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 Posted: Sun Dec 01, 2013 4:41 pm
A singular gaze swooped to the shallow bowl set out nearby, wooden and cracked and mournfully empty, as hands fell idle. Slow would be the word he'd choose, a slow start to the day and nothing more. Prokhor didn't particularly enjoy mornings, he liked sleeping as late as midday when unemployment allowed, an unfortunately common occurrence. Today would have been no exception without the sickening lure of debts come due that settled in the pit of his stomach.
About an hour had passed since he'd found this spot, a good one with decent foot traffic, to set up 'shop' in the loosest sense of the word. He could afford nothing fancy, his tools of the trade merely thick branches he'd found and broken down to similar lengths. Those idle hands began to move again, flipping all five branches one after the other deftly into the air. Despite his disheveled appearance, he had some notable skill. Juggling seemed rather natural and his smile never once faded. In fact, he even whistled every once in a while, as if compelled by some unseen force.
A slow start, that was all. Even as passersby continued to shuffle along, rarely if ever glancing his way or leaving any much-needed change in his cracked wooden bowl, he kept on smiling.
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Posted: Mon Dec 09, 2013 2:41 pm
Any other time, Kozel himself would have been just another passerby shuffling past without a second look, keeping his head low and just wanting to get out of public, back to work. But, for once!, the servant was in a good mood and the cause of that was obvious in the parcel he held so adoringly: new tea leaves, a rare treat he had allowed himself this fine morning. He strode with an uncommon confidence, eager to get back to the Inn, but not so eager that he didn't pause, taking notice of an unkempt youth doing an odd... something.
A good mood from Kozel only meant bad news for others. As he came closer and watched the act with a critical eye, judging Prokhor's unsavory appearance and the empty bowl set out more than his skill, even, it was clear he was unimpressed. In fact he felt compelled, in all his high spirits, to make his derision clear, speaking up after a moment in a tone as dismissive as it was demanding. "Do you expect payment for this?" Yes, a cheerful Kozel was a bold Kozel, and from him bold was just another word for rude.
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Posted: Wed Dec 25, 2013 9:19 pm
It was obvious by the extension of his grin that the showman took eager notice of the approach, of the first and only soul so far to acknowledge his performance. Perhaps a quick look, an even quicker toss to the bowl if he were lucky, Prokhor expected only that. What he got in actuality had him stumbling, and yes, doing so quite literally. There was a stutter in his routine, one branch not lifting back into the air as quickly as it needed to and in a moment all of them had gathered awkwardly in his hands as the show came to an abrupt end. At least he hadn't dropped any...
"I would not say I expect it..." His voice was thoughtful, even despite the thickness of his accent and the obvious way he still had to put good effort into the language. "But it would be nice. I perform so others can enjoy." He was smiling, as he always did. Even if the tone he'd been greeted with was not so pleasing, he thought perhaps his new company needed only an explanation and a bit more to see. He was already preparing to juggle anew.
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Posted: Thu Jan 09, 2014 3:50 pm
It was a small victory for Kozel to have stopped the act, because really, it simply seemed dangerous to be tossing sticks about like that, but not a victory he could savor long as his smug relief turned to shock once the younger man spoke in an accent he recognized immediately, so much like his own, and another he had met not long ago. That run-in with Zharkov had been surprising enough, but to encounter another possible comrade so soon? The same cautious spark of hope as then ignited in the Katchian now, but with it came disappointment as he frowned at the younger man's—or more like a boy's—answer.
"Hold it!" Seeing the boy readying to start his spectacle again, he stepped forward, brandishing a finger like a lecturing father. Oh, Kozel was ready to lecture, alright. "You should know not to fool around when others are speaking to you, and I am still speaking," he huffed indignantly, but, remembering that it would be better to make allies here, tried softening his tone a bit for his next question. "Now tell me, where are you from? You cannot possibly be native."
