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 Posted: Thu Apr 19, 2012 4:44 am
note: best viewed in 1200 x 800. otherwise its going to look a bit wonky.
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Posted: Tue May 01, 2012 4:53 pm
 He feels right again.
Safe.
Home.
But then…
“Grab it!”
What?
“What?!”
“Grabitgrabit --- ********>”
But then again, home isn’t exactly the right word for where he is right now, is it? There is a crashing noise. A loud sort of boom, and something breaks, shatters. The rain rumbles in disapproval at the shards now littering the hard wood floor, lifting his feet in a rather lazy attempt to avoid the onslaught of broken glass. The box that fell is tilted on its side now, its contents sprayed across the living room like the guts of a recently mauled deer. That’s a rather unpleasant thought. He stiffens and shakes it away.
“You know,” He says instead, focusing on the new mess and crossing his arms in that favorable fashion of his, “I think I told you something like ‘maybe you shouldn’t be carrying five boxes down a flight of stairs, you are going to break something’ an hour ago.”
“Haha, Rainy, you’re funny.”
Rainy.
He doesn’t really like the nickname, but somehow it’s stuck.
Rainyrainyrainy. Like a rain cloud.
He growls at the thought. It’s a childish name. He’s not childish anymore. Can’t be, won’t be. It’s not an option, not when he has to grow up and learn. Learn so he can work, learn so he can live, learn so he can…
Can what?
But the word refuses to come to his stubborn conscience.
“I told you not to call me that.”
Caelan emerges from the staircase and instinctively the Dust puts out his hands and accepts the boxes. They’ve been in this rhythm for hours, this routine of pack and store, pack and pass on. He feels like he’s packing up a life. Storing it in boxes and hoping it arrives at its next destination in one piece. Their old home is empty now apart from broken glass and a few boxes stashed in corners waiting to be hauled out. It’s odd, he thinks, shifting the boxes in his arms. Odd how it feels like he’s home but he’s not, odd how he’s packing away his life but it doesn’t feel like he’s starting anew.
Caelan had done business with a friend of a friend of an acquaintance or something of the like, bought a house in western Amies that no one else would take. It had been vacant for a long time, an ancient piece in a no-longer-ancient world. Now it was theirs.
“Yes and I insisted that you stop declining my nicknames,” Caelan says, snapping him out of his reverie, “you did not listen to me, I find it only fair I don’t listen to you either, Rainy.”
He makes a strangled noise in his throat and lashes at the other with his foot. The dark caramel skinned man leaps back in time to avoid it and smiles cheekily at him, like a cat that has landed on all fours again. Though there is an old familiarity between them, an ease of being around each other from so much time spent already in the others company, there is something dark and wounded there too. Separation has scarred them in their own ways, giving them wounds neither talks about. They avoid it with banter and light-hearted conversation, always aware of its presence, but never breaching the subject. Never wanting to re-open those wounds.
“Temper, temper, Tempest.” Caelan rumbles deep in his throat, waking the rain from his thoughts.
“Careful,” The Dust replies waspishly, lashing out half-heartedly again with his foot, “or I might just call one up and see how you feel about that nickname then.”
If only he could though.
“Those are the last ones,” Caelan says, shrugging off the threat, “I’m going to do a final sweep. Go put them on the cart, yeah?”
He obeys without a word. The streets of the town are filled with thin coils of blood-warm fog. Early morning is setting in, and everyone seems to finally be waking up. The cobblestone streets are damp and wet from a night shower, and he can still smell rain fresh in the air, and it awakens his senses and rouses him from his tired state. The borrowed cart is small and filled to the brim with boxes. The dust maneuvers himself up and into the small space, placing the boxes where they can fit before hopping out again and trotting to the front of the it.
He runs his fingers over the gray horses thick withers, whispering sweet nothings to her to wake her up as well. She stamps her foot and butts her head against his chest, huffing warmly against his skin.
“Yes,” he says quietly, “good morning to you too.”
When he arrives back inside, the glass has been cleared away, and Caelan is leaning on the windowsill, staring out into the early morning fog. His eyes are hooded; a shade of thick blue-green that stands vivid again dark skin. Rumbling softly into the silence, the Dust joins him, though not close enough that he can be touched. They stay like this for minutes, just watching, just soaking in the atmosphere that they’ll never again feel.
Finally, Caelan shifts away from the window and smiles at him. “It’s nice though, isn’t it,” he murmurs quietly, and there is a lilt, a sadness, a story buried deep in his throat, in his words, “moving. Starting fresh. Staring over.”
He doesn’t immediately respond. He’s not sure he knows how. He watches the streets below and the absence of life. As the morning progresses, the scent of fresh bread will fill the air along with good afternoon’s and sweet and somber hello’s. The world will start to turn again, start to fill with the existence of others in this quiet world. But now, here, and as with all things, the rain has come and washed it all away. There’s something nostalgic about the streets now, something that will be missed and not missed all at the same time.
“It’s not really starting over though,” He says finally, tiredly like he’s been here before, and slowly he moves away from the sill to look at Caelan, who is looking back at him with eyes that have so many stories, so few of which he has heard, “you can go a thousand places and call them all fresh starts, but the memories of the past are still there.” His tone turns bitter, his eyes harsh and cold, “you don’t forget those kind of things.”
He remembers the pain of loss, of memories hidden behind a veil that he could not tear through, that only time could heal in the end. He remembers the world of apathy that he was able to survive in before they came back, the world where nothing was painful really, where nothing hurt.
But he does not miss it.
No, not really.
Are you sure?
Looking at the man, the rain rumbles softly, the sound of thunder within the dark clouds, “how many times have you started over?” His voice is thick and filled with a question not easy enough to be asked out loud.
How many things have you tried to forget about from your past?
Caelan smiles at him, a beautiful and broken sort of laugh hollow in his throat. He crosses his arms and shakes his head and for a moment the Dust expects him to evade the unspoken question that he understands so well. Ignore it and claim ignorance as is his secretive way.
But instead he says softly, says as if its just a fairytale story and nothing else, “when my father died, his wife came to me and told me to leave.” He laughs again, and this time it is bitter.
“I was sixteen, and she came to me and said, you have lived in this house for many years, and now it is time for you to leave. You will take no name with you, no money, no surname to call your own. You are a b*****d child, you do not belong here anymore.” Caelan looks over at him, wryly, and he says it like its just a joke, “My father was a cruel man for everything he did. My father was a funny man, but there was nothing he did so funny as the day he tied a noose around his neck and let himself hang. There’s nothing I try to forget more than that day, that moment when everything was taken away from me. That moment when I didn’t have an existence in this world anymore.”
And he doesn’t explain the words to him. He doesn’t have to.
The Dust knows what it feels like to be stripped of a name, of a life, of everything.
