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Snippet #2823456

located in The Ship, a part of Cirque du Volés, one of the many universes on RPG.

The Ship

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Character Portrait: Etoile Character Portrait: Pepper the Clown
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The small band of workers labored early morn to midday, setting up the grand big top tent and preparing for their night-time epic. It was an event that would last only a few hours, but one that would leave an impact for years to come. Spotlights roamed the clouds from evening to night, attracting patrons far and wide.

The residents of the Queen City of North Carolina, Charlotte, were totally unprepared for what they would witness that night.

Crowds hustled and bustled in the stands, gathering their popcorn, their peanuts, their refreshments, and holding fast to their anticipation. Then, at seven o'clock, the lights went dark. A lone man in the center of the room, with a top hat and crystalline cane, tapped the butt of his staff upon the dirt floor, sending sparking firecrackers flying out into the air, each one soaring high above the crowds before fizzling out into a crackling pop.

"Most esteemed ladies and gentlemen," declared the man, with a voice that boomed above the wondrous cries of the audience, "Tonight your eyes will play tricks on you." He overturned his staff, scraping its tip against the ground like a giant matchstick, and fire erupted from it as though it were a torch. It flickered like a candleflame, but glimmered with the brilliance of moonlight.

"You will see things you'll scarcely believe," he warned, "Europe's most dazzling circus, the finest talents taken from all over the world, such as to defy understanding, all gathered in one place - " A single glimmering firecracker shot into the air above them, bursting and sprinkling a shower of glittering embers down over the Ringmaster in the center. "For your bewilderment I present: the Impossible Cirque du Volés!"

There was a great explosion and flash of light. In an instant, the Ringmaster was now standing atop an enormous elephant, larger than life, grinning widely with a glint in his eyes as acrobats began dancing overhead between trapezes lit from below.

As they danced, so did the low murmurs of the audience drift to the air; imperceptibly, undistractedly, a bunch of varying sentiments expressing mixed degrees of amazement. The flying performers! The elephant! The light show! Far in the back, a short teenage girl could perceive it all... Or at least the sentiments, for she could scarcely see the performance past the sea of bodies.

"There's an elephant?" The girl asked, as she could not see past the sea of bodies. There was no seat for her, for she didn't have a ticket for the show. She was content nonetheless—she was going to settle for a seat outside of tent, out of sight entirely.

"Oh yeah there is! Look, Camille!" A boy many years her junior whispered, beckoning her to see. It was this friend of about three hours, Zachary, whose idea it was to sneak her in there. They may have been strangers who might have been forbidden from interacting before, but her desire to spend time with others at the circus happened to overlap with his—among few couple other—parents' desire for an impromptu supervisor.

Deciding to risk it to satisfy her overwhelming curiosity to find the source of that trumpeting noise, Camille slowly peered over and around the heads of those ahead of her—and the ordinarily jaded girl was awed by what she witnessed.

The trapeze artists dove to some unseen perch, no longer illuminated by spotlight, and from somewhere hidden away a band began to play cheerful, lighthearted music. Two clowns dressed in ostentatious oversized suspenders with bright white and red makeup to exaggerate their facial expressions marched towards the center, all the while bickering and jostling each other back and forth.

"Cirque du Volés, huh? Doesn't seem all that unbelievable to me," one of the clowns balked, placing his gloved fists at his hips and staggering like a drunkard. "This Ringmaster must be some kind of Charlottean."

The crowd instinctively began to boo, and a small team of other clowns began wheeling out a star-spangled cannon, one of them gleefully carrying a massive birthday cake in one hand. "Don't you mean 'charlatan'?" the other clown cried.

"What's the difference?" he declared, to great hissing and jeering from the audience. At that, the other clowns loaded the birthday cake into the cannon and fired, spraying batter and cream all over the instigator and whipping up the crowd into a wild cheer.

