Birmingham rough was not the most refined of drinks, but it served the poor just fine. Tybalt had been such a man at one time, and in the absence of fine wine, he would indulge in that bitter cider. Now he was well-enough-off to have a choice, but instead of drinking for poverty, he drank for nostalgia.
And he was not the only one drinking. Two of his fellows, a red-blooded Scot named Rory and a German mechanic named Niko, joined him on his outing. It was not often they stopped long in England, but it was cause for celebration; some of the crew originally hailed from there and still remembered it fondly as home.
Tybalt, flanked by his drinking buddies, sat at the bar of the Plump Pomme Pub slinging back a mug of that beloved unfiltered spirit. Were it not for his accent, one could hardly tell that this enormous git was once a Frenchman; he bantered and sang along as the rest without a care in the world.
The door to the pub scraped open. Dimitri tapped the back of his heel against the front of his other black oxfords before taking another step forward. His fingers traced the lining of his black woolen coat as he removed his top hat and adjusted his monocle. Dimitri's eyes roamed the fine establishment full of singing, dancing, and joy, bringing a faint smile to his lips. He also had cause to celebrate.
Taking the seat closest to the bartender, Dimitri swept his tailcoat under him. "I'll drink anything this can buy me," He said, then hummed with childlike enthusiasm as the coins rhythmically clinked onto the wooden counter. The bartender grunted, swept up the payment, and got to work.
Rory raised his glass, singing along to the English song, slurring his words ever so slightly with his Scottish lilt. The drunker he became, the harder it would be to understand his words, but for now, they were still intelligible. It was a marvel how he would be able to fly the ship the next day, as if he hadn't drunk half his weight in cheap liquor.
Rory was no nobleman and he was nothing like their Ringleader, with his tall stature and easy grin. No, the Captain of the Redempteur sat slightly hunched over, waving a finger to the drunken beat of the bar song that rippled in the air above his head. "Get a loada this fandan that jus' walked in 'er." He hiccuped, looking the newcomer up and down with his fancy tailcoat and monocle. What was a man like that doing in a auld bowfin like this?
Not a hint of red stained his cheeks as Niko gulped down his fifth mug. The cheap liquor was nothing but water in his belly. With his back pressed against the bar table — and scarred face visible to the world — he slammed the empty glass down with a satisfied grunt.
The music ringing in his ears, compared to the sweet hums of the Rédempteur's machinery, was like seadogs barking. He did not join the choir. However, a hearty grin was etched on his lips as his buddies drunkenly piped along.
Let him be, Rory. "Lass ihn in ruhe, Rory." Niko glanced over at the gent, his appearance standing out like a lass amongst dirty thieves, "Du, Rory. Yer drunk arse be brewin' trouble." he pushed his empty mug toward the passing bartender and motioned for another.
The bartender sat a fat mug of rough down before Dimitri; the house's specialty, apparently. Apples worn enough by the ravages of time to make them into liquid then strained to remove the solid bits. The sugary sweetness had long all turned into heady alcohol, and it would serve to get the nobleman very, very drunk if he gave it the chance.
Dimitri lowered to inspect the mug at eye level, tapping it as the bubbles rose to the frothy foam top. "And I was beginning to think you didn't like me," he teased, raising the drink with hearty approval. The bartender grunted again, moving away to attend to other customers.
Dimitri shrugged, took a swig, and slammed it back on the table as the liquid burned in the back of his throat, then trailed down into his chest. He coughed then licked his lips. "Well," He was startled by the strength of it, but it didn't serve to dissuade him, no. The taste was rather charming as he chugged down his money's worth.
Soon as his mug touched the table, a shadow loomed over his shoulder and spit in what was left of his rough. Dimitri's face soured. "What a waste…" he lamented. A disgruntled group of the town's men surrounded him on all corners. Dimitri sighed, unfazed, then picked up his top hat to press it down on the stranger's head beside him. "Hold onto that, would you, please?" he asked before being yanked by the back of his coat and right off his stool.
Rory waved Niko off, shaking his head. "Aye," he was not going to start anything, not tonight. He had promised Tybalt that he would be good. At least, that's what sober Rory had promised. All bets were off on drunk Rory. "Tassie's empty," he stared into the bottom of the cup, realizing that he had polished off another.
Beside them, asruth was brewing. "Place's hoachin tonight." Things were about to busy for the trio who had come for a quiet night of drinking.
