, so far away from the dreams she’d once had, unrecognizable as the girl she’d been – were they all capable of the monstrosities they’d committed only because they had been sick from birth, or had it been their histories that warped them? And if it was the latter, then wasn’t Mercia just the same as the rest? Was the woman she might have been still in there somewhere?

She was jarred from her thoughts by the sudden ripple of unease that cut through the back of the stage, a sure sign that something was amiss. Violet eyes turned toward the center of the performance, where the uppity red-haired woman who had spoken to her so boldly on the beach was dueling her pallid brother, the man that she had joined them to protect. Ataraxia had made it her business to know about the woman, as it was always wise to know one's enemies even better than one's friends - not that she had any of those to worry about. Amelia Archibeque had found her way here from France in pursuit of a long lost brother, and joined their cause for him and him alone. Like all foolish women she had quickly fallen into Kestrel's company, where she had no doubt been sycophantic and desperate ... and thus antagonized the red queen in the hope of earning her cruel master's approval. But all of this it would have seemed was for the sake of Jack Fletcher ... and yet it was obvious that now she was turning her blade on him with very real intent. It was a new and startling show of aggression, and yet even as the platinum blond fell back under his sister's vicious onslaught, even though she suspected that Jack would choose the queen over her brother and she should be concerned that he was losing, even still she had a surreal sensation almost of relief to see the siblings turn on one another. And to his credit, Jack fought back against his sister, not just defensively but offensively. And in some sick and twisted way, that struck Ataraxia as RIGHT. Surely hatred and violence was the natural order of things among siblings, and she had been unsettled by the apparent harmony between the two vampires - so the sudden decay of their relationship was a comforting return to order as she understood it.

The pace of the flashing blades increased, the blows coming faster and stronger, some glancing away but others making vicious contact. The audience, prepared now to be shocked, watched in transfixed delight, appreciating the beautiful dance of a true fight, which no mock duel could ever emulate. But slowly those who were not in the audience were realizing more and more that this was no act, and the options for how it would end were dwindling fast. Across the ring, Kestrel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rolled his shoulders back, an unconscious nervous habit that even centuries could not break.

The silver blade slipped into Jack's chest and emerged from the other side coated in liquid ruby. The vampire faltered and staggered back, a shocked gasp on his lips, pale eyes huge in his gaunt face. The crowd gasped, and Ataraxia's lips twisted into the shadow of a snarl as she realized that the wound was lethal ... or would be, for a mortal performer. They could not very well reveal themselves on their very first night and make this whole charade pointless.

Across the ring, her eyes met Kestrel's, and for a split second a thought passed between them and they worked in harmony. The lights went out, flooding the stage in concealing darkness as Kestrel stepped forward to distract the audience and the Red Death leapt into action to conceal what had happened behind trickery and illusion. The culprit was already gone, Jack had staggered off stage somewhere, but what was done was done, and now she was more concerned with cleaning up the mess than worrying how it had come about.

A few minutes later, the darkness was pierced by a vivid spotlight cast up, up into the rafters, highlighting a shadowy figure crouched alone in the blackness. For a moment the figure was perfectly still, so much so that it appeared to be a statue, an eerie, spidery gargoyle, but then its head turned, just a little, and with bone-chilling grace the figue unfolded upward, long arms extending out on either side as Ataraxia rose, the thread at the end of each finger glittering frigidly in the spotlight. Too much misery and too much destiny had stripped Ataraxia of whatever beauty she might once have possessed. Her features were too hard, her expressions too cold, her long body too bony and jagged. But when she moved … that was a thing of beauty. "Ladies and gentlemen," Kestrel hissed in an uncharacteristically soft voice from the impenetrable darkness below, "I give you Ataraxia, the queen of puppets!"

The spotlights flashed downward, following the glittering lines of her wires, until they reached the heart of the stage, where a pair of life size mannequins were suspended just a breath above the hard-packed dirt floor. One wore a silvery blond wig, the other a mop of red, and they were dressed in the original costumes the obsessive tailor had created and then discarded. The mannequin impersonating Jack had red paint splashed all over its chest. It was far from a perfect ploy, but one never could underestimate the power of what people WANTED to see and WANTED to believe. It is easy to trick someone who wants to be fooled into security.

The Jack puppet dropped to his knees as though he really had lost his balance, and the arms raised to touch the blood on his chest, even as the red haried puppet stepped closer and raised her sword. Her arm came down in a sweeping arc and off came the head of her opponent in a spray of more red paint, and the audience cried out in shock and awe as the mannequin's head landed before them with a distinctly wooden thump. High above, Ataraxia flicked her wrists and both mannequins were released to drop, limp and wooden and suddenly inanimate.