Camille didn't believe that a clown of all things could make her feel anything. They were just there to be showy and spout nonsense—and be kind of grating to listen to. And she figured she was a big enough girl to have outgrown such burlesque balderdash. Yet somehow, the dissenting clown had managed to make her giggle, and immediately won her over. It was funny because it was true!

These people truly were charlatans, praying on the vulnerable runaway teen at every turn. She spent all that time cleaning and hauling boxes at the General Store and barely saw a cent for her labor, with nobody sympathetic to her plight; a stranger who they called a beggar. To see these folk get called out on their bull, it got her to break out into a snorting fit... Although seeing the fool get disproportionate retribution in such an elaborate fashion, that was also pretty funny.

The show continued with more shenanigans, seamlessly mixing observational humor with raw slapstick comedy. Some time later, after the following acts wrapped up, a man in a mask fired glittering pixie dust blasts at the acrobats, appearing to enable them to fly in midair and soar above the audience without the aid of trapezes.

Eventually they came in for a landing in the center of the ring, where they formed a circle. Then, another explosive flash erupted from the middle of them, leaving nothing of them behind but their leotards, which drifted down to the ground...and the Ringmaster, who seemed to have teleported centerstage.

Above the applause, the man grinned and took a bow, then adjusted his top hat and held out his staff. The crowds went silent as he concluded the show.

"What you have seen is just the beginning. Our impossible circus is still incomplete. Could you be what we're missing?"

With its crystalline tip he wrote out letters in fire, T-Y-B-A-L-T. Then he swept the cane through them, dispersing the flames. "My name is Tybalt LeGrand. We hope you've enjoyed your stay..." he announced, before tapping his cane twice against the ground, triggering a ring of fire ten feet high. When it dissipated, the entire rest of the circus crew - including the elephant! - had all inexplicably appeared in order to take their bow. "...with the Cirque du Volés!"

Seeing people applaud all around her, Camille nodded and joined in. She had been absolutely entranced, almost forgetting where she was for a time. But, alas, the show was over, and she had to re-emerge from the tent to the world beyond. Unconsciously, she made to slip out on her own, following the crowd, when Zachary caught up with her.

"Hey Camille, didja like that show or what?" Zachary interrogated expectantly. Camille mouthed an agreement, nodding, somewhat tuned out as she listened to the conversations around her. The boy seemed pleased with the response despite the lack of enthusiasm, telling her, "Yeah, I betch'ya you're real glad I helped you get in, huh? I think that deserves a kiss, don't you think?" He gave a mischievous smirk as Camille snapped back to attention, balking at the boy's cheeky request.

'This again?' She thought to herself, as it hadn't been the first time the kid had asked, to which she had turned him down. Perhaps it was innocent enough for her to have waved it off the first time, but somehow she couldn't help but sense a degree of entitlement behind the request that put her off—an attitude she wasn't a stranger to. Camille was about to rebuke the snot-nosed brat, but found herself interrupted.

"Zachary Tobias Granger," the boy's mother called him as she approached; "You get over here this instant!" He could scarcely give a goodbye before he was forcefully grabbed by the wrist and pulled away. Once his mother pulled him out of what she assumed to be earshot, she gave her child a hearty slap, rebuking him with point of her finger, "You know not to talk that kind of girl like that—not in public! It makes more than you look bad, understand?" Cringing as she heard to the kid start to tear up, she didn't care to eavesdrop into whatever horrible things his mother was probably saying about her. Camille wandered aimlessly, dejected, her reverie broken.

The audience began to pour out of all sides of the tent, spilling with laughter, their eyes still full of the sparkling glee that came with having seen something fantastical. They remained there in a circle, waving until a good portion had left, then, it was time to clean up.

The clowns grabbed the brooms, sweeping up sparkles, which still glittered with the memory of their flight. The air was still buzzing from another successful show, having sold every ticket and filled every seat.

Behind the curtains, sitting in the wings, were a group of performers plotting their next big show. Not inside of a tent, where the sky was covered, but outside with only the stars as their witness. "We will need to leave early tomorrow, if we are to pull this off tonight. Oui?" A blonde haired woman asked, braiding the hair of the child sitting on the floor in front of her.