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Posted: Mon Jan 20, 2014 3:19 pm
In that instant he was frozen, fingers only loosely curled, wrist half-way to snapping the first branch back up into the air. He didn't even have a chance to falter, stopped before he'd started, and he supposed it was better than ending up awkwardly interrupted again. Lowering his arms—though hanging onto his props kept him from dropping them to his sides, of course—he gave a short breath's response, but could get out nothing more than that. This stranger, this person he'd hoped would be a gracious audience, was... reprimanding him?
It had been years since anything came remotely close to this. Yet, even with all this time, there was a short moment where his eyes nearly threatened to glaze over. As a child, it had been his practiced reaction to scolding, and as an adult, it almost remained so. It was only the question that brought him quite instantly back into the situation. "I am from Okraina," he answered suddenly, almost too quickly, as if he hadn't meant to. And it took a second to regain himself. "I could ask you the same thing." He was grinning. Of course it would have been impossible for Prokhor to miss the accent lacing the other's speech, as well.
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Posted: Fri Feb 14, 2014 7:42 pm
Despite suspecting as much, the answer was enough to rattle Kozel into stepping back, suddenly less sure of his standing with the boy—with the instinctive enemy. "Okraina," he repeated stiffly, then quickly deflected answering for himself by launching into a tirade even as he took another wary step away, tea leaves held close like a talisman. "I should have guessed you were Okrainan, out on the street idling away like this. You bring shame to your family, and to your country."
Such harsh words were small consolation for the bitter frustration Kozel felt, to have his hopes of meeting a fellow Katchian dashed. It wasn't enough for Okrainans to have invaded his country; they seemed to be following him here, too. "You must be here for a reason," he snapped, very real anger in his eyes. "Why not do something more worthwhile with yourself?" It was the closest to 'get a real job' he would say, anyway.
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Posted: Sat May 31, 2014 12:32 am
Family. You bring shame to your family. That was something he didn't need to be told, and it actually reflected across his expression in that moment as he tried to keep a smile, but largely failed. He didn't look distraught, but no longer looked particularly happy. It was almost surprising to think that this stranger had no idea what a nail he'd hit on the head, but there it was, and the Okrainan's stomach was almost twisting in a way he hadn't felt since he decided to try and forget about the past altogether.
"Ahaha... You might be surprised then, to know my reasons for leaving. Are you familiar with Okraina?" Suddenly, Prokhor stopped. Only a second more and he would have asked if Kozel expected anything like this to be appreciated within the boundaries of that country. He already knew his own answer to that question, but it stung a little bit that so far he'd found very few in this new country who allowed themselves to be entertained by his shows, either. Had this trip, the one he'd barely been able to make as it was, ended up fruitless and utterly pointless after all?
"To me this is worthwhile," he muttered, holding up the sticks a little in his folded arms. Slowly, awkwardly, a smile was returning. "It is too bad I seem to be the only one, hm?" It was obviously an attempt at a joke.
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Posted: Fri Jun 06, 2014 7:38 pm
Now they seemed to be getting somewhere. Kozel considered that faltering smile a sign of progress. He'd intended only to have a quick say, to bestow his grand wisdom on this wayward youth and impress upon him the importance of work, and perhaps he could have left then, left the boy to ruminate over his scolding, but something in that comment—his reason for leaving?—gave the servant a pause. Just how young was this boy anyway, that was the question on the older man's mind as he squinted at him, wondering at that ridiculous nose he just noticed, that malnourished build so familiar to him, but what did he care really.
"Of course I am familiar with Okraina," Kozel answered begrudgingly. He reminded himself that the other foreigner could not possibly pose a threat and still self-consciously corrected his enunciation, trying to better disguise his accent of the subtle differences maybe only he fixated on. "It is as I tell you: Okraina was plagued with problematic citizens, such as yourself, who actively—in your inactivity—led to her decline in industry..." Nevermind the accent; the former polemicist had gotten carried away with his opinion and, realizing such, derailed that train of thought before it revealed his true loyalties after all, voice lowered to something less passionate but still dripping with disdain.
"It is absolutely not worthwhile what you do, now bringing your lack of ambition to Sunderland." Kozel was so repulsed by the boy that he wanted to know him. Though he was nervous, obvious in the way his free hand fiddled with his neck cloth, he held himself with a sense of superiority brought on by that rare chance to rant. "Well, do not be rude! Introduce yourself," he commanded abruptly, moving things along as swiftly as his racing thoughts, grasping for a topic to change to.