Then, in an eerie mimicry of the spidery woman high above, the headless puppet rose again with impossible, liquid grace. As Ataraxia stood, so too did the headless mannequin. She walked, arms outstretched, across her narrow beam, and far below, the puppet did the same, the steps not stiff but fluid and natural. The puppet queen raised her arm high overhead and so too did the puppet, and then brought it down again in a sweeping flourish as she bowed along with the mannequin, who showed the audience his blank wooden shoulders. Then the mannequin straightened, flung out its arms, and fell backward and hit the ground, bouncing and limp – but this time the master did not join her puppet. Instead she straightened to her full height high above and spread her arms like wings, and in a moment of breathless suspension she let herself fall backward into empty blackness. Her wires caught her so that for the stretch of several long heartbeats she hovered in midair like a spider, before she flipped forward, still suspended, and then let herself float to the ground. The crowd held their breath, and no one spoke following the haunting performance of the Mistress of Puppets.

For the span of several surreal heartbeats, she stood staring into complete blackness, blinded by the spotlights so that she stood almost toe to toe with the audience and yet saw nothing, only knew of their presence by the uncertain muttering sounds of mortality. It was eerily reminiscent of the first time that she had watched the wind whipping a flag wildly around, alerting her to the presence of wind, and yet felt nothing. For an instant, she felt fear, a bizarre, twisting, insidious fear that made the stolen blood drain from her face.

Then the moment passed, and the fear was gone. The crowd decided to applaud uneasily, still spooked by an eerie woman who could puppet people, but she did not care. Her part in this farce was finished, the audience's suspicions laid to rest, and she walked quietly from the center of the stage to make way for the next performance.



♛ ℓσσк ιитσ мץ єץєs, ιтs ωнєяє мץ ∂ємσиs нι∂є ♛ ∂σит ɢєт тσσ cℓσsє, ιтs ∂αяк ιиsι∂є ♛ ιтs ωнєяє мץ ∂ємσиs нι∂є ♛
ιтs ωнєяє мץ ∂ємσиs нι∂є ♛ тнєץ sαץ ιтs ωнαт ץσυ мαкє, ι sαץ ιтs υρ тσ ғαтє ♛ ιтs ωσvєи ιи мץ sσυℓ, ι иєє∂ тσ ℓєт ץσυ ɢσ ♛

[Hamletmaschine]

XXXXFor all his blundering in the dark, Jack could only be jostled too and fro by the onslaught of bodies that passed by, that stopped him and disregarded him, yet he seemed to know exactly where he was headed—to Bernardo. The next act had already begun behind him and he dared not to look back. His sister was gone… he could not feel her presence anymore among the crowds of people around his mind. He preferred it to stay that way, for now.
The act had been incredible. Monumental in it’s own right. Amelia had been stunning and graceful, while Jack chased her every move to dance within her shadow. He desired her confidence and cunning, but not that fowl taste of revenge in upon his palette. He prophesized they would receive a stiff warning from someone of authority later after the show about what took place… Jack found it hard to forgive her, but also hard to hate her, now that the moment was over. Though the trick had been cheap, it did enhance the realism and gave Jack an insight into his potential. He had come a long way in a very short amount of time. For that, he could thank her. For the threat upon his life, however… Not so quickly could he forgive that.

Jack stumbled back as his body rammed into the force of another head-on. The pain that continued to ravage his torso had the man slouched over and pressing hard upon the wound to retain the blood in his body. Stiff hands found Jack’s shoulders before he could clear the darkness around his vision to see who it was that grasped him. But before his eyes would recognize the face, his nose caught the scent of jasmine and sandalwood. His body leaned in to it for he knew Bernardo held him under those firm fingertips. He was led away swiftly, faster than his legs desired to carry him in the deafening darkness, but he trusted Bernardo, and longed to rest.
It was a dream come true when the world of jeers and music drifted away to a softness that Jack could appreciate again, and the lights of the new area allowed his foggy mind to clear just a little. Placed delicately down onto a crate, Jack winced as he leaned back onto his elbow and looked down to the blood smothering his hand and abdomen. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, taking deep breaths to ease the body into a state of calm, where he could focus again. His head was heavy, ears were swimming in an ocean. When Jack dared to open his eyes he swear he’d vomit, but he knew it was going to pass quickly. He just needed to remain this way for another few minutes until the outer layers of skin repaired. Once the bleeding stopped he would be able to regain himself again. If he had blood available, it’d be a faster process, but he was not in the mood to be asking such favors of his partner. The man was in enough sorts as it were.