They were waiting, preparing for their next big event.

And yet, despite clearly speaking in a private conversation where the words couldn't have left the tent, what was said couldn't be taken back. Their words danced around in auditory space, interfered with by the distance chatter of the guests, absorbed partly by nearby fabrics, and many of the vibrations escaped skywards to be consumed by the air... The stars were the only witness, but Soundspace listened.

Laughter, sobbing, and the song of crickets all mixed together in Soundspace, and no matter if Camille shut her eyes and held her hands against her ears to try and block out her own presence in the world, Soundspace still broke through reminded her of her existence. Acknowledging the futility of the act, she dropped her hands. And that was when, once again, she heard something she wasn't supposed to.

"Your hunch was right," a young man said under his breath, "They left it unguarded. The diamond's onboard."

Tutting in reply, a voice answered that was unmistakably the Ringmaster of the circus. "Good news, but you know better than to address such matters outside. There are birds about."

He was right, of course. All the more reason for the little straggler to remain behind even as they collapsed the tent and began the process of folding it up and stowing it in their airship. Could it be that the circus was striking back at the rich and well-to-do in this corrupt town? And he said they were looking for new members?

Just about everyone had gone home by now, and the only signs of life left on the field were movers carrying the last of their set back into the cargo area of their airship and the Ringmaster himself remaining behind to oversee the last of it. If she was going to speak up, now was the time.

"Hey, excuse me, sir!" The teenager called out, rapidly approaching as she clutched her ratty skirt, "I implore yuh, I need to have a word with yinz." She gasped as she stopped in front of the Ringmaster, giving him an awkward curtsy as she corrected herself, "With youse. Sorry to speak up outta line, um... If you'll allow me, I won't take none of your time."

The Ringmaster removed his hat and bowed in greeting, replacing it upon his head and smiling warmly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. How might I help this most polite mademoiselle?" he asked. Up close and personal, the sharp-goateed Frenchman looked even taller than he did in the show, his shoulders wide and legs long. His showman's cane was certainly at least as tall as she was.

he short African-American girl returned the gesture with another curtsey, finding it difficult to look him in the eye. "You are the Boss, sir? The one they call 'Tybalt', the Ringleader?" She steeled herself, realizing that she was in no place to be timid, and resolutely demanded, "I wanna go with you—with your ship. Youse lookin' for more workers, right? I'mma hard worker." The teenager screwed her foot into the ground anxiously.

Tybalt raised his hand to his chin and scratched his beard. "I am the Ringmaster, indeed, and we are looking for new additions to our roster. Have you any talents in particular you might wish to showcase?" he inquired. As the leader of a diverse troupe of society's downtrodden, the man had little reason to look down upon her. In fact, he seemed positively cordial towards the potential new member.

"Talents? Umm..." The girl seemed a little hesitant. She absolutely didn't have any of the talent that all those showy performers had, nor any desire to even be seen in front of a crowd. Camille just wished to be anywhere but stuck here for the rest of her life. "I can clean," She began listing off workable skills she may or may not have had, "And cook, and help you get your tent set up... And I can blow real hard—y'know, in case you need more air to fill your big balloon." She puffed her cheeks and chest up and, as if to back up her claim. Then, with a tilt of the head, she added; "And maybe I know a thing or two about diamonds..."

Somehow, this ringleader seemed neither offended nor surprised by Camille's mention of the circus' more private affairs. In fact, he sprouted a wide grin. "So you are the 'little birdie!' But is it only for menial labor you are searching? You are most humble to do so, I will admit; yet with the upper hand, you would still seek naught but to cook and clean?" He pressed his cane into the dirt before him, leaning forward and propping himself up upon it to get a closer look at Camille.

"If I am to have you aboard the Rédempteur, I would be pleased to be able to address you by name," he said. Did that mean he had accepted?!