Caelan uncrosses himself from where he’s been leaning against the wall, and he gestures with one hand for the Dust to follow. He is light-hearted again, his face masked like he’s putting on a show, an act. He opens the door and he doesn’t look back at the place he’s called home for so many years. He opens the door and he leaves the place he’s called home for so many years without saying goodbye.
The rain follows him out, but he pauses instead, turns his shoulder and stares at the empty spaces where furniture used to be. He looks at the sill where he’d watched the storms roll in as a child, and the places still stained with paint from when his guardian had decided to take out a fresh canvas and paint. He looks at the old kitchen where he’d been taught how to cook, and to the staircase where books would constantly be piled high and sent spilling down onto the hardwood floor by one clumsy person or another.
He won’t miss it though. Not much.
Caelan climbs into the front seat of the cart when they get back onto the street, and offering a hand, he hauls the Dust up too and grabs onto the reins, flicking his wrist. The cart lurches forward, them along with it.
“It’s a long ride, you can sleep if you want, Rainy.” He suggests with an amused trill, as though the rain had washed away their conversation too. As if it had never existed in the first place.
He makes a strangled sound towards his guardian and pushes him in the shoulder with one hand.
“Stop calling me that!”
Caelan laughs and their banter continues on into the early morning fog, leaving only the ghost of their existence there, in small pieces scattered all over like broken glass, in places where they had stayed, places where they had worked. In people’s memories, people whom they’d known and people who had known them. Now they were nothing more than just that, just memories, some fond and some like scars.
But as with all things, the rain would come, and wash it all away.
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Posted: Tue May 01, 2012 5:48 pm
The house is old, ancient, hidden and whole.
They take a small dirt path on the edge of a flourishing town, listening to the cry of birds from far ahead above the trees that rise up on either side of them, housing the dirt path in and keeping the noise of the town out. Morning has turned to afternoon, and as the old stone house comes into view, the colors of evening begin to trace the skyline above.
Caelan pulls the cart to a stop at the bottom of steps that lead up and to the old dwelling where they will make their new home. A thick blanket of moss has crawled the side of the stone steps that widen at the top, giving way to a small terrace that juts out in front of the house and above the clearing in front. Krinn swings his legs over the side of the cart and lands on the stone pavement with a dull thud. The scent of nature is thick around him, and he understands why. The place is settled deep into the woods, coddled on one side by trees and vegetation, and embraced on the other by a towering stone wall that is covered sparsely in moss and clinging vines.
The trees rustle softly in the background, dense green raising up to surround a palette of white and tan. This place is ancient and has not been touched in so long, hidden here in the forest on the cusp of civilization and the boundaries of the wild beyond. Sunlight pierces down from above, a warm molten haze that is sinking lower and lower into the sky.
“Pretty impressive, huh?” Caelan asks him with a smile tugging at his lips. Will it do? It’s a question that isn’t asked out loud.
“I like it.” The Dust presses a hand absently to his middle, smoothing over the black vest he wears over a dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows to stay out of his way. He looks over at the man and his lips turn upwards into the ghost of a smile too.
“Lets stay here for awhile this time, alright?”
Caelan laughs, a smooth and hollow sound. “Sure.” He murmurs quietly. “That sounds like a plan.”
They agree to unpack the boxes first, depositing them just inside the door, in a large space that would soon become the living room. White sheets cover furniture left inside, keeping away dust and time. Krinn allows Caelan the last few boxes, unhooking the mare from her patient place and slipping a halter over her ears instead. He leads her to a small paddock awkwardly fit into the clearing, pushing open the old gate and grunting as his feet slip and sink downwards into the wet earth. It is one of the many things that will need to be fixed. She does not seem to mind though, swinging her head about a bit before lowering it to graze. He runs his fingers over her sides gently and murmurs quiet words and whispers before turning and climbing over the fence, landing on the other side and trotting back to the house.
When he arrives inside, he finds Caelan tugging deftly at one of the white sheets, revealing furniture that looks as though its been more or less saved from the wounds only time could dole out.
“It’s got a lot of work in it,” He muses quietly without looking up, “but I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it work.”
There’s something somber and determined in the way he says it, and the Dust leaves him as he begins to walk around the first floor, muttering beneath his breath and leaving notes to himself in the empty air.
There is a staircase leading to the second floor, and it creaks beneath his weight and groans with age. Luckily, none of the steps have caved to time. It opens into a small den, polished wood floors scrubbed clean sometime before their arrival by paid worker bees. The Dust settles in this space cautiously and breathes.
Home. He thinks dimly, and his eyes flicker across the shapes of furniture all covered beneath thick white cloth, this is home now.
It still seems foreign to him.
The Dust’s fingers spider over the white cloth, and he maneuvers around it to the windows, staring out at the dimly lit skies outside, and the dense foliage that hugs the house closely and whispers to him with its thick, flower-like scents. Krinn steps away from the sill, yanks himself back into reality, into this home that he is supposed to call his. The hallway beyond the den is elevated, and Krinn trots up the two steps and stalks like a ghost into the dark halls. Candleholders are placed here and there for light, and deftly the Dust enters the master bedroom and its accompanying bathroom before backtracking into the hall, where at the end, he finds his own.
It isn’t necessarily a large room, but it is spacious enough for him. Nothing is in it apart from a stark white nightstand next to bed level to a large window that opens up to the rooftop. They’ve been left only the skeletons of the house from whoever had come before; the Dust vaguely remembered the tale of an old widow living in this place before her passing, and no one else after that. But how could one person exist in such a huge space?
How could one person exist alone and not be lonely at all?
Krinn’s head turns to the sound of Caelan coming up the stairs, but they’ve somehow reached a wordless agreement today. They’ve come to a place where silence prevails comfortably over extensive talk and coddling. Instead of coming to him, the man moves to the master bedroom and begins to set down boxes from the sounds of it all, and Krinn leaves him that way. There will be time for conversation later, when they have both tended to wounds invisible to the others eye.
The Dust lets out a soft sigh and steps up onto the bed, rumbling as the mattress sinks just slightly beneath his weight, void of blankets and sheets. He moves over and presses his hands to the window, to the smooth glass that lets him stare out and straight up at the sky. He hovers there only for a moment, a fleeting second before he kneels and works deftly at the sill until he hears a satisfying click and hooks his fingers beneath the wood, hefting the window up and allowing the cool breeze in. Evening has come, and the sun is nothing but a molten streak of gold, wavering like a thick silhouette behind the trees.
Ducking, the Dust stepped out onto the roof, testing his weight carefully on the old tiles before standing at his full height and slipping across the slanted roof. From the outside, and from above, the house looked as though it had been swallowed by the green of the forest. Above, the sky is painted in the colors of evening. The Dust squints up at the colors and the sky, looking, searching, and –
Ah, there.
