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Plague Doctor ORP

August 28th, 1410.

Why?
Come one, come all, to the performance of the century!

Whom?
Everyone is invited.

Where?
Colwe, Shyregoed, out at the center plaza. It is cold, but not desperately so, and the weather is perfect for a nice little performance...

Things had not gone as intended.

Beatrix had only meant to stay in Colwe, the heart of his cold region for just a little bit, but it seemed that things had not turned out that way. Usually, however, things took a turn for the worst in her life. But perhaps things were beginning to look up, even marginally.

She had found a purpose, not just to make candies and satisfy the sweet tooth of distinguished citizens in Gadu, but something a little more then that. And hopefully even better things would come after this task, something perhaps concerning the Science Council. Perhaps as she stood in the busy market the Counselor was reading her proposal. It was a funny thing to be thinking about as she was in the middle of aiding the Mage faction and watching a splendid troupe.

Beatrix had not smiled for many years, not a true smile. Yes, there was something of contentment at the glisten of the jewelery she bought, or the satisfaction when she created another confectionery, but she had not felt happiness for a long time. But something about watching a performance from a traveling troupe brought her back to her childhood, when a multitude of characters - and troupes - would pass by her town.

Even as she was clad in traditional garb as to blend in, a cloak with some fur and very practical boots, she was enjoying the festivities. Even if she was a stranger in this land she felt right home, though, considering the part she was playing Beatrix she feel like there was no better place then here.

And there wasn't.

Though her face was hidden and her clothes a far cry from what she usually wore, she felt free. Free as she wore a figurative mask. And the little Plague hidden away in a matchbox shared her glee.

Beatrix was amidst the crowd in front of the performance area, up at the front so she could really enjoy the festivities, though it was tempting to head to the buffet. However, she didn't want to lose her spot so she stayed put, a small, but serene smile dancing across her lips.

If anyone was excited to hear about the carnival troupe it was most definitely little Chauhn Clemmings and his miniature brother. As soon as the rumor of the mysterious group began circulating in the house of Lord Yizhaq, nonetheless the grounds of the Fellowship, Chauhn was intensely distracted. He was a good page, a wonderful servant, who acted quickly and promptly with a curt and polite nod, but with the promise of festivities hanging above his head in a constant web of distraction, just barely bothering his sense, Chauhn found himself needing instructions to be repeated twice. Thoughts of the games, the performances and shows, of colors, and smells, and songs that would be sung wafted dangerously on the edge of his waking mind and he glanced longingly at the windows during his daily tasks of working underneath Lord Yizhaq. Circuses of any type were a rare occurrence for Chauhn, especially as of late considering his constantly shifting surroundings, but when a weary company of troupers dragged themselves into the trading town of the Imisese coast, Chauhn was just one of the many urchins surging in the crowds around them. It made for prime pickings. But this was a different town, a different region altogether! And it was the first time in at least a long year and a half that Chauhn had seen a carnival.

It was also the first time that Clurie had ever heard tell of such a gay event. In between tasks and duties, Chauhn would relay and explain bits of the various information he had gathered on the event to the little Phasmas gathered in his collar, comfortably nestled against the burnt skin of Chauhn's collarbone. Clurie found himself feeding on his brother's excitement, his cheeks warming up to a dull glow every time that the carnival was mentioned (which was many, considering that Clurie, for the several first discussions forgot what a carnival was in the first place regardless of Chauhn's determined explanations). His mind entertained flickering images and torches of the fair grounds, of stories! Stories! Clurie absolutely adored stories and chauhn had mentioned that there would be performances, live stories performed just like his own games of imagination, but with costumes and music! Not just pretend. Considering all the factors, it wasn't long before Clurie began to voice his desire to go to the carnival, loudly and frequently, until the point that Lord Yizhaq, with a quiet and solemn smile, knowing full well the Clemmings brothers in his employment wouldn't be satisfied until they enjoyed the festival.

It was a mere matter of running throughout the hallways, snatching up whatever warm mismatching clothes items that he could gather, including the very important scarf for Clurie's sustainability and concealment, a worn leather satchel, and a few shillings, before the Clemmings brothers were racing out the door and to the fair's makeshift grounds in the middle of the Colwe plaza, just a fifteen minute run away.