He paced for long minutes, in which Jack had moved himself enough to lay back, his shoulders propping him up against another crate behind him. He had watched Bernardo pass by him one way, then turn and repeat, over and over. His body was tense, shaking, his eyes wide and flurried, and Jack could only imagine the thoughts running through his brain, “Bernardo.” He had whispered, but the man continued on this way for several more minutes. Finally, after some time, he muttered out, "She- she had no right... reckless brat. I could try to sew that up... I could try..."
Jack smirked, not shaking his head for fear of the dizziness that would accompany it, “Bernardo, I will be fine.” He uttered slowly, trying his best to sound confident through the pain that laced his own faltering voice. He breathed slowly, looking down again to assess the timeline of healing, “I’m fine.” He repeated and looked up, sympathetically, “Please come here.” He asked of his friend.

When the man finally came closer, ceasing his pacing, Jack outstretched his hand and took the Tailor’s within his, “It will be a few more minutes, but I will be fine.” He spoke softly and rested his forehead against the man’s hand, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to witness such a monstrosity. I do not know what would become of myself if I should have ever bare witness to any form of death thrust upon you. I just couldn’t…”
Jack’s lips came up to caress the back of Bernardo’s hand, then the palm, and he cradled it against his cheek, “She meant me no harm.” He stopped and glanced at the man before smirking, “Okay, she did, but… I agree, it was not in the best interest of anyone. I thought that was the end for me. She knew better… But I’m fine. I’m safe, love.” He assured him, tugging him in to place a kiss upon his lips softly. Jack freed his hand and let it find it’s way into Bernardo’s hair, running long fingers through the fields of raven and cupping the base of his neck softly. His tired grey eyes looked up into his friend’s and he sighed, “She will not do this sort of thing again. She does not like repeating herself. You have nothing more to fear.”

Taking his hand, he found Bernardo’s once more and placed it gently on his stomach, the skin healed perfectly, but smothered in his blood, “It will heal over the night.” His voice softened more, taking in the crisp night’s air, “Do not make me worry about you.” Jack asked gently, “I appreciate the stress and emotion you’ve displayed, over the possibility of losing me. It warms me to know that I am so dear to you… if I knew not of it already; by heaven I know it now. You look like you’re going to faint.” Jack’s expression changed from sympathy to worry and he pulled the man in closer to wrap his arms around his shoulders, “I admit that I was terrified that I would not hold you in these arms again.” He mumbled as he rested his head on Bernardo’s shoulder, sighing into his neck.

He would be incredibly lost without Bernardo. He was the only being that truly understood him, cared for him, and that Jack undeniably loved more than he cared to admit. Especially after all his history with Adelaide. Somehow Jack had known from the start that he was going to fall for this man. He had very well tried for it. At first, it was perhaps out of desperation, to forget and move on, but to also be understood. How it changed… Jack didn’t even have to try. He felt his heart move out of sorrow with Bernardo’s presence merely near, and the lengths at which they wanted each other always around, to never leave, Jack understood all too quickly that he had fallen so incredibly in love with him over these months together. He hated himself for it, because he was a threat to the Tailor’s perfection, but the man followed at his side boldly, to prove himself worthy, and Jack just couldn’t say no. Even two months at sea and he couldn’t say no. It had been the hardest two months of his life, next to the two weeks of Adelaide’s passing. But her swift and poisonous curse did not sting the way that it had being so close to the one he wanted the most, but being unable to surrender to the desire to ask forgiveness. Jack longed for more than their friendship for so long, and now that he could deem Bernardo his lover, he had to admit to himself the truth.
He was utterly in desperate love with him. It tasted strange upon his tongue, like a fruit not quite ripe. But he did not know why. Was it so hard to admit how it felt? Perhaps it was because Bernardo never truly released his feelings all the time, as Jack did. Maybe it was due to Adelaide still within his heart and haunting his mind. He begged every day to forget her, and did all his work to forgive her and himself, but God only knew how hard it was to let those memories go. With Bernardo, however, it was becoming easier. He felt needed, wanted, safe. The Tailor carried his heart delicately, but with a firmness that Jack knew he would never be betrayed or let go.
So why was it so difficult to accept that he loved him? Perhaps he just feared rejection… Adelaide’s ruined him… To be mistaken in the game thus far would surely end him this time.

Together they rested in soft conversation until the end of the show, which was clear by the uproar of applause after the finale. By that time, the pair had regained enough composure and regenerated cells, to stand and walk side by side back to Bernardo’s caravan, where the Tailor prepared to make his rounds to collect costumes, and Jack waited so they may walk together back to his tent wherein he stripped himself of his tattered and bloody clothes. His lover left him then, quietly brooding, but gentle, And Jack washed the blood away from his skin and any remaining wounds.
He prepared himself for his own post-show duties. Which included cleaning up the fire pit and restocking the kindling and ignition processing, as well as (though this would hopefully be the last time) setting up a new tightrope, with the help of the crew. Though first, he was going to need to find a new rope long enough...
Jack dressed in his simple garb, a long sleeved woollen pullover in a muddy olive, and a pair of black trousers that puffed up slightly at the top of his boots. It was comfortable, easy clothing that he preferred. Though he'd loved to dress as an equal to Bernardo when the opportunity arose... which it had yet to, he did have to admit to loving his casual comforting, and simple, style.
Jack headed towards the main tent, eager to get his work finished so he could find Amelia. Her presence was distant... to the point of either closed, or she was no longer here...



XXXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

[caffeinektn]

Cassandra was distracted as a man took the stage and spoke to the audience, soothing the shocked mutterings of a crowd that had grown uneasy at the display of so much blood, so much violence. It had been all too real for them. She could tell it had in actuality been real, but her face remained impassive until the dark haired vampire appeared. She must have missed his earlier appearances due to her late arrival. That was someone with power. Someone she had possibly come to meet. On that, she had not yet made up her mind.

“Pardon my English, but should you not be murdering some nice family, stealing their mortality and creating havoc, unprovoked?”

A wicked smile spread slowly, those unnatural golden eyes lighting eerily. She actually liked his response. It was refreshing to get a quip in return instead of some muttered insult that barely made any sense. But then, Cassandra was perhaps used to a rougher crowd, so to speak. Perhaps the term ‘dimwitted’ better suited her old acquaintances. ”Why, it’s like you know me! Murdering a family and creating havoc has already made my night, but thank you so kindly for asking.” For a moment, she said nothing more and instead continued to watch the show. His small movement to allow her a better view did not go unnoticed and in response she inclined her head towards to acknowledge the gesture. But though her mood remained high her interest began to wane. She turned fully to face the were, her chin tilted upwards and what some would deem a very haughty look in on her face. The redhead was no stunning beauty, but her eyes did demand attention. ”Cassandra Davenport,” she said, offering her name and one unbloodied hand to him as a more civil greeting. Not often did she speak to were-beasts, let alone offer up her name. But she rather liked the impression he had made and since that was a difficult feat, she figured she might just keep an eye on him. ”You seem different than others of your kind I have met. I like that.”

To be fair, Cassandra had not met very many weres altogether, but those she had were brutish with nasty tempers allowed to run unchecked. They attempted to kill her as soon as they saw her, each and every one. It left her with a distinct distaste for were-beasts as a whole. So to run into one – two, technically, as the tailor was one as well – that did not immediately try to rip her head off with its bare hands was refreshing. Something interesting was going on here, but she was not entirely sure what that was yet. Between her dissipating interest in the show and the urge to discover more about the creatures running the carnival, Cassandra elected to wander a bit. ”It was a pleasure to meet you,” she murmured, turning once more to the were at her side. ”Perhaps I will see you around again.” Though that would depend on any number of factors that had yet to be decided.

Now that she had excused herself, Cassandra wandered freely throughout the carnival, pausing here and there to study and make note of the different vampires and were-beasts that wandered the place. Her growing suspicion that there was some kind of truce going on seemed to be confirmed. That was… odd. She had not expected that when she had approached the carnival. But she didn’t approach anyone just yet, wanting to first get a good look around. There was also the question of who to approach. She had not yet found someone she felt wanted to approach for more information. Perhaps it was her extremely picky nature, but no one seemed to stand out to her. Not since she had caught sight of the dark haired man who seemed to hold sway over more than just the crowd. So her wanderings continued until she once again found herself watching the show.

”Ladies and gentlemen I give you Ataraxia, the queen of puppets!”

Again her attention was drawn to the stage. Cassandra pushed through the crowd to gain a better look. High up she could see a woman, much like the man from earlier that had brought forth so much interest. Well, it was good to know there was power here and not held by just one person. She could not know what a dangerous mixture she was walking into. But then, even if she did know she probably would not have cared much. A gasp to her left had her glancing sideways to find a young girl staring at the blood on Cassandra’s sleeve. Her eyes were wide in horror. Slowly, Cassandra turned to face the girl and caught her chin with one hand, forcing her to look up into those unsettling golden eyes of hers. The girl’s face drained of color. Cassandra gave her a brief smile, patted her cheek, and vanished into the crowd without a word. She did not like being spotted, but she had also been careless. It was her own fault.

So for a time she made herself scarce and kept out of the view of others while debating what to do. Two vampires of great power and strength were obviously running the show, but she had yet to see the leader of the were-beasts that roamed the carnival freely. While Cassandra sat some ways away from the excitement of the carnival, debating over what she wanted to do, time seemed to slip by unnoticed by her. Eventually she did seem to come around, realizing the place was far quieter than it had been when she had first dragged herself out of the mass of mortal bodies, so delicate and yet so sluggish. She rose to her feet and stepped back into the boundaries of the carnival, peering around curiously. She was close to the main tent and around her lingered very few mortals. It seemed the carnival had come to a close for now and in its wake was left the usual hustle and bustle of post-show duties. Only instead of gypsies, the place was run by preternatural beings. And what was more, vampires and were-beasts seemed to coexist for the most part. She had reached that conclusion fairly quickly, but seeing them wander around together without a second thought was what cemented her suspicions.