“Come on,” he murmurs softly, settling down on the rooftop and stretching one hand up to the sky, as if he could reach it, as if he could touch and pull and tempt small mass of clouds so far away. “Come here.”
There is something strong in his core, something singing, something that comes alive when the wind picks up and the scent of rain is carried on the breeze, brushing against his face and whispering a sweet, faint hello. It has been beckoned, and now it is rolling in, slowly but surely, the air becoming pregnant with chill and the evening settling into the soft tones and shades of dusk. The Dust lies back on the tiles of the roof, watching as the sky thickens with clouds, though still he can feel a hesitance in the air.
His eyes half-lid, and then they close all of the way. He does not say the words out loud. He does not have to. Instead he reaches into his core, the part that stirs and hums and feels right when the weather turns. When he calls and it responds.
Come home. Come home to me.
The sky splits open, and the rain comes down in light, steady waves.
Krinn smiles, the touch of his essence on his lips and in his hair. The air is still warm, but only just. This isn’t a storm; it is not even close. It is a gentle shower, a little bit of a show. But it lasts the whole night through, and he falls asleep to the sound of rain, surrounding him on all sides.
He falls asleep to the sound and scent of home, perfect and content.
word count: 1490.
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Posted: Tue May 01, 2012 9:34 pm
 PRP.status: ongoing.
participants: ziya, fintan, & krinn.a reunion, and a new face as well. krinn finds ziya again, and his strange little brother as well.
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Posted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 12:19 am
The envelope is plain and unremarkable, apart from the black ink sigil resting on its front, arriving a month and a half into their quaint retreat into the silent, somber countryside.
Krinn folds it over and over again in his palms, nails scratching over the wax seal in shameful curiosity, even though it is not his and more than that, not his to open nor read. When he is finished inspecting it, he settles on memorizing the sigil that seems so foreign and so very out of place here in this small, mundane Amies town. The marketplace around him churns with life. Everywhere a stall is opening or a vendor is appeasing the citizens with clever wordplay, opining their own goods as the best goods.
Krinn tunes them out and traces the sigil again and again.
It appears as a wheel with winged creatures circling its outside spokes. A moon is centered in the inner workings of the wheel, crescent and simple and confusing all at once. It is a symbol that he cannot decipher, not even if he poured over all of the books he’d collected through the years – some about myths, some about science, some about the in between. Beneath the sigil though is something even more fascinating; a name in black, spiraling ink. Caelan’s name.
It feels like he has been handed something out of the man’s past; a clue he’d been searching for for so very long, and now here it is, in the palm of his hands, and yet so far out of his grasp.
Krinn bites his tongue around a frustrated noise in his throat that makes nearby citizens look worriedly up at the sky, but he does not open the wax seal. Instead he stalks back through the marketplace, haggling over fresh meat and newly imported spices that turn the air a smoky flavor. He’s always found a certain pleasure in the atmosphere of the town’s market, already gaining friendly strangers in stall owners, learning where and where not to buy fresh goods. It is one of the places that tend to nurture his rare good mood, but today the letter hangs heavy like a lead weight in his coat pocket, reminding him of all the things he doesn’t know, of all the things he wants to ask.
When the menial task of grocery shopping is done, Krinn sets the purchases inside of the saddlebag with care and pulls himself up into the saddle, the mare giving out a soft whinny and tossing her head. The Dust draws patterns along her neck, looking out at the marketplace once more before he sets off back home.
The crowd all fades into one entity; a large, genderless, faceless crowd that surges sluggishly through the stalls, emitting noises that aren’t quite words. Only one stands out; a girl of a young age clad in black and white lace who watches the crowd the same as his, only she seems to watch the people, each and every one, instead of it as a sentient being as the Dust does.
His attention seems to draw hers, and after a momentary pause, she licks her lips and looks at him, bright eyes standing out against auburn curls that frame her face in short waves. A striped bow settles in her hair; the same symbol in iron a centerpiece and gleaming in the uneven shards of early summer sun.
She smiles at him then, and she mouth’s words that he is too far away to hear.
Krinn stares, his heart pounding in his ears. She puts a hand to her mouth and giggles, and then a tall man comes to her, chiding her quietly and swinging a polished cane. He wears a dark, impeccable suit like he’s from the capital, and people pause and look at the strange duo as they pass. Surely those with money would not settle down here. No, they would go nearer to the coast, if not directly to Aimes, the heart of the country. But unlike them, Krinn is not staring for the clothing worth most of the stall owners entire worth. The letter feels like a heavy weight against his ribs, and all he can do is grip the reins tight and try desperately to use logic to keep him from rushing headfirst through the crowd in an attempt to get to them before they get away.
As though reading her thoughts, the young girl laughs again and points, and the impeccably dressed man turns his head and stares directly at the Dust. He has brilliantly colored eyes, and the reflect gold in the sun but Krinn knows that has to be a lie, a trick of light.
There is a moment, a pause, and then he touches the tall hat perched perfectly above dark, smoky locks and tips it forward in the slightest.
A hello. A goodbye. Both and none at the same time.
He smiles then, a man who seems to already know him, seems to already understand everything there is to know.
He says something as well; his lips moving in the same rhythm the girls had.
And then he takes her hand, and he leads her away.
Krinn is halfway through the crowd with logic cast to the wind by the time they melt into the shadows, like ghosts on the wind.
♚ x ♚ x ♚ “Is it going to start soon?” Isobel asks him, her voice a sweet, candy-coated tune.
The man taps his cane along the cobblestone streets, ignoring blatant stares and harsh whispers about where they were from and how much one might pay just to dress the little doll walking next to his side. He has been waiting for this, waiting for years to put everything into place, to start the gears turning, to let the game begin. But patience was a virtue, one that was a necessary precaution in a line of work such as his. After all, this job was fresh and new, and his plan a spider web laid down across his feet that could break under the slightest pressure and throw him to the lions waiting hungry and starved just beneath.
But Amies was the perfect setting for their little show. Cash would come in from all directions at once, pleasing the fresher of their performers and satisfying the necessities that their more experienced members; at least the material ones outside of their home. The man massaged a gloved hand to his temple, the cane swaying back and forth rhythmically like a pendulum in between the two. He swung it without watching, once, twice, and then in a full circle through the air. This continued all the way down the street; a menial exercise to calm his nerves that attracted more attention than his outfit.
Isobel hums again, this time impatient as her doll-like dress flutters in the breeze. She twirls a closed parasol, one he’d purchased for her on a trip somewhere exotic in the chills of winter, and when her companion continues his silence, she taps him not quite so gently in the side. The twirling cane stops.
Is it going to start soon?