"Camille Woodrow Jackson, sir," She answered eagerly, pleading, "I'll do anything to go on your ship with you! Ain't nuthin' for me here." She wanted to see Paris and China and Constantinople, and all these other places she had heard of—and if she could do so with these performers who looked straight out of a dream, she could scarcely imagine being miserable again, or at least no less miserable than she already was. "M'not a bird, though," She added, a little perplexed by his statement, "Birds are over that way, and there." She pointed off into the treeline to where she could hear nightingales that were out of sight—and then she readjusted her finger to point at one of the Rédempteur's windows, where she noticed the magician's doves were occupying.

Tybalt chuckled at her response, supposing that it was intentional. "Clever, Miss Jackson! We may yet have use for you as part of the show, if you are so inclined. But if your true passions are spices and lye, I cannot object," he replied. Then he backed up off of his crystal-capped cane, giving it a showy twirl before tucking it beneath an arm. "We must embark to make our way to Atlanta on time. En route we will discuss the matter further with my advisors to see where best you might fit in. Should it not be what you expected, we can arrange for a later return to Charlotte. Though, by the sound of it, your mind is already made up."

"Naw, I don't live here," Camille shook her head, explaining, "I don't live nowhere. If you're gunna drop me off, it's fine if you drop me out of the balloon.... But I won't let you down, sir!"

The Ringmaster's smirk grew. "You have a talent for wordplay," he remarked. "If you will follow me, I have some dear friends in mind I would like you to meet." He gestured to the ramp of the airship, upon which the last few pieces of equipment were being loaded in. They were just about ready to leave.

"Yessir," The runaway complied, "I've heard a few jokes. Said a few, too." Camille was already ready to bring all her belongings—namely, herself and the clothes on her back—with her up the ramp to parts unknown. It was terrifying, it was insanity, it was simply unwise to put her fate in the hands of strangers—ones she suspected were not entirely legitimate. Yet, being Camille Jackson, her fate was uncertain anyway. Camille was of the conviction that if misfortune was to fall on her, it was far better for it to be of her own making.

Compared to a life of misery, suffering, roadblocks, and a slow spiral from cradle to grave, those acrobats looked so alive, flying in the air and risking it all. Camille would have liked to meet them.

With long, confident strides that matched two or three of hers in length, Tybalt led the way, ascending the ramp and entering the cargo area.

It was like stepping into another world. They were in the belly of the ship, staring down a pathway that stretched on for what must have seemed like a full mile, flanked by tentpoles, supplies, equipment, even that patriotic cannon that Camille had heard going off earlier. The staff that had yet to return to their cabins were each tending to their own moving parts, strapping things down to prevent shifting in transit.

From here, Tybalt joined her in an elevator that would take them to the upper levels. It did not have a door, only a thin gate for safety purposes. Nevertheless, as they ascended together, each of the decks they passed looked substantially more luxurious than Camille could have expected. For a bunch of misfits, they certainly didn't seem to be lacking anything they truly wanted.

"Do you need anything? Water, food, rest? We must conduct a brief interview, but it would serve the both of us well that you are readied," he asked, before hearing a ding and opening the gate of the elevator and stepping off on a cabin deck. A long hallway proceeded before them, with long rows of numbered doors to their sides. This was ostensibly where most of the crew slept and performed other day-to-day activities; it was practically like a hotel with its many rooms.

Waiting for him expectantly on the cabin deck was someone out of place. She looked to small to be working among the performers, too delicate to be performing stunts on a high wire suspended above the ground.

Still in her performance costume, Etoile had made it a habit of waiting for Tybalt on the cabin deck after every show, knowing he liked to linger on the ground.

Even if she knew by now that he would not up and disappear into thin air like his card deck or scarves, part of her worried. So she waited there by the elevator until the telltale ding sounded that let her know he had returned.