Niko rummaging through his coat, paused, A brawl? "Eine Schlägerei?" He glanced to the side. A couple of disgruntled barflies surrounded the fancy gent, dangling him in the air by his collar. He snorted, resuming his search for a cigarette, "Me bets on the pretty lass. No fancy critter looks that calm unless he be drunk or ready t' fight." Niko laughed as he found his cigarette, popping it in his mouth. Now, if only he could find his light.
Tybalt scratched at his head and groaned. He downed the rest of his mug, not because he wanted to, but because he supposed the rest of it would shortly wind up on the floor otherwise. This wasn't his first barfight; it wouldn't be his last.
Dimitri swayed back and forth in the burly man's grip like a coat on a clothesline. He craned his neck around a bit to offer an innocent grin to his captor. "I abhor being picked up in this manner. Actually, I abhor being picked up at all. Might I propose we skip to dinner?" Dimitri said before being swung around dizzily to face the angry mob gathered. Oh, he knew them, and they knew him.
One of 'em spat out, "If it ain't a good fer nothin' Dankworth."
The atmosphere was tense as even those unfit for fighting had a taste for it. Knuckles were cracked and sleeves were rolled. All had a bone to pick, yelling out their personal grievances to compete who had the right to land the first blow. Raised voice after another, listing the family Dankworth's crimes. Bribery, blackmail, theft, assault, mainly assault. The name stripped of its nobility status and wealth made Dimitri commonfolk, and they could do as they liked with commonfolk.
Dimitri raised a hand and interrupted. "Pardon me, I took part in no such activity."
He was kissing the unforgiving floor in a heartbeat, and his monocle cracked. Dimitri coughed and hiccuped. Quite accepting of his new position on the ground, he took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket to gently brush away the glass and blood from his right eye. Luckily, no shards went in.
That was all the prompting that Rory needed to get involved. He rose pushed back from his bar stool, the chair legs scraping with a squeal on the wooden floorboards. Rory cracked his knuckles in anticipation for a good battering. "Oy ye eejit!" Rory called, rolling up his sleeves. "That's gee-in me the boak!" The Scotsman bellowed, indicating that their behavior was making him sick.
Locating his lighter, Niko sparked the end of his cigarette. Ready to enjoy a smoke, his peace was interrupted by Rory. His barstool squealed, echoing in the bar. Now on his drunk feet, Niko knew a storm was brewing, "Verdammt. Du, Tybalt, do I stop 'im?"
Tybalt cracked his neck, giving the matter a few moments longer of patience. When it became apparent that the situation would not be improving, and that the man on the floor was likely not to be left alone there... He gave his say with a wave of his hand. Rory and Niko were free to partake in his defense.
Niko quietly stood, his bar stool pushed to the side. He turned to the bartender, who held his now full mug in his hand, "Keep that safe fer me."
He passed Rory, tapping his shoulder, then walked up to the group. Most intimidated by his presence, backed away. However, there is always one—a tall gent with a crooked eyes and nasty teeth stood in his path.
Niko, cigarette still in mouth, took a long drag and huffed the smoke in his face. Old crooked eye, now blinded, did not see but felt a fist pushed against his cheek. Tumbling back with a mighty force, his body rolled over a table.
Niko grunted, rolling his shoulders. He gave the rest of the men a wild grin when their attention entirely fixed on him. All a bit hesitant, "Bunch o' Schweinehunds. Du, Rory. Wants t' bet? Twenty 'n an ale says I can swing down more barflies than du." he asks as the group finally charges at him, their drunk roars ringing in the bar.
Tybalt's slight wave was all the approval that Rory needed to swing his fist. He tossed an uppercut to the mad wi'it beside him. "I'll gie ye a skelpit lug!" Rory guffawed. The Englishman slapped him in the chest with both arms, trying to push him back. Rory swung again. He needed no superpowered prowess to throw a good lug at the blethering bloke in front of him.
"Stay out of this!" The Englishman snapped, throwing a blind punch. Rory laughed off the blow, the alcohol having dampened his sense of pain some. "Ya rubbered bairn!" He taunted with a laugh. "Better to haud yer weesht and skedaddle off if ye don want another one to yer paunch!"
"Speak English ya drunk! This is England!" The Englishman taunted, "Or are you too knackered to understand me?"