The words repeat in his head; a question caught in his ears without really being processed.
“Requin,” She presses, suddenly waspish. She is too old for her age, too smart to be so young. His lips curl down at her, a scolding glare concealed beneath the thickness of his public façade.
The cane slowly picks up speed again, one flick forward and one back, and then a full circle around his finger, and this time he taps it along the cobblestone street before starting the routine again. There is a carriage waiting for them at the end of the pathway, its outside simple black lacquered wood making up the frame. The inside, far more private, is hidden within singular windows on both sides that are draped with simple, impossibly dark curtains. One must get close enough to touch the doors if they are to tell that the curtains are not black, but a velvety rose red.
When they arrive, the driver looks back at them from his seat, smiling beneath a simple black hat and tipping it affectionately at the two. The horses in front are still, patient. Two white and two black, situated in a pattern that makes the carriage look as though a checkered entourage is pulling it. Requin does not smile back at the man, but Isobel instead beams and hands him a bag of candy that had been hidden somewhere under her skirts. The gift is accepted graciously, if not with a mild look of bemusement, but no words are spoken, at least not ones decipherable even when the two move their lips.
Requin opens the door for Isobel and offers a gloved hand.
“So?” She prompts as she steps up, her heels clicking as she disappears inside.
Requin sighs again.
“The pieces are in place. Now we wait our turn.” A vague response, but it is all he gives before stepping up after her and away from the mundane little town, watching from the window as storm clouds billow in from the coast, consuming everything in warm, wet rain.
♚ x ♚ x ♚ When Caelan opens the door to the house, he is met with a look of scrutiny over a dinner that smells like it has seen all corners of the world. Regular house tradition has become an unspoken series of challenges; who could cook a more extravagant dinner, which could bring home something more outlandish than the last.
“Gods,” He said in what sounded faintly of amusement, “are you spoiling me tonight?”
Krinn simmers from where he has been sitting, his legs delicately folded into a complicated knot. He hates meditating, but the bruises he has on his knees from chasing after ghosts and the anger that he feels from all of the questions he can’t ask have forced him to the floor, centered on a knitted afghan that must have come from somewhere far away. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and closes his eyes.
“Shh.” He says quietly, “I’m calming my mind.”
Caelan does not like the idea of that, because what usually precedes it is a mood swing to rival the gods themselves, and worse yet, a storm to accompany the unprecedented swing of emotions. But today he’d wandered home through warm, wet rain and the scent of humidity thick in the air, considering nothing and everything and all of the complicated questions in between.
He pads across to the kitchen, and examines everything laying out cooked and ready to eat. This only furthers his worry. Krinn only ever cooks when he’s upset. Popping a brandy soaked cherry into his mouth, Caelan turns to the meditating Dust, who, despite his calm, deep breaths, is having a lot of trouble under his placid look of interest.
“I’m trying to concentrate.” The Dust says waspishly after a few minutes.
Caelan smiles. It’s a knee-jerk response. Smile for the crowd. “If you were concentrating, I would be little more than a gust of breeze to your iron will meditation.”
This, while blatantly true, takes a few long moments to coax out a response, and when Krinn speaks next he speaks slowly, like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. “A letter was delivered to you.” His eyes open, mismatched, and he turns to study Caelan’s reaction, which is perplexed and verging on mildly confused.
Krinn releases air through his mouth. So it hadn’t been an expected message then.
“It has a sigil on the front.” He explains quietly, gauging for something. Anything. “A crescent moon, surrounded by a wheel with outward spokes.” He doesn’t mention the angels, and Caelan slowly pops another cherry into his mouth before his nails scratch at hard wood. They’ll scratch until they bleed if they are not preoccupied soon. Krinn has only seen it happen once before.
His eyes narrow. “What is it?” He asks, because he has a right to know.
He has all the rights in the gods-damned world.
Caelan sighs and pushes the pads of his fingers to the back of his neck, rubbing beneath impossibly dark hair. “Where is it?” He counters instead. Tiredly. Nervous.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Nor did you mine.”
The man smiles at him, but it’s an expression that doesn’t touch his eyes. This letter is important to him, and Caelan will not say why. The questionable guardian had never once relented on his adamant nature towards things. More than that though, his adamant nature towards keeping secrets. The teenager has lived with him for his entire life, however short in terms of mortal age that might have been, and still he knows next to nothing about the other. Only his taste for exquisite food and his cat-like balance, and the way he hates the past just as much as he disdains to talk about the future.
It’s the tip of the glacier, and Krinn is barred from going beneath the waves.
This realization is old, but every time he plays the words over and over again in his head, they sting just a little bit more. The silence in the room wears on though, the clock in the background ticking away the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the day. Krinn sighs finally.
“It’s on the bookshelf.” He acquiesces quietly, not taking his eyes off of the afghan he sits on. “I didn’t read it either.”
The waspish statement is taken in stride, and Caelan handles the letter delicately when he finds it, the wax seal breaking under the pressure of his nails. It seems like an impossibly long amount of time before his silent reading is broken only by the sound of him sitting heavily in one of the old, raggedy chairs, slumping far enough down so that his head is tilted over the back of his chair, mouth open, and a strange sound coming out.
It is a long moment before Krinn realizes it is laughter.
He says something under his breath as he calms, lips moving in the same pattern as the man and the girls had. The Dust snaps to attention, and without thinking he says, “say it again.”
Caelan blinks at him, his eyes a shade of turquoise too bright and too exotic for this mundane little town. He contemplates the words for a long moment, resting on the tip of his tongue, and he seems to be pulling pieces of an invisible puzzle together, forming the whole of an unseen image in his mind.
Sighing, he tilts his head over the back of the chair and whispers quietly, “Ila Justicca Vei Cala.” And then wryly and to himself, “justice is red.”
They are the same words that girl had whispered soundlessly to him in the crowd.
They are the same words that mean everything and nothing all at once.
word count: 2490.
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Posted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 12:31 am
The Queen’s Café is a favorable retreat for most of Videnza’s more wealthy citizens, the front often dotted with carriages crested in gold rims and pulled by finely groomed draft horses constantly pulling in and out. It’s exterior shows but a little of its fine tastes, deep red strokes of paint coveting a set of double doors always manned by doormen in finely tailored suits. The scent of bourbon soaked cherries and impeccably seasoned meats wafts up into the air like invisible plumes of smoke every time the doors are opened for another patron or two, coating mouths in sudden hunger and beckoning all those on the outside to come and see for themselves what the finest chefs in all of Amies have to offer.