With all of the energy of an exuberant puppy, she ran to greet him, taking pause when she noticed the stranger with him. Etoile looked her up and down, then to Tybalt, signed 《Who is this?》

"I'm a ghost," Camille muttered to herself under her breath, positively gobsmacked by the sights she had witnessed. She couldn't possibly have belonged in a place so high-class as this. The proportions of the rooms struck her as subtly off, only reinforcing the fact that this wasn't a structure built solely for the ground. Listening to crew move around all over, she felt a stranger in her own body. So often, Camille was used to the feeling that she was never where she was supposed to be, but now she truly was in denial that she was even present at all. 'I am a ghost, haunting everywhere I go.'

Tybalt stopped beside Etoile, ruffling her hair and drawing her to his side for a quick hug. "Etoile, this is Camille Jackson, our esteemed ghost - ah, guest." Then he held his finger out, tapping it with a finger swept upwards, beaming proudly as though he had accomplished something of note. "Lord willing, we will conduct an interview and she may wish to join our ranks and find a home here. Miss Jackson, this is Etoile, one of our performers. You two appear to be fellows of age and size. May you become fast friends." It seemed he treated traits such as skin color or nationality as trivia; Tybalt apparently did not even feel the need to mention it. Of far greater importance were the currencies of reverence and manners, which by the looks of things had already taken Camille far here.

"Pleased to meet'chya," Camille curtsied to the girl, breaking from her reverie to give an awkward smile. Her cotton dress looked so muted and plain compared to those around her, and not particularly clean to boot. 'At least Ma gave me my manners,' she thought.

Etoile clung to one of his legs, peeking out from behind him to look up at the stranger.

So, he had found another one? First Maria, now this Jackson. Etoile had none of her writing utensils with her, she had not been expecting him to recruit another.

《Hello》 She signed shyly. Etoile waved too, more than likely the stranger did not understand. There was a language barrier between them.

Camille wondered if maybe this girl didn't like her that much, given she hadn't yet said a word. Seeing her wave, however, somewhat assuaged that feeling. 'Maybe she's a quiet gal,' she thought, rather empathetic to that habit herself—a habit she intended to break if she was going to start making a better impression on people.

"It's alright to be stunned into silence," Camille joked to break the ice, "I get that a lot. I am a runaway princess after all." She flashed a grin.

"She says hello," Tybalt explained to Camille. "She talks with her hands. She understands both French and English perfectly well; if you two become better-acquainted, I'm sure you will pick up on what her signals mean."

He gently squeezed Etoile to his side, this time addressing her: "Miss Jackson, on the other hand, is a wordsmith. It will not always be easy to discern when she is telling the truth."

《Princess?》 Etoile signed excitedly, touching her thumb and index finger with her right hand and moving it on a diagnal across her chest.

Was she telling the truth? Etoile looked up at Tybalt. He said that it would be difficult to know, but some part made Etoile believe. Why else would she be here, seeking refuge on their airship?

Etoile tugged on Tybalt's pant leg. Wanting him to translate. 《Did she run away because she is like us?》 It would make sense. From what Maria had said, people did not generally accept those who were different. That was why they had to keep it secret.

"Unfortunately, while she may have the manners of a noble, I have my doubts she is royalty. Nevertheless, it may be wise to have a chat in private. If you'll continue along with me, Etoile et Camille, we shall convene in my office."

At that, Tybalt began to walk once more, one step after another, down the long hallway to one of the rooms.

Though the soundproofing on this deck was of high quality, Camille's ears could still pick up the chatter from the rooms collecting in the air. The conversations happening inside were primarily in French; at least, that's what it sounded like at first. A number of people were practicing their English, to...varied success. Just because Camille could hear it didn't mean that it was exactly intelligible.

Nonetheless, the soundscape was novel to her. Clearly, there was a lot she was going to have to learn if she was going to carve out a place here, and she was concerned about this interview. Camille didn't think of herself as particularly remarkable—but she couldn't say that. "I didn't know you all spoke French," She offhandedly mentioned as she followed close. "I thought people only used it to pardon their swearing!"

Camille decided, if she could keep people smiling at her like that—maybe she might overcome the barriers, and finally be accepted.