"Blethering eejit!" Rory balled his fist, punching the man in the face so hard, the Englishman spun in a circle before hitting the bar, his nose squelching with a sickening crunch!
Dimitri pulled himself together in the momentary peace of fists swung every way but his way. He rolled onto his side- "Les Trois Mousquetaires has arrived," -then onto his back. He removed the broken monocle and pinched the bridge of his nose, checking it wasn't broken too. His head was throbbing, giving in to the beer's spell combined with the hit.
Arghh, well, he had time to 'make amends.' He gradually got up, dusted off his clothes, and fluttered open his eyes. The right one was stinging with cuts across it, but it could still work wonders. "I'll take that bet, gentlemen!" Dimitri shouted playfully before occupying another stool and swiping the drink off the bartender's hands, who had gone into hiding. With a large gulp, he exhaled, satisfied. After a few more swigs, he shook the mug upside down, then hiccuped.
A stool struck Niko's back — meant for his head, but the German was too tall. The clash shattered the board but Niko remained standing. He turned, catching the brave lout's neck between his arm and squeezed. While he flapped around like a fish out of water, Niko took a short break, having no plans to let a perfect cigarette go to waste. Amid his smoke, another man attacked, and Niko snatched him in his other arm. The two men floundered around, and he squeezed harder.
The burliest of gents had awoken during the mounting chaos. Dimitri smirked over as he shrunk the man's clothes, enough to constrict movements like a coiled snake. Startled and caught unaware, the big oaf toppled. Kissing the ground like Dimitri once was, was a good look for him. "Tuck away your twiddlediddles or else I'll shrink them~" A tipsy Dimitri warned with a song's tune riddled in his voice, a wagging finger, and another hiccup.
Niko ignored their gasps and focused on the fancy gent flooring old crooked eye, "Ja! Thar du go! Knew thar be more t' du than a weak lass." he laughed at Dimitri's boldness for taking his drink and last catch. "Bet, fancy scallywag. But, du be owing me Twenty 'n two ales instead. Now, try these two fer size." Niko tossed the two Flanders in his arms toward Dimitri. They gasped for air and stumbled, but seeing their first target in sight, their lost vigor renewed and charged like wild beasts.
Dimitri combed back his hair through his fingers as he was called a 'fancy scallywag' and smirked with the bet declared on. Niko's leftovers sent his way, Dimitri reeled them in with cocky smiles and waves until the very last moment. He shrunk out of their sights, and the two Flanders flew over the bar carried by sheer momentum. Dimitri returned to normal, crossed his legs, and leaned back to peer over. "Hanging in there, barkeep?" he cried out, hearing that ever familiar grunt. "Good enough for me,"
Dimitri stood up on his stool wobbly. He recited which foot to put his weight on before jumping literally into the fray. He shrunk midair to the size of a flea and landed on a bald man's head. Steadying himself enough to a stand, he returned to full form and, more noticeably, weight. The suddenness of it all and mocking tap of the shoe sent the poor chap falling. Dimitri swung his arms about, falling along with him, then shrinking again only to repeat the process over and over. Using his balance or lack thereof, he stumbled and fell everywhere.
One poor fellow was the exception and treated like a horse, Dimitri's feet on his shoulders while pulling the man's large ears like the reins. "Trot thatta way please!" Smack bang into a wall.
A cloud of smoke swirled around Niko as he leaned against the bar. No one wanted to fight him. Their rage entirely focused on Rory and the other gent. So he watched, only moving to hurl away any unlucky nitwit who stumbled too close to Tybalt or the cowering barkeeper.
Tapping some ashes from his cigarette into an empty mug, Niko whistled as Dimitri played the louts like a fiddle, "Alter! Wha' do we 'ave here? Du, Tybalt. That fancy scallywag be like us. Who'd 'ave thought?" Niko laughed, popping the cig back in his mouth. A second later, yet another victim of Dimitri's tricks came zooming over the counter, landing on the other side. Like the many others, Niko bent over the table and snagged him up by his trousers, "We nigh-on done, Barmann." He didn't wait for an answer and tossed the body back.
Before he could turn around, he felt a weight against his back. He wondered who wanted to pick a fight but smiled when he heard Dimitri's voice. "I think we have a winner, pay hic up..." 'Twas all Dimitri managed to say before a wave of exhaustion and the sedative effect of booze claimed him to sleep like a log. "Ja, a bet be a bet." Hearing a thud, Niko turned and stared. "...Out o' steam?" Niko lifted Dimitri like a doll and sat him on one of the few unbroken stools, "I leave 'im t' du, Tybalt." He walks toward the crowd of groaning men, many with missing teeth or a broken nose, among other things.