And through the darkness came the man who had had an unfortunate run in with a blade from the first part of the show she had witnessed. He looked much different now, dressed down in earth tones. Far more casual than she liked, but it suited him well. As he passed her darkened hiding spot, she stepped out behind him and cocked her head to the side. ”You put on a good show,” she called, once more tucking her hands beneath the shawl she had relieved from her brother’s dead wife. And while up close she could tell he was no leader, not like the two she had spotted earlier, she was far more interested in him than the others. Probably because of the sword play. Cassandra’s fondness for sharp, pointy objects was on par with her love of fine clothing. ”Might I ask, who is in charge here? I happened by and can easily say I’ve never seen anything quite like this before…”

[Phoenix Skyy]

Closing the curtain to the tent, Maeve extended her arms out high above her head and stretched, popping a few joints in her vertebrae and elbows in the process. The relief was rightfully felt. Reading the many fortunes of the group which had witnessed Asa’s little miracles was nothing more than constant repetition of the same routine and similar explanations for what they witnessed, but ever so slightly altered case by case. She was fortunate when some were willing to pay extra for their card readings, eager to know what their future held after such extraordinary events. It was a question of hers after a few of the witnesses of how many he possibly turned away from Christ that night. However, it wasn’t one she voiced to any of her clients. She fixed her deck into the wooden box she had found them in and proceeded to finish organizing her space. It didn’t take much seeing as the space was well organized at the start of the night and very little was altered session to session. When the chore was done moments later, she gathered the small satchel, heavy with her earnings from the masses, and a grin began to stitch across her face as she weighed it in her hands. She and Asa would easily be able to split the rewards they had reaped from his theatrics. It was with this thought that she blew out the candles and exited the tent.

She hummed a tune to herself, one that always haunted her memories of her parents, of their homeland. It was something beautiful and exotic to her ears even thought it was from the homeland. It made her giddy and excited, her heart pounding with unexpected glee in the success of the show, of both of her roles tonight, of the privilege of her place amongst the other beasts, of being alive. She managed her way around the camp to find Asa and once she had found him, she lifted the bag to hand it to him. “Our tributes, Arawan, sacrificed for the service of deciding their fates this night and many more to come. I think at this rate we’ll make a fair living from our business arrangements. The night is young and I also think that a celebration is in order. If you’re up for a drink and fair company, meet me back at the tent in half an hour. You may keep company with our spoils and split them for us both to share. If it’s uneven, you take the higher exchange. I’m feeling mighty generous and this never would’ve been if not for that mad idea of yours!” He seemed a bit surprised and flabbergasted by her bizarrely cheery attitude with him. Eh, what had she expected? She had been rather blunt and dull to him, but if nothing else civil. She dared to say that she felt an inkling of camaraderie with him. His thorough cleaning after the show did not go unnoticed. It was almost startling how pristine he was and she wondered if it was required before or after putting his experiments away. She decided she didn’t want to know.”I expect to see you there with cups, Doctor!”

Before he could even give a finite answer whether he would be there or not, she gave him a smile and covered his lips with her index finger. She shook her head sending the mass of curls whipping behind her. He seemed to understand the gesture. Taking a step back, Maeve prepared herself to take off and shot into the air with a loud caw. The wind over her plumage sent her into a fit of excited caws and it took all she had to calm herself. She hadn’t even had anything to drink just yet. Looming over the campus, her eyes watched over seeking out if any trouble was afoot, but it seemed it was not. Relief washed over her as she wondered how long it had been since the main show had ended. Things were wrapping up and everyone was finishing closing the circus down; exhaustion seemed to have washed away hostility from her position in the sky. She swooped down beside the train near her shared car, shifting back into a bubbly blonde Irish woman. Taking a step, in, she walked with a bounce up to the door when she noticed the parcel sitting outside. Confusion washed over Maeve when she saw it was addressed to her under the title of “Love’s Bounty”. Picking them up, she stepped in and closed the door behind her. Ambrose was no where to be found and Julienne had been a rare sight the past few days. It was becoming a common rumor that the general was off on a private mission directly from her queen. If it were true, Maeve was in luck to be away from the less than appealing roommate. Ambrose wasn’t too bad, but she sighed a bit when realized they were likely to see less of each other besides when there was a chance to sleep. After setting the parcel down, she went back to the door to lock it. Welcoming the solitude, she used the water basin and a clean rag to wash her face and wipe the blood from her hair. A bath would’ve been a better choice, but she had already bathed before preparing for the act that night and didn’t care to waste much more time than necessary. Stripping herself of clothes, Maeve continued to wash her skin with the rag and basin, just enough to get the sweat of the performances off. Once done she dressed herself in her more familiar attire besides the costumes that had been created for the acts. Although it had only been hours since she was last in bustled skirts and a corset, she felt as if she hadn’t quite been herself in ages. Perhaps the night had exhausted her by acting.