It comes as a bit of a surprise when Caelan leads him here, his hands neatly folded at the small of his back as he walks in front of the Dust, observing without really observing, smiling without really recognizing those he smiles at. He is dressed up, certainly, but with Caelan, it is always a crisp suit that only seems to accent the otherworldly appearance that his posture and body never fail to hold. When they arrive at the door, one of the doormen greets them amiably, asks if they have a reservation. Caelan’s laugh is smooth and thick, and he uncurls a hand and reveals from nowhere a small card of glossy black, the white sigil etched into it and flashing before the employee’s eyes.
He whispers something that Krinn does not quite here, his tone crisp and calculating and comfortable all at once. Where the Dust feels as though he has been led to a place he does not understand nor fit into, Caelan seems at home here, as though he has always belonged. The doorman bows deeply to him, and then opens the door. As they walk in, Krinn catches the thin wisps of lamb stuffed with herbs, and sees sugar castles on platters with strawberries and caramel being brought to tables obscured from his view. The cultured, rich accent of voices hits him from all sides, tones of the rich and powerful so foreign and enigmatic to his ears. A server maneuvers with ease around him, giving nothing more than a cursory, welcoming smile before continuing on his way with a platter full of fragile marzipan dragonflies atop dark red sauce.
Caelan leads him through the maze of diners to the back, where more private spaces are divided from view by thick velvet curtains, chords of gold hanging from them that never seem to be used. At one is a girl – a girl that Krinn recognizes from the marketplace. A girl that abruptly moves towards them, a bounce in her step even though she seems to avoid the bustling servers with ease, her silk and lace dress a beautiful dusty rose red. She leans up and Caelan leans down, and she greets him fondly on both cheeks with a kiss, and ushers Krinn over so that she may do the same to him. It is a foreign gesture, and the Dust submits to it awkwardly, a thousand questions on his lips that he cannot ask, and a thousand answers in her eyes that she refuses to tell.
“I have business inside, Isobel,” Caelan tells the girl quietly, “will you keep my guest company? You’d do a fine job of it, I’m sure.”
The girl, Isobel, smiles at him with a sweetened expression on her face. “Of course, of course.” She says, curtsying to him with perfect grace, her black gloves a perfect match to her perfectly tailored dress. “I am glad that you have decided to join us today.” Her tone is bubbly and candy-coated, but there is something darker beneath the surface that Krinn cannot rightly comprehend, “home has been lonely without you, Iranzi.”
Krinn’s eyes flicker uncertainly, and he turns to question Caelan about the name that is not his, but the man has already disappeared behind the curtains, and Isobel is laughing as she pulls on his arm and gently guides him away. “Come on, come now, you, it is not wise to keep a lady waiting.” She admonishes him teasingly, coiling their elbows together. It seems she had seen this coming; a server appears with a deep and gracious bow and says that a table has been prepared for them as requested.
Theirs is not as private as the one Caelan had disappeared into, but the restaurants tables are created with privacy in mind, long hardwood paths dispersed between booths with high backs to keep conversation contained and views from strangers limited at best.
Isobel settles neatly in her spot, smoothing black gloves over rose red. A waiter serves them coffee and murmurs about the weather outside; a light chill and a cool drizzle has come their way. They also bring out desserts in the shapes of common creatures sculpted from sugar and decorated with fresh fruits and a caramel sauce. Isobel picks into hers eagerly, like she is accustomed to such fine delights, but Krinn waits on his, admiring the preparation and feeling a rush of guilt when he pushes at it with his fork.
He settles for sipping at the warm coffee – tea for Isobel, - instead, waiting for the conversation to start without starting it himself. There are too many questions he wants to ask, and none of them easy to say out loud.
Isobel takes a sip of her drink and when she settles the cup on its dish, she looks at him and laughs. “You look so lost today, little lamb.”
Krinn scoffs. “I would very much like to remind you who is smaller in this relationship.”
“Oh,” Isobel says and laughs, her tone sweet and sugar coated, “we are already in a relationship? My, we move fast!”
She appears only twelve, if little more, but there’s something in her tone too smart and too mature for someone so young. It bothers Krinn, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead he asks, “how do you know Caelan?”
This catches her for a moment, and she crunches loudly and indelicately on a sugar paw cut away from the mouse-fox sculpture on her plate. “Is that what he goes by now?” She asked Krinn, laughing, “what a terribly boring name.”
“And his real name is?”
Krinn cannot help but be curious, angry that he doesn’t know even.
Isobel giggles sweetly. “Do you think I know? Silly.” She clicks her tongue and takes another drawn out bite. “When we took him in, he chose his own name, so everyone called him Iranzi.” Her lips curved into a smile. “Names are useless though, really. You could introduce yourself as anything to anyone and they’d be none the wiser!”
Krinn smiled at her, a tense and polite sort of look ingrained in him by years of experience. “Then I imagine Isobel is simply a name you’ve come up with yourself?”
“You make no sense at all,” Isobel responded with a laugh, taking dainty sips of tea in between wolfish consumption of her sweets. When the first plate was done with, another appeared as though timed, this one a platter of brandy-soaked cherries and fruits bursting with cream, rich and delicate and elaborately planned. “My name right now is Isobel.” She smiled at him, a sweet and innocent little façade; “my father gave me that name when I met him.”
She didn’t say anything more, and he didn’t bother to ask.
When she finished her second dessert, she pushed her hands together, fingers against each other as though she were thinking very hard. “Would you join me for a walk?” It was a question unexpected, and Krinn blinked, doing his very best to compose himself and not make himself out to be the fool instead.
“It is raining, miss,” He told her, frowning.
“Yes,” Isobel replied, already stepping out from the booth and offering the Dust her hand, “that is why I want to take a walk.”
She led him to the door, and Krinn held an umbrella over them both when they stepped out into the rain. The cobblestone streets seemed to collect a mist over them, and the droplets came down in warm, firm strokes, battering rooftops and making men and women in wealthy gowns and tailored suits rush for cover or pull umbrellas up over their heads.
Isobel led them away from the Queen’s Café, her lips forming around an outlandish tune. He found himself following, a silent chauffer, a servant simply to keep her dry. She led them past other shops and cafes, and later down a side street where a back-alley coffee was, the scent of heavy thick brews accenting the evening colors of the sky, buried beneath layers of light grey clouds.
“I’ve never seen so much rain before,” Isobel commented airily, her fingers circling the crook of Krinn’s elbow, “you live in such an interesting little town.” Her eyes lifted to him, a brilliant amber gold. “Doesn’t it get boring?”
So very boring, he wants to tell her.
Krinn sighs and says, “I’ve gotten used to living in this town.”
Isobel giggles. “In other words, yes.”
“… Yes.” The Dust’s eyes flicked to the girl, as she leads him further along, and then back towards the café from the back. He wonders if she’s been here before, and how she knows her way around so well.
“Do you want something more?” Isobel tilts her head back at him, watching as she twirls, droplets catching on her dress. “Aren’t you tired of living this mediocre life?”