Niko lifts the two closest to the door and hoists their bodies over his shoulder, "Ach du lieber Himmel! Rory! Enough! Let the broken bastards be 'n start pattin' 'em down. Any loose coins du fine, give it t' the Barmann." After giving instructions to his drunken friend, he began moving the unconscious barflies outside, tossing them in the piles of trash against the wall—he pats down any bodies Rory hadn't checked for valuables.
Tybalt ensured the bartender was well-compensated and, with Dimitri yet incapacitated, simply lifted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes to where he might find recovery. The remainder of their drinking that evening would more responsibly take place aboard their ship.
Awakening in a bedroom hasty to be kissed by morning, a slumbered eye would first notice a large prismed window, passaging the blurring particles of warm sunlight. Overhead lay the aged rosewood of the upper bunk, the sand-shaded blanket clinging tightly to the wayward drunk's form. Stripped to comfort, his folded clothes from the night prior were stacked neatly into a square, rested on a short stool.
A dawn sigh would reveal that the air felt overly purified, a mountain spring in aerated form. Devoid of dust, it flowed like drink, and was almost addicting to merely breath. The floor itself, a harsher pine reflected the sun like gloss, a step from one's cleanest soles would still find a way to birth stain.
And seated stiff at the singular desk close to the large window was a tanned skin man, dressed neatly and performing a routine combination of checking back at the resting Dimitri and fiddling with an ornate flintlock.
Memories weaved into dreams. Dimitri had tipped his hat in bittersweet goodbye to the dancing silhouettes in the window above. His parents sequestered in the drawing room were celebrating a scheme that would fail to come to fruition for the last time. The Dankworth estate grew distant and blurred. Like a thief in the night, miniature trinkets jangled inside coat pockets, and not a trace of who the Dankworth son was, was left behind.
The young nobleman stirred to the side, clutching his aching head as a curl of bangs temporarily hid his scarring eye. The other eye could be seen rolling about in a state of frenzy, trying to get one's bearings. The most conspicuous object of the room was the man, the next without debate the weapon. There, he would draw his answers.
Dimitri propped his head up in a hand, elbow buried in the bed's mattress. Albeit missing pieces of the night before, he donned a lopsided grin. "Did I keep you waiting?" Not once did he break line of sight, not even as the sheets cascaded to display skin.
Catching Lawrence on the ebb of his peering, his glare was scrutinized tightly on the pistol even as Dimitri's voice momentarily grasped his attention. Cleansing the powder blackened inner walls of the circular barrel with a combination of his ability and a snow furred swab, he spoke with a equal parts casualty and clear irritation. "Can't fault you for losing track of time in rest..though I will for sleeping in my bed."
Placing the weapon nicely in the left quadrant of the table and swiveling his mahogany seat, he finally turned to face his shameless grin. The azure flames in his eyes dissipated into drifting cottons, making way for a sharp ashen gaze bespectacled by crystalline glasses. Speaking with a glowered mumble, a half-fenced whisper escaped him, seemingly directed to no one in particular. It was hushed but the words "Peps" and "he's up" were somewhat discernable.
Reaffirming his focus, he turned to the nobleman, making evident an aversion to the present dialogue. "If you'd like to make it up to me, the door's that way." Lawrence motioned and shrugged to the south side of their room.
The less accommodating his new acquaintance was, the more Dimitri felt in his element. Spirits lifted from his melancholic dream, he sat up and stretched his muscles that were sore from exertion with a mixture of exaggerated sighs and groans. Appearing that he was not under 'immediate' threat, his mouth restrained no words.
”Fault me for neither.” he responded, seeing as he did not recollect coming here of his own accord so someone else must have been responsible. Lawrence faulting him for it, made it clear it was not his idea either. “There’s room for two. Have you not tried?” He alluded to the birds and bees, tongue-in-cheek, before knocking the rosewood overhead. ”Assuming that’s not just for show.”
He rose to his feet, stumbling a little as the drinks prior were still taking a toll. He picked up his folded clothes, pausing at the neat arrangement before ruining it to dress. Pulling his arms through the sleeves, he covered the bruises he had earned and talked freely more than he winced.