"Chauhn! We're going to miss it. Hey Chauhn! Where are we going again?" the little voice from his collar was muffled by the fabric and wind. The page almost didn't hear his brother, but his ears had grown accustomed to listening for the dry itch of Clurie's voice.

"No, we're no'," Chauhn assured his brother, eying the casual crowd of shivering Shyregoadians mulling around the performance stage. Despite his golden heart and new status, he had to repress his curious urchin instincts and he kept himself from eying unwatched coin purses. He had more important matters, like showing Clurie the performers! This meant that he had to get in close and if he wanted to the stage's edge, he had to move quickly, put his street rat skills to the test. There would be no point in coming if little Clurie could not see the stage.

Chauhn, looking nothing more than a slightly cleaned up urchin, gingerly weaved himself through the crowd, not noticing the panicky mouse-eyed woman he met months before. He gently pushed against her skirts as he passed and he made a brief touch of his fingers to his hat as a signal of apology.

"Sorry, mum! 'Scuse me, mum," Chauhn piped automatically, "And thank y', didn' mean nothin'. 'Scuse me."

Little Clurie though, had something else to say, "Chauhn! I smell something!"

"No' now, Clurie...'member wha' ah told you abou' talkin' when we're ou'side?"

"No."

The "urchin" continued on through the crowd.

Oh, where had she gone?

Red swirled eyes scanned the area, searching for the familiar dark cloak "his lady" wore. All sorts of scents filled the area and were throwing him off, and in this huge crowd he could smell quite a few small ones which was how he normally kept track of Miss Amaranthe, now starring in the role as Lady Estratus. Physically, none would be the wiser.

Pulling his hood down to shadow his face more from the bright glow of midday, Sloane ground his dagger-like teeth in annoyance. Smells familiar and less so were mingled in such a way that he could barely point anyone out, but as he got closer through them, nudged this way and that, he could smell Dear Elsie and the young ones, Chauhn and Clurie. Oh, if he were not here on business he would have loved to initiate conversation with them but it was better they did not recognize him at this juncture. "His lady" had insisted, oh yes, and then pulled herself from him. It wasn't as though the real Lady Estratus would not suddenly go and do something she wanted without consulting Sloane, but she would have allowed him to keep up at the very least.

"Damn your eyes, Beatrix..." he murmured quietly to himself before his eyes locked on to the familiar cloak he had taken from Lady Estratus' wardrobe. Pushing through many bodies, they pushed back, groaned or cursed at him for cutting ahead or shoving them carelessly but he paid them no mind. Edging closer, he stood next to her and carefully gripped the back of her sleeve. "You must never leave my sight, My Lady."

It was then that the man announced when the grand finale would be performed and he felt disappointment tug his cheeks into a slight frown. Over already? But then, they did not arrive but a short time ago. Had he known... Sloane's eyes flicked back to Beatrix and narrowed, face stern. The little one was nowhere to be seen and her smell was faint. "Why do you never let her out? She could at least use the fresh air..." not that Plague's particularly needed to breathe like humans. He kept his voice quiet there, leaning in so he could whisper without her having a hard time hearing him over the music.

It always bothered him when Grimms neglected or abused their Plagues. It completely defeated the purpose of the Grimm to begin with and there Beatrix was, ashamed of her gift, a Servos no less, bound to become a healing wonder and a gift not only to her but to Shyregoed, to the world. And, selfishly, Sloane desired more of his kind to speak to. In his current form, humans easier companions, far more abundant and personable, but they did not share a kindred spirit as with other Plagues, a certain natural bonding he felt with each and every one, even if they did not exactly get along.

Beatrix didn't know how exactly how she gotten herself into a leading role as this, but fate seemed to have much in store for her. It was about time that things had begun to turn up for her, after the fact that her life had been hell for so long. Here, she was doing a great service for a woman whose cause was close to her heart. The Fellowship, much like the Council, worked towards curing the plague. It was nearly a coin toss to where she had decided to dedicate her time, but she felt a kinship more with the Council, with the domain of science.