Krinn regards her with a bemused frown, extending the umbrella towards her to keep her out of the rain. He doesn’t mind the damp wet after all; the warm water catching on his skin speaks of home.
“What kind of question is that?”
Isobel laughs. It’s a candid, knowing sound. “A simple one, really.”
She then winks at him, carrying herself with an air of mock superiority, grinning proudly and puffing out her chest as she marches on. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Everyone wants that kind of thing.” Krinn responds at length, regarding her curiously. “Of course I do.” He adds almost hesitantly, pressing his hands to his hair, dark grey locks slipping out from beneath the cap. “More than anything, but – “
A Dust’s existence is lonely. A Dust’s existence is meant for sacrifice and nothing more.
“I am…” His eyes lower, “I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to. What would I do?” A laugh, a bitter one. “Run away from this place? Where would I go? What would I do? If you haven’t noticed, I am not exactly the epitome of normal. And normal goes a long way around this place.”
Isobel waits out his small ramble, and when he looks again, she has stepped outside of the umbrella, and is smiling at him, her lashes damp with droplets of warm, wet rain. She giggles, pulls at the edges of her dresses, acts as if she understands.
“True, but I can change that. We are, after all, masters of persuasion.” Isobel tilts her head, and they appear back where they started as though they were never gone, a carriage of white and black drawn up beside the cobblestone street. The rain continues to thicken, though the doormen stay where they are, and the soft sounds and warm colors continue to billow into the air from inside. She smiles at him and steps towards the carriage, her rose red dress growing wet. Krinn closes the umbrella as she beckons him forward, and allows the rain to soak him and soak them both. She offers out a hand to him, standing in front of the carriage, in front of a gateway that he doesn’t know the destination of.
“Want to know how?” She smiles sweetly at him, “Want to find out? It's always a child's dream to run away to the Circus. But I'm sure this is more than just a dream for you.” She laughs, because she most likely already knows his answer, "so what will it be?"
They are just words, perhaps just little white lies.
And he doesn’t know why, but he reaches forward, he takes her hand.
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Posted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 12:32 am
 PRP.status: ongoing.
participants: casca & krinn.The Rain Dust decides to go hunting and runs into a new guardian while chasing down deer.
Whatever will come of this? Nothing very good, or so one would imagine, right?
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Posted: Sat Jun 16, 2012 12:35 am
 Requin requests his private audience precisely a week later, and Krinn arrives just on time.
Thick clouds sweep in over the marina, carrying seagulls and salt spray with them. It is a lazy procession though, as if the rain weighs them down and makes them slow. Men and women carry umbrellas and speak of storms, frightened, but Krinn only smiles as he maneuvers through the crowd.
A storm? He will be sure to enjoy it.
Requin pours tea for him when he is led into the small flat, and he explains briefly that business sometimes requires a more permanent home. The office is lined with simple shelves and stiff chairs; it seems nothing like the man himself, who merely gestures for Krinn to take a seat.
“Thank you for coming,” He says formally, and slides his thumb over the crow’s head that is his cane. “There is much to be discussed.”
Something shuffles around outside of the room, and Krinn looks even though Requin disregards it in favor of arranging stacks of paper on his desk. He waits patiently until all attention is back on him to begin again.
“As it is, your case is unique.” Requin stares at him, unwavering, “but before I go on, I would like to confirm that you are serious about this.” His thumb begins to caress the smooth curve of the cane, a repetitive, mechanical motion like the ticking of a clock. “It is to be understood that this agreement is a contract. It is not a decision to be taken lightly.”
Krinn blinks, folds his hands in his lap against knee crossed over knee, and smiles, regarding Requin’s expression as opposed to his own. “I am very sure.” Is all he tells him, because that is all that needs to be said.
The man only regards him for a long moment more, as though gauging the truth of the statement for a second that seems like hours before nodding. There are no paper contracts that Requin brings out though. Nothing physical. Nothing that binds him through words, even though Requin’s presence itself seems to solidify the act in its place.
“I see.” Requin stands up and carries himself over to the doorway, ushering for Krinn to follow. The shuffling returns, though the parlor they exit into is empty save for couches and a window overlooking the city. It is only a few moments before Krinn realizes the shuffling is actually the sound of wings, and it is a realization one second too late as a black creature the size of a housecat lands on Requin’s shoulder.
Requin feeds it something from his coat pocket, and when he turns back to Krinn, the other is vaguely mystified to see the black raven crouching obediently on the man’s shoulder, cawing occasionally as though to ask for more.
“I didn’t know they still existed here,” Krinn comments quietly, and Requin laughs.
“It is a rare sight indeed.” The man rubs the crow beneath its beak affectionately. “But then, so are we.”
His elaboration goes no further, and Krinn can only think of all of the creatures he’s seen born of this one and another, impure but beautiful. They cannot compare though, not to this.
Requin gestures to the door, and Krinn follows him out, watching wistfully when the crow returns to its perch and watches them go with dark, beady eyes. The carriage on the street below is similar to the one from before, simple in design and carted along by a pair of black and white horses the size of small elephants.
“As I mentioned before, your situation is unique.” Requin says as soon as the footman swings the door shut behind them, and the carriage rolls forward, wheels clicking silently over the cobblestone streets. “However, it can easily enough – ah – be attended to.”
He folds his hands in his lap and looks out the window. Somehow, Krinn feels that his attention never really strays though, unlike Caelan, who is always allowing his imagination to disappear into the clouds. “Your education will be tended to fully within the Circus until ready to participate in performances or otherwise prove worth.” The man glances back at the Dust, eyes scrutinizing. “Though I’m sure for you, that will be of little difficulty.”
The ride takes them to the heart of the North Corner, and Krinn watches the Queen’s Café pass them by before his attention is drawn back to Requin who is regarding his gloves while most likely contemplating something of vast importance in his head. They step out just as thunder rolls in the distance, and Krinn cannot help but pause to admire the coolness in the air that carries the scent of afternoon market and sea salt in its arms.
Requin clicks his cane along the street gesturing for the Dust to keep up as they throw themselves into the crowd. “We have a lot of business to attend to today.” He sighs, touching the rim of his hat in a grateful nod to someone he seems to recognize in the crowd. “There is the matter of clothing though, which we shall deal with first.”
Requin guides him through the crowds, through the many men and women with parasols already above their heads and bowler hats present above the sea of faceless patrons. It is not a long walk, and the older man holds the door open for him when they arrive at a set of subtle double doors pushed in between a pastry shop and a gallery.
The insides are sleek and clean. Despite the promise of clothing, there seems to be little in sight other than a lounge-like area filled with couches and thickly cushioned chairs.