“Should we never meet again, I just have to say, perhaps you should ease up on the stress.“ Dimitri turned and with his own face to serve as an example, traced a picture of the supposed stress lines; across the forehead, between the brows, the corners of one’s mouth. “You already have silver threads.”
While Lawrence didn't exactly resemble a shining example of hospitality, whoever this man was ranked farther than an ideal guest. Folding his arm into a cross, a similarly exaggerated scoff escaped him before buckling down for the sharp conversation. "From context clues.." Lawrence brought an extended digit into the air, pointing and placing emphasis onto his gray-shaded glare and accompanying scowl. "I hope it's clear that I'm not privy to guests, despite the apparent room size."
Rising in tandem, the man carried himself into a stand, unfettering a creased rag and dipping it into a modest concave of soapy water. With deft practice, he focused his gaze to the spot Dimitri had just graced with his knuckle, pivoting past him and dabbing the spot in question.
"No offense, but I'd rather not heed advice from a wayward drunk." He spoke from behind Dimitri, protracted squeaks accompanying his voice before he folded the damp napkin and pocketed it.
Jutting his elbows out and up, Lawrence drifted his arms to Dimitri's neck to straighten his collar, the fabric unkempt courtesy of his fall. Lawrence's cleanliness habits didn't pass by unnoticed, especially not when he cared for the presentation of Dimitri's collar like his own mother. Dimitri sighed at the uncomfortable proximity but made no other move to reject the motion. With slightly harsh motions, the man eventually concluded his invasion of personal boundaries before nodding contently and squeezing past him the way he initially came.
Making his way back to his seat, Lawrence allowed his weight to settle before locking a softer scan with the now dressed noble. "If my intent was to drink myself unconscious, I'd normally bring some friends but they found you alone. You had some stress to ease up on yourself?"
Dimitri had been wary and testing, but perhaps he really was taken in by the good of people's hearts. As unlikely as it were. His provoking jabs weren't met with the usual outright hostility. "My friends' noses were turned up too high to join in the celebration." He countered while checking his belongings were all accounted for, except one top hat.
"Raised chins I'd imagine is not uncommon for you..noblefolk. Hopefully you didn't expose your back to them too often." The mention of Dimitri's kind was uttered with practiced venom, as if Lawrence strained to have the word seep from his mouth.
Dimitri stepped forth to leave a reasonable sum to pay for room and board on the desk. "From context clues... " He patted the coins down, his standing stance leaning over the seated Lawrence then engaged in a silent staring contest. Dimitri broke out a sudden smile. "My thanks for the accommodation."
Lawrence stood in conjecture with Dimitri, knowing woefully that a certain ringmaster had tasked him with keeping the guest comfortable and more importantly situated. Shutting his gaze in dreaded pause, he was on the precipice of begging the drunk to stay despite exiling him earlier before being rescued by the sounds of thunderous footsteps..tailed closely by tiny mouse-like paps. Saved by his leader, he spoke with an eased smile. "Not me you should be thanking."
The back-and-forth between Lawrence and his guest was briefly accompanied by a knock at the door. "Good morning, fellows; may I enter?" called a warm and polite voice that Lawrence would recognize and Dmitri very likely wouldn't.
The door slid open, sequestered by the tip of a ruby-topped cane, revealing a man whose stature demanded he duck his head just to enter the cabin. Ever at his side was a diminutive blonde girl with flowing locks whose enormous and sparkling eyes conveyed the words she could not speak.
One of his long, lanky legs jutted forward, and with a single step he had situated himself well-inside the room; not for its small size, but for his great strides. He was larger than life, and his little companion did no favors to make him seem like a person and not a giant. The showman wouldn't have had it any other way.
Having spent the evening prior waiting for her Papa to return, the last thing Etoile had expected was for him to come home bearing a new accessory. A strange man, passed out over his shoulder like a mink scarf. Immediately curious and wary, Etoile insisted on accompanying Tybalt this morning, both to satiate her own appetite for wonderment and to find out who the mysterious, new, special, man was.
"Gentlemen, I judge by your mutual exuberance that you are becoming well-acquainted!" he cheerily proclaimed in a warm baritone. "Heartening! The townsfolk here have... stories to tell about our dear guest - I do hope they are merely stories - but if you get off so rightly with our fastidious marksman, you must be a fine fellow, indeed."