Sitting on the cot, she opened the sack and pulled the first item. A stunning face gleamed back at her. Maeve struggled not choke on the scratching, painful mass in her throat as she put the charcoal drawing down. In an instant everything replayed in her mind as fresh as if it had just happened. Meeting Careus on the ship under poor circumstances, boarding with her and finding a companion in her she did not expect, watching her train and grow under Ambrose’s instruction, evening meals together with Blitzen. The cold skin, dead eyes that stared up into the abyss-sky, the emptiness that she felt at seeing the body, and then the silent comfort of someone that moved her out of line of sight of Careus’s dead body. To that moment she still had no clue who moved her and held her, she was thankful for them. She was selfish enough to want it again as the wounds were opened and made fresh again. Maeve turned the picture back up and stared down at the image of Careus and wished that her necromancy was real, just to joking argue with her sister again. The tears came. In rivers, in floods, in tempests, they came and washed over Maeve face. She howled through sobs loud enough to the point where she had to cover her face with her pillow to soften the sound. All of the excitement and happiness that she had felt since the loss of her only sibling, not of blood but of soul, had been drowned out by the emotion that she had locked away in heart that had simply leaked when she would see Asa.

Asa.

It took only the thought of the doctor for her to realize that it was he that had left her the parcel. She wanted to tear him limb from limb as if he did this to mock her. Her temper flared and she was a moment away from going after him and destroying him only for the same fate to be brought on herself for the act of treason against the regencies. But in that moment her eyes lifted from the pillow, red and puffy with the long minutes of shrieking and crying, and shifted back to the burlap sack. With a shaking hand, she reached back into it to find the other gift. It took a moment for her to gather herself to open the leather bound pages and look through them. She didn’t need the doctor beside her to know this was his hand in the pages, she had seen it enough in the previous weeks to know it. The small flicks in the script gave enough away for it only to be from him. But the language, no. That was Careus, simple but dignified. It brought a smile to her face, even through the new front of tears that came overflowing her cheeks. She scanned the pages quickly before shutting it. This was something to be savored and cherished until later. With haste, Maeve lifted herself from the bed, picked both of the gifts and the bag and started to rummage through her chest. The book was left inside beside her own. It would be for her eyes only and locked away with the key close to her heart. However, she pulled two bottles of Irish whiskey that she had bought weeks ago out before locking the trunk. The image would be placed somewhere far more suitable.

Laughing, Maeve decided she would have to wash her face again and emptied the basin before refilling it with less water than before. Once she managed to get herself presentable, she held the bottles in the crook of her arm, the drawing proudly in her hand, close to her person. She knew exactly who else she would invite to the celebration, but first, she had to find Noora. She stumbled through the backlot of the main tent; the constant travel across the ground that had caused grooves where the most movement was did not suit her heels. She managed to track her way through the madness the ground provided and cross the threshold to the inner workings of the main stage. There were still many of the backstage crew cleaning up and preparing to reap the benefit of a night that seemed to go off without a hitch. Maeve could say she hadn’t heard any news of the proceedings of the main show, but from what she could tell no one came up dead thus far. As she stalked through, she finally reached Noora who seemed to be busy with a new addition that... she knew? Raising an eyebrow at the stranger she approached them with a new sense of caution she wasn’t familiar with. Noora had come into the pack without previous acquaintances from what Maeve had gathered, but one had found them and sought her out? Adjusting herself with the amount of confidence she had gained from her position beside Noora while maintaining her respect for the general she broke into the space with little demand for attention. With a smile on her face and booze in her arms she stepped up to the pair, catching the gentleman’s accent. Great. Another Russian to deal with in the menagerie.

“Sorry to interrupt, Noora, but it seems that things are finishing quite nicely. If you’re not in need of my services and you’re happy to retire for the evening, allow me to make an offer to you. I’m gathering a small party back at my tent for a celebratory drink to a first show well done. If you’re interested, you and your-” to this her eyebrow perked up as she finally got a decent look at the man across from them- “friend are invited to join. Consider it?” Noora gave her a swift reply that she was indeed not needed further and her offer would be considered. It was obvious Noora wanted some more time alone with the gentleman. Looking him up and down quickly curiously then back to the general, Maeve nodded and smiled warmly at her. “Very well, then. And you sir, we can be introduced later. Ciao”

She was quick to leave them alone and seek out others. When it appeared she was far enough for Noora’s comfort the conversation resumed, and Maeve didn’t bother to attempt to listen in. Whatever was being said she could care less about, however the stranger.... Something about him irked her, but she wasn’t quite sure what yet. The familiarity between him and Noora was probably just enough to make her question what was shared between them. It didn’t appear to have any affect on her directly, so she decided it wasn’t worth the worry. What was, however, was seeking out Bernardo.