Her father, after all, had been a doctor. And it was his death that had forever ensured she would work towards curing the horrible disease, as well as instilling a disgust, a wariness of those creatures that were Plagues. And as such it was hard for her to even consider following instructions from one, especially a man. Beatrix did take well to orders any more, though she knew not to make a fuss in public - she was a lady, after all. Her eyes flickered to the figure who was tugging at her sleeve, the smile leaving her face long before he got a chance to look at her. "Of course." She said stiffly, so emotionless it could barely be considered a reply.

She did not like the fact that this Sloane was tailing her, but apparently it was necessary if she wanted to go outside, which was all the time. It was not her nature to stay cooped up in one place. It was why she enjoyed roaming and traveling the regions. But her new part would cut down on such an activity for a little while.

An end. But only temporary, it would not be permanent - like before. And as long as she kept close in mind that this was a great service then she would make it through this. Plus, there was also to consider the advancement there would be because of her actions. Even she had ambitions.

Beatrix had not expected any more conversation from the man, for she did not intend to say much more to him. She had yet to meet a Plague she liked and she doubted that it would change any time soon. The first one she had met, well, other then the one in her matchbox, had been quite an experience...

"That is not your concern." Beatrix said with a quiet, but biting edge, and she would never dare to let the thing loose in such a large crowd. Was the man mad? She would never want a single soul more to befall upon that terrible disease! And so the Plague was kept away, sealed tight in the matchbox.

She watched the Plague, though did not move away from him, though she very much wished so. Beatrix knew how to play a part perfectly, even when in the presence of a monster - or two. "Are you enjoying the performance?" She asked, making idle chatter anyway, as talk would at least get her mind off of the situation.

Festival season.

Theo could barely disguise the old displeasure at being back in Colwe, much less at this gathering of dirty bodies for some mundane form of entertainment. These were the kind of events that he had watched from the windows of his former church with a detached feeling of superiority - he had better things to do, rather than tromp around in the mud with the common folk only to be entertained for a few hours at a time. In fact, he would not have come, dirtying his new clothing, if Ophelia had not persuaded him, after hearing word from the guards at the fortress. This place was disgusting.

"Stop it." He spoke quietly to himself and shook his head. That was not the way to act. That was the old attitude - if he were to change, the old attitude must be rectified. To be a productive member of the Fellowship, he must be more accepting.He owed this much to Rosalie to at least attempt to have a good time. He owed it to Ophelia - his Ophelia - to do the same. But now that they were here, the little Caedos watched the crowds with the same distant annoyance that Theo was trying to quell. Her white eyes peered out from the collar of his new coat, the orange fabric that enveloped her scratching his neck.

"How disgusting." She scrambled momentarily against the skin of his shoulder to stand up. "Look, Theo. Your boots are getting so caked in mud." The tiny voice held a hint of dismay, and Theo felt himself touched by her concern, however ill-placed it seemed.

"Don't lean out too far," He advised, and nudged the Plague back inside his collar with a gentle push of his finger. She waited a moment and sat still, the coat doing its job of keeping her hidden from the crowds, but she soon grew bored of this obedience and leaned forward again.

At this point in time, what Theo figured to be the troupe leader (judging by his ridiculous appearance and need to be center stage, anyway) made an announcement that the grand finale was about to begin, the crowds moved forward, and he drifted along with everyone else (not that he had too much choice, with how many people had collected around the makeshift stage). They came all this way, so might as well stay for the final performance, right? As he was about to suggest this idea to Ophelia, somebody on his right-hand side pushed hard into him and sent him stumbling into the person on the other side. The two shoulders bumped rather smartly and Ophelia would have nearly tumbled down the front of Theo's shirt if he hadn't reached his other hand up to secure her.

"Oh -- ! My apologies." The former priest scooted a step or two from the woman he had knocked shoulders with, but was soon again pressed into her by the force of the crowd gathering closer to the stage. He tried to offer one of his stored "apologetic" smiles, but soon the changing of his features stopped cold in surprise.

He.. he remembered this woman. Where had he seen her before?

- A candlemark after the announcement. -

Queen Vanyala of the Northern Sanct was as calm as her land's given title suggested, and her regal face and smooth voice was a contrast against the harshness of the tundras she ruled. Her garbs were kept cleanly, embroideries of various silvers and dull golds kept to her servants' fervent attentions, and the woman showed little signs of oncoming age. Her eyes were sharp and as perceptive as they looked, and she looked upon at her people, her neck long and held high. The nomadic and pious men under her wing were the pride of her, more than her lineage. All who wished to rebel were quelled by the pronged edges of her army's swords.