Previously stood in riposte, the timely entry of the beloved ringmaster loosened even the likes of Lawrence. He regarded the new entries with relative silence, imparting a customary nod to both Tybalt and his little helper. Settling back into his seat, he swiveled away and turned his attention back to his weapon.
Dimitri rubbed his temples, the booming voice resurfacing a dull pressure on the sides of his head. "Well met," he greeted back politely to the pair, but the playfulness he afforded before dissipated at a sore spot—the stories. Dimitri fell silent but not for too long. With a dry chuckle, he spoke, "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Sir...?"
"Tybalt Benjamin Jean-Pierre LeGrand de la Fontaine," he amended with a bow, "but 'Tybalt' will suffice. You are aboard the airship Rédempteur, the conveyance of the world-famous Cirque du Volés, for a brief respite and, perhaps, a reevaluation of circumstances."
Small creaks drifted into the air, the marksman oiling the hammer dutifully. Timed to speak during a moment of clear air, he aimed his own concerns at the present conversation. "Whether respite or something else, I'd prefer y'all speak elsewhere. You know how much I value my privacy." With cold casualness, the man spoke with distracted eyes knowing fully that his concerns would fall to blissfully deaf ears.
"Cirque du Volés?" Dimitri repeated then unfurled a cheshire cat grin. "Ah, let me guess, you wish to dispense my magic tricks?" He hadn't been exactly subtle about his peculiar ability. He had expended it even at the pub with an inebriated mind.
"Unfortunately, it's not something I can teach but I do owe you my gratitude for the involvement of your boys- one who owes me twenty and another ale by the way." Dimitri's gaze curved behind Tybalt, as if Niko would appear at any moment. Alas, it didn't happen.
"I dislike debt over a good deed. So, you have my undivided attention." He folded his arms and leaned back into the edge of the desk, enough to hold him but not to disturb Lawrence's activity. Only Lawrence's space.
Conversation was something that typically did not interest Etoile, for obvious reasons. While her Papa spoke with the stranger, Etoile took it upon herself to investigate what Lawrence was doing. The child crept closer, still holding onto Tybalt's pants, just in case he needed her.
Dimitri shuffled aside to not hinder her view. "Unusual." he commented, referring to Etoile's presence in the room. Though he had no qualms about it, it was unusual in the sense children were rarely around during the conversations between adults. Or did that only apply to nobles? "You must trust her a great deal."
"Tut-tut, Lawrence; this man may yet be your future roommate," Tybalt explained. He idly brushed through Etoile's hair as he spoke, reminding her of his presence. Surely they were very close. Perhaps he was her father?
He turned back to Dimitri. "After all, I seek not your secrets but your talents. You are not the only one aboard this vessel with unteachable tricks."
Perhaps it was the cruel musings of fate that the reiterations that Lawrence would prefer to be alone were subsequently followed by not one, but two new additions into his personal space bubble. Regardless, he met the arrangements with relative stride, imparting softer eyes and angling himself so his routine took center stage to the mouse's fascinated gaze. After a moment, he manifested a pointed glare as his potential roommate joined the "Order of the Desk".
After oiling the interworking contraptions of the flint and lock, Lawrence fished his napkin from his pocket and wiped the surface of the barrel sparingly. After his weapon was cleaned and primed, he hovered it out for the child's curious hands if she so wished. A weapon unfit for dainty fingers sure, but while he would not mind for a misfire to render him roommate-less once more, the gun was wholly unloaded and harmless.
Craning his eyes to meet the nobleman, cerulean energies gathered in his glower the moment the circus-master spieled on about "not being the only one", the air quality of the room noticeably growing clearer. "'Talents' are to be determined, but if you're here, you must have nowhere else to go. I'd accept the gracious offer if I were you."
Naturally, when offering something to a curious mouse, the mouse was inclined to accept it. Etoile released her Papa's pants, taking the device from Lawrence with both hands. She was uncertain of what it was. Naive of the dangers that came with the tool in her hands, Etoile turned it over, looking up between the adults, then back down.
Was this what Lawrence used in his acts? 《Bang?》 She signed, recalling the loud sound that came from it.
While by no means an expert, his sharp eyes compensated for a rudimentary understanding of sign language. The girl gesturing to her ears followed by a frenzied motion was interpreted as Etoile's attempt at mirroring the noise of the weapon. With a lengthy nod, he reaffirmed her question.