Her routes between the tents and soon the train cars made it a little more difficult to find one of her newest of friends, but another one cherished as he was. Then she heard the whispers about Jack and his sister's show and how she nearly killed him. It was because of this she nearly collided with Bernardo as he sought out his car and seemed startled by her appearance. He had come fresh from bathing, and she could still smell the soap on his skin. He lightly smelled of blood, but she didn’t feel the need to ask him about it. It smelled of Jack’s blood, whom she had already heard rumors of the near slaughter his sister had performed on him. Bernardo was the natural choice to seek out Jack immediately after to console and assist. Shaking her head back and forth she brought a smile to her face as she addressed him. “I’m sorry about what happened to Jack. It’s a shame what the leech b***h did to him. However, that isn’t why I am here. If you and he are interested, you’re both welcome to my tent for a post-show celebration. That’s what the whiskey is for, unless you have something more suitable to your taste that you’d like to bring.” She walked beside him on her way out and nudged his shoulder gently with her own as an attempt at a display of affection while her arms were full. “It could be good for you both.”

It took her some time before she made it back to the tent. No one had shown up yet, but it gave her the chance to start lighting candles, including the ones she used in her fake ritual practice to get the room lit well enough to see. Opening one of the bottles up and taking a burning gulp, Maeve relaxed into her chair while she waited for the others to arrive. She thought of how it would be best to address Asa after his gifts to her. Somehow, she still wasn’t sure. At best, it would be difficult but her dignity would remain in tact. At worse, well, she wouldn’t let it get so far. Her emotions were still mixed about it, but most of it was drenched in fresh grief. There was also a tug of gratefulness for what he had done. In the end, her emotions were helplessly complicated.

Maeve looked up to one of the altars in the far corner. Careus smiled at her as she took another gulp from the whiskey bottle.

[Pax Britannica]

They were eating out of the palm of her hand. The mortals' faces were feverish with delight, pure macabre zeal. All of the best illusion had hints of reality. So when a snarling, vicious beast entered the ring...The audience went wild. Except the beast was real. The catch was -- even as a massive, dark-furred canine, baring all of her pretty white fangs stalked into the room -- there was a bigger, badder beast waiting for her. The Midnight Jackal. As powerful as Noora was in all of her glory, she was still no match for the petite, innocuous blonde standing in the middle of the ring, wearing little and looking harmless.

Though...that was a curious thought. Mercia watched with golden eyes that were shifting fluidly between scarlet and gold. She gave Noora an admiring nod. There was something about a were-beast, in their fully bestial form that was breathtaking. It was one of the few natural beauties Mercia actively enjoyed. The spotted dog was huge, thick-furred and snapping. Her round ears and thin bones made her look less intimidating than a wolf. It was strange to consider the fact that the human form of a beast could be so misleading. For example, that dandy tailor, as a male wolf would have been more ferocious-looking than the huge spotted dog. When in reality, Noora would tear him limb from limb. And just as easily, Mercia would tear Noora in half.

Noora lunged. The audience let out a wild squeal, and the air stank of real, genuine fear. Humans. Not unlike immortals in that sense, Mercia thought, taking a heeled step closer to the spotted beast. Immortals, too, loved that which they could fear. Mercia reigned the beast in, calling to her, snapping that pathetic whip. There was one glimmer of a moment when their eyes met. Those amber eyes of the beast, and the gold eyes of the queen. Mercia's lips parted. Those wild golden waves lashed around her face artfully, but in that moment, her eyes slid into a red like liquid rubies. There was a genuine instance of dominance. The blonde's eyes bored into Noora's wild ones. There was a looming shadow, a greater beast behind those red depths that whispered in Noora's head....I am alpha...

Every beast within a mile radius could feel that subtle pulse of dominant power. It was rare when she exercised it. But tonight, it was a heady rush. To look death in the face and know that she could overcome it, that she could command it. A thrill shot up her spine when those fangs snapped shut and Noora's ears went flat against her skull as she retreated back to Mercia's side. The audience held their collective breath for a moment, and suddenly broke out into raucous cheering.