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Posted: Sat Jun 07, 2014 10:35 am
Observation was far from a strong suit, especially in situations such as this, where eyes locked on ones full of disdain found no time to take in much of anything else. Noting a slight difference in accent or, perhaps more poignantly, the years of exhaustion that may have lingered around the frayed edges of his man who had clawed so suddenly into his life? More than completely impossible at this point. For all his boasting, his great desire to make people laugh and to bring them happiness, Prokhor often knew so little about what made anyone tick. It was unfortunate that blindness included himself, as well. Since leaving Okraina, he had focused so solely on a singular set of interlocking goals: to entertain and to be appreciated for it. Nothing else took the time to matter.
Very few folks had likewise taken the time to acknowledge either of those perceived needs before now. In this short, unexpected meeting, the unknown before him had already subsequently torn him down in both of these aspects with precision. It was not the sort of reaction Prokhor thought he would ever receive. Suddenly, sharply, he wanted to run. There was no mother to hide behind this time; fighting his own battles was something he had never quite learned to do, for standing up only lasted as long as his father made coherent sense in his anger, before he "ran away" from home like the boy he was. In the only instance in which he had made an attempt to truly defend himself, he'd been left on the ground with a broken nose and an ungodly headache that lasted days.
"I have ambition," he attempted, feebly, mind spinning with all that he had said. Inactivity, decline in industry, Prokhor certainly did not understand politics, nor did he know what this had to do with being a performer. All he knew, in the moment, was the berating being laid upon him now caused an unfortunate sting. Not worthwhile, worthless. He thought he had expelled all of these worries when he'd moved to Sunderland.
Stuttering over an attempt to dispel the other man's claim of worthlessness, he forced out only an awkward noise before the demand for an introduction caught him square in the face and threw him from his game even further. Jumping in his skin, he mentally stumbled again, and was already muttering in response before he could think long enough to stop himself. "Prokhor. P-Prokhor Zaytsev, ah, well, that is my name."
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Posted: Sun Jun 08, 2014 4:16 am
For as callous as he could be, even Kozel realized he might have overstepped things there, put off by the reaction he received. The boy looked rattled, when the servant was more used to anger and argumentation after he went off on someone, and he vastly preferred feeling self-righteous to feeling... bad. No, Kozel reassured himself, he was in the right. The Okrainan youth had been affected by his words, and would surely think about things once they parted (and that sounded like a good idea right about now), and maybe he would even turn his life around to be more productive. Sure, he seemed hurt, but Kozel liked to think of it more as being humbled. But he only gave the boy a withering look instead of trying to interrogate him on just what ambition he could possibly hold. He'd heard some shoddy rebuttals in his time, but 'I have ambition,' spoken like a sulking child, had to be right up there.
And as much as he would have liked to criticize Prokhor's introduction, too, the older man only tipped his head in acknowledgement, tone civil but dry. "Zaytsev. I see." Not even bothering to give his own name, Kozel instead dropped his hand to his coat pocket and moved towards the forgotten, empty wooden bowl. Again he was tempted to make some comment here, 'see how little anyone else cares?', but kindly refrained from doing so as he, half-hating himself for it, dug out some leftover coins and tossed them in. Watching them clatter together, because he suddenly felt he couldn't look at the boy anymore, Kozel offered one final, cheerful sentiment: "I hope I do not see you again, Zaytsev."
Straightening, dignified in his inconspicuous but pristine servant's attire, tea leaves in hand, Kozel turned smartly on his heel to leave, to return to his completely respectable place of work and his home, however modest it was. The Katchian was just about everything that Okrainan boy was not, he felt, and their differences in ambition could possibly be the largest marker. The boy had no ambition at all, and it was a shame, though a common one. That's what Kozel took away from this. Because to think, perhaps, that Prokhor did have ambition, but no means to pursue it—the empty bowl he had derided would not leave his mind even as he left it all behind—was too much of a shame to consider.
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