Etoile handed the tool back to Lawrence, wondering how something so small made such a loud sound. With that taken care of, Etoile retook her post by Tybalt's leg, hiding behind him once again.
Dimitri's posture straightened up and like a different person altogether, his voice rang as cold as a touch of winter frost. "Show me." What Tybalt had revealed, rattled his world down to the core.
He whipped out his cane from his coat pocket like nothing but the stick lengthened to reach the ground. He poked the ground twice with it, the window's rays dancing off the silver pommel before being consumed by his hand. Both hands falling over it now, he leaned forward and his eyes glistened with a predatory sharpness. This new Dimitri was more aligned to the airs of a nobleman. Although the scent of beer clung to his clothes still, his demeanor had shifted so much so that it seemed out of place.
Innocent eyes stared up at Dimitri, watching him use his ability with a curious gaze. Her eyes widened when his cane grew in size. Even if she lived among specials; Etoile never failed to be impressed by their talents.
Tybalt, supposing that Lawrence was tiring of restraint, overturned his hand and gestured for a demonstration he deemed fitting. It was a rare moment that it became socially acceptable for Lawrence to wield his powers instead of his words to put someone in their place, but here was a golden opportunity from the Ringmaster himself.
Readying for the call to action, Lawrence took a modest breath and held out his palm, his eyes fully reigniting with azure flame. Straining his gaze, he focused on the neckerchief he had left on the table, a warm breeze swooping the napkin into the air before it swam into his open hand. Now raising his other arm in response, he hovered his opposite digits with small circular stirring, the cloth folding itself into an orderly square with light airy shifts.
Dropping his raised arm, Lawrence instead placed emphasis onto his holding paw, a diminutive whirlwind circulating at the center of his palm. The coursing air ferried the napkin back to its original position on the left side of his table.
With a small sigh, the energy in his eyes faded and resumed their ashen tones before he turned back to face Tybalt and Dimitri fully.
Etoile was lucky enough to get to see another up close. She watched Lawrence's little show, gripping Tybalt's pant leg a bit tighter, a bit more wary when it came to the silver marksman.
Dimitri dropped his cane, the thud followed by the removal of his coat tossed carelessly onto the bed he had slept on. He loosened his collar with a casual tug and sighed. "Taken the wind out of my sails. How can I journey anymore?" He muttered under his breath before extending his right hand out to the one they looked up to as their leader.
"From this day forth Sir Tybalt Benjamin Jean-Pierre LeGrand de la Fontaine-" he remembered, his tongue swirling inside his mouth to feel the pricks. "Memphis, at your service. Consider Lawrence's privacy adequately disturbed."
Tybalt took the hand and shook it firmly, but added, "On the condition that you do not stir up trouble here, I would be proud to make place for you. You realize, of course, that Lawrence has seniority...and will report any unsavory conduct."
Adequately not excessively. A joke's ruined when one must explain. The now 'Memphis' thought, opting for keeping his cards close to his vest. His face dropped as his hand did serving as the only hint of discontentedness.
Lawrence took a pause to softly rub the small smudges fogged by curious digits before settling the weapon on the right quadrant of the mahogany desk. Noticing a slight unkemptness, Lawrence rose to his feet, and while hunching faintly, begun to nudge the rested items with slight shifts. Flintlock and napkin on their respective sections but not nearing too close the cliff of the edge, lamp standing tall in the middle back (but slightly inched to the right). After a rare instance of frenzy, Lawrence finally settled before rejoining the dialogue.
The concept of seniority was a begrudgingly agreed upon fact for the marksman. He had been taught with word and fist that experience trumps all even if he normally trusted his own judgement too comfortably for his own good. Under the constructs of precedence..Memphis, who most likely was older, reported under him and Lawrence who towered over the little mouse reported under her.
"Does breathing my air count as an unsavory offense? Just askin' before I abuse my rank.." With a characteristic sigh, he trudged towards the bed and folded the thrown coat with quick deft motions before placing it in the middle of the mattress.
Memphis looked over his shoulder, catching Lawrence's remark as an invitation to settle in. "How stingy, Lawrence Sr. when you can just whip up some more." He quipped, resuming his more playful nature as he sat down at the desk where Lawrence once sat before the man was distracted by his little mess.
Tybalt covered his mouth to disguise a chuckle. "We can discuss matters further over breakfast," he concluded, gently shepherding Etoile out of the room with him to lead the way to the dining hall.