Noora's huge form folded into a sitting position beside Mercia. "Down," she commanded softly, just audible enough for Noora to hear it. It was a voice filled with dominance, but more than that an allure. It was the seduction of wanting to be dominated, that coated her voice. In any other than true alphas, like Mercia herself and those that preceded her in the royal line, there was a desire, hidden deep within the animal's psyche that wished to be owned, controlled, enthralled.

She sank her delicate hands into Noora's dappled fur and smiled a fanged grin as the b***h knelt for her. Mercia ran a hand over her smooth muzzle, and then behind her ear. These touches were soothing, a reward for a job well done. Her coat was soft and healthy, and Mercia approved very much. A part of the Jackal was even a little...jealous. She could never wear her beast form as freely as Noora.

With their act finished, Mercia and Noora stepped back to allow the magical antics of Kestrel and his randy sidekick. Above, the high wire acts took place, and generally a dark carnivale was born. Mercia leaned against Noora, enjoying the feeling of her fur against her lily-pale skin. The queen was draped over a massive, amber-eyed beast who growled as a showy peacock strutted into the limelight. In his defense, Kestrel was gorgeous, an immortally beautiful male full of power and prestige...and shite, Mercia added with a quirked brow, watching his act with morbid fascination.

The audience was hooked, playing into his performance wonderfully. He stalked over to her, and drew a lovely thorned rose from his sleeve. Noora's growl deepend as he slid it into her hair, the sharp thorn ripping the soft skin behind her ear. Drops of blood slid down her neck and over the swell of her modest breasts, pushed up rather immodestly. His green eyes peered into hers, and despite his new body, it was the same Kestrel. His grin was smug when he touched her neck, catching a drop of blood on a fingertip and popping it into his mouth, bowing as he took a step back and continued the show with a wink in Mercia's direction.

She relaxed against Noora again, running a hand over her muzzle. She lazily stroked her general and watched the immortals play the humans like puppets. It wasn't un-enjoyable. And the blonde queen found herself mildly surprised that she didn't find the evening boring. If Mercia had been able to have fun, that's what she would have felt. She lifted her nose, catching a strange, familiar scent on the wind. A scent she had long forgotten...him. She tilted her small chin, curious and dismayed all in one. In the backdrop, a few immortals lurked on the sidelines. Some in motley, and others simply watching. A vampiress, prim and stiff as a British nanny played spectator, along with..."Vilen," Mercia said simply.

It was a surprise, that was certain. Her eyes caught his. There was a silent greeting between them, and the memories of Russia and the snow caught up with her. Her eyes said, you shouldn't be here... He shouldn't be anywhere near her or this war. The Russian soldier of fortune should be somewhere on the cold continent, finding a she-wolf and having little ones. Not in the hotbed of murder and death...

Mercia tasted anger on her tongue, and her fist tightened in Noora's fur as she stared him down. She kept his gaze until he looked away, submitting to her. He had disobeyed. She would deal with him later. The show was finishing up, and she licked her fangs at the smell of vampire blood. It seemed one of them, somewhere had actually died this evening. It was the cherry on top of a rather pleasant, exciting evening. A vampire dead. What more could a girl want?

"Come, Noora" she said, turning her back and exiting the ring when the show was over. The audience was clamoring, the cheering continuing for minutes after all had exited. Backstage, she peeled off the costume crafted by the tailor. She looked around, trying to find boy's trousers. Finding none of that, she pulled on a simple corset, modified with slots for daggers. There were skirts...rip. Showing how much she valued skirts, Mercia tore the silk in half, shortening the ridiculously binding garment until it hung in darkly elegant tatters around her hips. If society demanded she wore something, she would wear as little of something as possible. Mercia would never forsake mobility for beauty or nonesuch rubbish.

There was much to think about. The Templar threat loomed. Rumors already circulated from New Londontown that the humans had driven the monsters out. And there was that other matter of a rebellious pup who defied her. But all of it would wait another day. Mercia wanted to feel the burn of whiskey on her tongue, sliding down her throat. "I'm heading into town, Noora," she mentioned casually, passing by her General who had been dressing in the same room. The auburn-haired female tied her boots, but the blonde didn't wait for permission. Instead, she left, taking no companions, and using her supernatural speed to follow the scent of immortals. Gathering were they? It was coincidental, mostly. Mercia shrugged and opened the door to the tavern. A few vampires had humans on their laps. Dinner. Other beasts were gathered around the suckling pig that had been on a spit earlier. For her part, it had been a long evening and the Jackal didn't much care. She did smirk as every head in the tavern turned toward her.

Like children, afraid of mum, she thought, allowing her right fang to peek through her lips in a snarky smile. She hit the bar, sliding with liquid grace on a stool. She made eye contact with the tender, who happened to be a very scared vampire. "Best bottle of whiskey...now," she said quietly, not needing to threaten death.

Because, wherever Mercia lived and breathed...there was always a threat of death.