But rarely did she show herself in public, for the reach of her words were heard and remembered by many, and the echoes of her political voice reached the ends of Shyregoed quicker than the rushing waters. Perhaps the only times she was met with the desire to step outside of her frozen quarters was when her adviser had told her to, or because she missed the soothing winds of the frigid mountains.

It was quite likely that she was present for the latter, though the faint inkling of amusement shone through. She was a respected Mage herself, a powerful queen that led as well as she fought, but her presence was hidden by the looming bubble of personal guards near the foot of the plaza's hall. The stone throne that was used by the ancestors of her father was cleaned and free of snow, the seat kept warm by magical ambers that could not make skin burn. No stages nor pedestals were set up in front of the Sanct's Queen; the only performers in front of her were a pair of fire breathers, whose flames licked the dry air with orange sparks. The guards next to her throne kept a statue appearance, the shiny and scraped surface of their armor glimmering with bits of snow and ash.

The other performances had continued with a dimming zeal; the colorful clowns, dancers and contortionists alike stared longingly at the crowd as a blast of music fell through their ears. At the edge of the stands were a rather impressive group of musicians, whose various instruments thrummed through the otherwise barren capital. The blare of trumpets and beat of drums beckoned little ones to come forth, and a curious few poked their heads into the fray of varied instruments. A tiny silver can, dented and rusting, was in front of them, though the Shillings of the makeshift ensemble's affections were few and far between. The cellist at the front of the stage kept an eager eye out for the luckless and the dirty, in a meager hope to stare them away from taking their well-earned pay.

Near the end of the candlemark many of the performances came to a dazzling close, and after the performers hopped out of their various props and stretched their sore muscles, they strayed away from the podiums with hunched backs and yawns. A select two or three performances continued, with the eager prodding of the audience's attention. Thespians and ringmasters merged with the crowd to watch as the final of the shows with child-like grins. The man dressed in silver and gold, whose top hat poked through the onslaught of festival-goers, urged the rest of the Troupe onward and away from the stages, and eventually all of the performers were led to the back of the center podium, hidden away by the scarlet drapes.

As the music started to soften into a calmer tune, the soft singing of bells accented the noise of the stands. A rather tall boy, nearing the peaks of adolescence, idled through the crowd, a basket of bells strapped around his back.

Beatrix clearly did not enjoy this... thing's presence (to call him a man didn't place him any higher in her mind). They could not see eye to eye, but how could they? They both had their own predispositions of the other, of what and who they were. But they were forced in each others companionship, though she was the one doing the other a favor. It was by her own choice that she was risking her life to play a twin for Lady Estratus.

But she did not fear death. Perhaps it would be a welcome now, after everything she had lived through. Death, at the very least, was an escape, rather then a confinement. And that was something she knew more then anyone else - and how such a thought made her stomach twist and her spirit was lit aflame. But no one would think that she knew of such a thing.

Especially not this man here, as he commented on her treatment of the disease. And that was all Beatrix considered the thing in her matchbox. A disease that needed to be contained, a madness that needed to be shut away. She truly didn't know any better. What the plague had already taken away from her and the events that had spiraled there after made her think the worse of the disease and everything it was associated with.

But it was truly that she did not know any better. If she knew... she would be horrified of her actions, of cooping up a being that felt and thought just like she did.

As she was lost in thought her protector's words made a puzzle expression appear on her face, the terms just not meshing with her opinion of the Plagues, but she shook it off. "I see." There was something of a vacant quality to her, as she stared out at the performance. She knew what it was like to only have worry on her mind. "I just had to come and see the Troupe. It might be the only chance I get." Her words were an explanation for her actions, for the unnecessary work she was putting him through. But seeing this... was important to her.

For a glimmer of the past to be present. Of better times.

Beatrix stayed put, watching the remaining performances and unconsciously touching her matchbox for just a moment.

A protector.

Then, the performers trickled out onto the stage and she looked back at Sloane, her demeanor and posture serious once more.

"If there's nothing you'd like or anyone you'd like to then we can go." She said, her eyes meeting his, noticing the glance across the crowd but not the specifications of it.