“Marcella,” Requin greets calmly when a woman bustles out from the back, dusting her hands off on a towel. She is full of blond curls that tint strawberry in the light, and her eyes are a hearty amber-gold that reflects warmth absent from the shop itself.
“Requin, it has been so long. Usually you order from us through mail. A special occasion, I assume?” She smiles and her eyes travel to the Dust, but unable to keep his eyes off of her… her entirety, he averts them to the wall after a brief, flustering smile.
The man nods. “I have an unexpected add-on to my establishment, and we have a code of conduct I would like to keep, as we travel soon.” His eyes turn to Krinn, who only nods, because it feels like the man is waiting on him to confirm that he understands. Satisfied, Requin returns his attention where he wants it. “I have business with others, but I am sure that you will provide my companion with what he needs.”
Krinn blinks.
Wait.
Wait, he’s being left alone?
“Requi – “
The man is gone by the time he turns to look again, only the tip of a tailcoat disappearing beyond the doors.
“He does that,” Marcella soothes him, and takes an elbow, leading him back with sluggish, hesitant feet. “You’ll get used to it, I’m sure. Now, what we need first is measurements.”
And they take just that. Krinn is asked to do all manner of strange things, and he is embarrassed when she instructs him not only to allow her full access to his legs, but to discard his shirt as well.
“Oh honey, believe me, I have seen far worse,” She assures him when his face turns cherry red.
After it is over, she leads him to what he imagines is a poor excuse for a dressing room, for it is little more than a standing paper screen and has him try on a myriad of clothing until she is pleased with combinations that she puts him in. This takes at least an hour, after which it becomes a waiting game, where he sips expensive tea and stares outside as the thunder rumbles ahead, though rain refuses to pour.
Requin reappears just as she is fitting him in the first of what she claims will be many stunning outfits. It is a simple dark gray dress shirt beneath a silk black, I’m-sorry-how-am-I-supposed-to-breathe-in-this vest, with tailored pants and shining black shoes.
“It compliments you,” Requin says in mild approval, observing him through a full and predatory circle, eyes gleaming with ideas he doesn’t say out loud.
Marcella tells him that the rest shall be done before they go, but a performance outfit will take longer, and that she will send it when it is done. After all, she claims as they thank her and move for the door, it takes a long time for true genius to strike for things such as this.
“Where did you go?” Krinn asks the older man as soon as they are out in the street again, the scent of rain in the air, even though the clouds passing overhead refuse to yield to the wet.
“Business,” Requin responds vaguely.
They visit a barber next, who regards Krinn’s hair as though it is a foreign gift of the greatest magnitude before settling on a cut. He makes small talk with Requin while he is at it, and the man responds to each and every comment with crisp, thought out responses that seem to neither give way to emotion nor give in to monotony either.
It’s a talent that Krinn wants to learn some day.
They leave the barbers and Krinn feels as though his head has been lifted of ten unnecessary pounds, and in between fiddling with the newly smoothed locks, he frowns in Requin’s general direction.
“I am starting to believe this excursion is merely to redecorate me to your specifications.”
The man chuckles, and without glancing at his companion, says, “Perhaps.”
Krinn sticks his hands in his hair, still mildly baffled. “It’s so much shorter.”
“It’s fitting.”
“For?”
Requin makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and doesn’t say anything else. Krinn idles in a few shop windows to stare at the cut, dark gray hair tamed from its storm-like appearance into a smooth, shorter version, bangs slanting in straight lines across half of his face, longer strips touching his shoulders. Fitting, he thinks quietly to himself, for something in a Circus, I suppose.
The carriage takes them to a small restaurant tucked away beneath the veil of stars and lantern-strewn streets. The clouds with rumbling thunder have moved on, leaving only remnants in their wake; small, dark shapes that dust the sky above. The restaurant is not as grand as the Queen’s Café, and for that Krinn is grateful. It is dim on the inside, dark, hardwood floors reflecting the shimmer of firelight from all around. A waiter bows and takes them to a private table near to the back, and Requin settles in place as though he has always belonged there, melding perfectly into the faceless ambience of the nighttime crowd.
“How do you do that?” Krinn asks him, his tone somewhat envious.
Requin lifts his brow inquisitively and takes a sip of brandy; he’d offered the Dust one as well, but liquor had never interested him, and so he had rather politely declined.
“Do what?”
“That.” Krinn sighs, unsure of how to explain. “You. Just.” The smoothness of conversation has never been a strong point of his. “You’re good at… belonging to places. You stand out when you want to, but you don’t when you – uh -”
“Don’t want to,” Requin finishes helpfully for him, at the cost of Krinn sounding the fool. Requin takes another phantom-like sip, settling the glass on the table and looking around. “It’s not a secret.” He says, waving a hand dismissively, “it’s just a talent you pick up after long enough.”
“But – “
“How?” The man regards him with knowing, mature, calm eyes, “you’ll learn. In time.”
Defeated, the Dust crosses his arms and waits as their meals are served out; modest but decadent plates full of roasted quail served over fresh greens, foreign berries decorating the sides.
Requin explains basics to him; the Circus is a moving creature. It survives not in one place but in many, all. On the road, they live in caravans; the train is too slow and too predictable, and causes more trouble than they’d like. The amount of time they stay in any one place is unpredictable, because Requin’s establishment itself is meant to be unpredictable.
The man draws circles on the table and describes that there is an outer ring of workers, those that pass in and out of their gates and perform for some cities and then disappear just as quickly in others. The inner circle, however, is a close-knit group formed through the years and through an oath that is unbreakable, that he is also curiously vague on, to the point of frustrating Krinn into stabbing an unassuming piece of fruit. While the outer circle rotates through different people every year, the inner circle stays the same and compromises a core group of entertainers. An animal tamer, an illusionist. A group of contortionists, acrobats, fire breathers. The list is vastly larger than that, but Krinn doubts he will grasp its full depth before he sees the circus itself.
Quietly he asks if Caelan was – is? – part of the inner circle. After a long moment, Requin responds that he was, and now he is again. When he inquires further, wants to know what category he falls under, the man smiles.
“You are a unique case.” He reiterates as they come upon dessert. “A part of the inner circle by connection alone, but without the years behind you, courtesy of your guardian, whether you are related by blood or not.” His eyes half-lid. “I would recommend caution though.”
Not all will be pleased with someone skipping the line to get in. Your arrival will stir up trouble if you are not careful.
Krinn understands the words, the warning,
This is as far as that part of their conversation goes. He could ask him why he’s bothering; ask him what purpose is being served in welcoming him in like a stray dog.
Instead, he turns to dessert, sampling the raspberry glaze, the sugar crusted crumble stuffed with fresh fruit and an indiscernible spice. Caelan’s brief intrigue as a chef had left him with a curiously observant palette, but still some things escaped his knowledge.
“Are we done with your business for today then?” He questioned, glancing up. Requin was sipping at brandy, eyes idling on the unassuming crowd around them.
“There is one more business transaction I would prefer to move out of the way tonight.” He said as though conversing about a game piece that needed to be nursed into the correct position. His eyes trailed back to the Dust. “I would like for you to accompany me. The night grows late, but I am sure you will handle it well.”
Krinn laughed for the first time that day, and gestured candidly for the man to collect the check. “I imagine that is simply an order you’ve decided to disguise politely.” He commented, wry words making Requin watch him for a long moment, even when the waiter slid the check onto the table. “And as I am about to become a part of your circus that lives during the night, I also imagine that I will have to handle it well to survive.”
Requin smiled. “A quick learner,” He observed instead of answering, and paid. Collecting his coat, he gestured for the Dust to follow, navigating through the faceless crowd without attracting a single glance, even though Krinn himself had trouble getting to the door without others raising their brows. Requin once again held it open for him.
“You will adapt to our establishment just fine,” He mused, and then glanced at Krinn as the night swallowed them both whole, “so long as that tongue of yours does not get you killed.”
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Posted: Fri Aug 03, 2012 2:52 am
 journal entry 「 0 0 1 」
I learned quickly about the circus within the first few weeks of living in it.
As complex as it seemed to the outsider, it was deceptively simple – a statement that Requin found very irritating when I brought it up for the first time. The first piece of information that classifies its importance above all the rest is that beneath all of the fanciful names and the delicate black and white costumes, we are little more than a group of traveling performers. Storytellers at heart, with a stage beneath the sky, whether it is night or day, rain or sun.
The classification of chores outside of actual performances was just as easy to map out. If you could lift a saddle, you lifted saddles, and if you were tall enough, strong enough, you learned how to handle a sword. If you had a knack for juggling, you juggled, and if you were had a fair hand at cooking, the innards of the kitchen would quickly become your home. Age was of little importance, which in my case is a pleasant surprise, considering I look older than most who are twice my age. I was quickly integrated into the world behind the flashy performances and dazzling costumes.
My education was a collaborative effort shared without qualm by the older members of the troupe (and sometimes the younger ones as well.) Bellamy, whose mother was an acrobat with a penchant for teasing money out of hesitant men, taught me the basics of juggling, while my knowledge of chemistry and physics came from Requin himself, who had taken an uncanny interest in teaching me after a particularly private game of poker with Caelan (I rather suspect it was my education that was on the table as a bet.) The strangest of things became important in the case of traveling; how to start a fire, four hundred different types of berries, and which ones were poisonous, and which ones would save you in the event that you had somehow consumed something that would soon have you coughing blood.
The more daring aspects of the show were far from my reach, something that did not at all trouble me when I thought about it in retrospect. Instead I was tutored in the actor’s wagons in the afternoons and after dark; I learned what might have been clever tricks for a /conmen if we weren’t only using them on a stage. Accents and slight lilts in tone that seemed subtle and yet very quickly changed the way one spoke and the meaning in their words. I brushed down the horses that pulled the troupe along the many well-worn roads and I helped cook because I was one of the few that wouldn’t burn down the entire circus if I tried.
The longer I stayed with the circus, the more I realized that it was an entire world all on its own. Not in size, certainly, but in culture. In fact, there were far fewer of us than one might imagine. The permanent circle of the troupe’s family rivaled only a small number, though we welcomed travelers of all crafts and trades into our company for different circumstances each - some looking for a large group to travel safely with, and some looking for a world away from their own while they moved from one city to the next. Each of them stayed with us long enough for names to linger on the tips of our tongues, but not long enough that the bittersweet feeling stayed past a fortnight or two. Each of them taught me strange things about the world, foreign things that at first seemed like little more than tangents of intriguing, but ultimately useless information. A traveling novelist taught me proper penmanship, a tailor taught me to sew. A pair of brothers taught me how to properly keep books in perfect shape, while a sister and her mother insisted that I come and learn the lute a little with them on a cold, windless night. But each left us with the shifting of the tide; each town and city held bittersweet goodbyes and fresh, new hellos.
It is true what Requin said after all; that there was an inner circle, a core group of travelers that stayed on for life, and an outer circle composed those that swept in and out, never staying long. I questioned him one night on the regality of his particular troupe; it was true we were popular, but there was a difference between being good and being wealthy. That is when I came to realize that we were owned. It makes sense once you think about it, and you must think about it at some point to fully understand the way the traveling circus works and why so many doors open beneath our searching hands. We are owned by a wealthy man, the mastermind behind the circus, the one who sought to create a traveling performance to marvel spectators across the whole of Amies. Our wealth did not come from our sales but from our benefactor. And at first it felt unfair, a chain, something that did not sit well with me. But Requin explained that it was better to be wealthy with a few responsibilities than to be a free and too poor to feed an entire troupe. A strange concept, but an acceptable one as well, I suppose. And our benefactor did treat us well so long as the troupe returned to his home to entertain during the long winter months.
Our wagons were unique in their own right and far from the reach of the man who'd desired to wrap his influence around the circus itself. They were as large as small apartments on the inside and cozy enough that I never felt cold on nights in between cities and on the road. What’s more, the troupe at its very heart were nomads - people whose homes were ever moving. I felt a strong kinship with them that I couldn’t really describe at first, recognition of similarity that I hadn’t realized I’d been looking for all this time. It was odd at first, foreign and warm and painful all at once. And then it was simply there, and I was simply one of them, and it all fit into place like a puzzle finally complete.
It has been four months now, and the road is good and long and brings with it the scent of rain. Where we go next is up to chance and fate, a gamble of luck and coincidence that will come of its own accord.
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Posted: Sat Aug 04, 2012 8:38 pm
 PRP.status: ongoing.
participants: nolan & krinn.A day spent in town turns into a brawl trying to defend a strange dragon child.
The rules of humanity stay in place, even when the Dust calls them into question for the first time.
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Posted: Sat Aug 04, 2012 8:46 pm
consequences & the fallacy of men.
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Posted: Tue Aug 14, 2012 10:57 pm
a building rift, an act of mercy.
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Posted: Tue Aug 14, 2012 11:13 pm
 PRP.status: ongoing.
participants: cadaver & krinn.The troupe camps out in the city, and krinn runs into an old friend while on break.
However, both of them have changed, whether for worse or for better... well, only time will tell.
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Posted: Thu Oct 25, 2012 2:01 am
 PRP.status: complete.
participants: ziya & krinn.A midnight meeting turns disastrous when a demon sniffs out the rain and the lightning.
What might have once been a pleasant encounter between two friends quickly turns bloody, but theres more on the line than just physical wounds.
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