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Fellini, the Bizarrist

They call him pure sin.

0 · 515 views · located in Modern France

a character in “Cirque de la Lune”, as played by Tæfarós

Description

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"Asa Nisi Masa."



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There were ghosts in Italy. They emerged in designer heels and miniskirts, so ready to push past the ruins of war, to toss grief in the rubble, to drown it in wine. For all their cleverness, a ghost is never satisfied. So who better to settle their urges than the shadow himself? Specters rarely, if ever, recall the memory of the night, settling instead for the emotions tied to them, and it was rage that fueled them to shriek in the aftermath of their encounter. You couldn't blame them: after all, the only trace of his presence was left in doves on the window sill, the messages of love found--and quickly lost--attached to their feet. A cock move for sure, but this would not be the last time they saw the man. Little did they know that this was merely the beginning.

Misanthrope, misogynist, masochist--all monikers are dandy for Fellini, who ravaged Torino and Roma with nary a care, leaving the broken hearts and the lost souls in his wake. He walks to a perpetual rhythm in his head. He's guided on beats of bossa nova, blames it on the samba. Silver streaks black, groomed hair. An outlaw's hat, a pair of large frames are the memorabilia he dons. Sandbags litter his eyes, which brood, calculate, and shimmer on some occasions, often disapproving in their gaze. Standing one inch shy of six feet, height is not a priority when it comes to impressions, especially if he so happens to be accompanied by Zalvema. But seeing him once drives a lasting image; the confidence is of an undoubtedly Italian air, and from this, another era. He has been called demon, devil. His smile is as elusive as it is haunting.

His peers know a man who criticizes, whose bitterness rivals that of a lonely housewife. They know the tense, quiet moments that burden him like a physical weight, and they see the snake's rattle shaking about for the interval before he strikes. Such qualities fuel the passion of his stage acts, which blend theatrics, mentalism, and legerdemain. Truly, he is more scathing of himself than others; his journey is one of perfection, of persistence in the face of impossibility. But all is not bad—the family is well aware of his better moments, moments when he is romantic, good-humored, gentlemanly, and as enthusiastic to support his fellow talents as he is to, say, dance the tango.

Bizarre magick is his instrument, the calloused hands with which he wields it. It is hardly a shade of its traditional meaning, however; it is dark, dark sorcery, a far cry from parlor tricks. The rumours? Too many: He obtained the skills from vengeful Romani, who lost everything in the war and had nothing but their spite; he is the god of divorce, tainting marriages and leaving young wives dead in their sleep; he, of course, sold his soul. Yet one would entirely incorrect, and the truths, at least to outsiders, will never be known. Only small details may be revealed—in the ghoulish cast of his narratives, perhaps, or in the brutality of his powers, the nightmarish transformations, the calls to other worlds, the lighthearted instances that allow his audience to breathe.

He may go by Felli if you're feeling lucky, Spaghetti Western if you're feeling stupid.


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Relations:
    Zalvema: What was it like to live alone for so long? Oh, Zuzu, I see the heartbreak in your eyes.; everyone sees it. I cannot say that I am entirely indebted to you, Ringmistress, but my respect for you knows no bounds. Queen of Ice, fire incarnate, crazy as shit. As long as you grant me the honor of doing so, I will always perform my best.
    Delilah:
    Valentine: He courts the woman? Non mi scazzare i coglioni! Well, he is definitely a product of his mama, for better or for worse, but there's no denying that he puts on an immaculate show. Bad taste in hats. Still has much to learn.
    Eyra: Ah, bellissima.
    Theo:
    Olaf and Oleg:
    Moe: Invaluable.
    Xavier: I want to smack the foundation off your face, but I digress. I would be lying if I were to deny your gift,
    Rune: There is so much I feel that I must learn from you. You say so much, but speak so little. Reveal your face to me, then reveal the nature that makes you so grand.

So begins...

Fellini, the Bizarrist's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fellini, the Bizarrist Character Portrait: Rune, The Storyteller
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Fellini and Rune
The Bizarrist and The Storyteller
~A collaborative post~



Through the haze of cigarette smoke, he had fallen in love all over again. But this was brief.

He saw the purest of bliss in that sea of faces, the grace of their mistress and the family at her back. All was great, all was well. He watched the world safely from behind squared lenses, nestled under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. Mystique had not yet gone with the wind; the cape remained draped round his shoulders, still tattered beyond repair, still evidence of a show gone terribly, terribly right. Blood dried his upper lip. Hands were steadied, but his feet dared to move. His eyes drifted across each and every member, observing. And his heart left with the exhaust fumes as the crowd dispersed, leaving the Cirque and its merry band to get intoxicated from another round of success―and Fellini had lingered there after his peers, too, had gone, and the ghosts, now alone with their master, took the opportunity to tug at his back, always so restless.

"Basta! Ma ora basta!" he whispered, the accent rolling smoothly from his tongue. He need not face the specters to emphasize his words. They quelled almost instantly in the fairgrounds, now one with the growing silence. A dozen of the ghoulish figures hovered about him, not yet ready to come down from the highs of the night, but it was nothing new. Stars need no rest, they said; they completed his act, and they deserved to mingle among the extraordinary folk. Fellini tensed. The cigarette was thrown away, crushed under the loafer sole. Stalking from his cast, he knew no further disputes were needed. Sans their weeping, he would not hear word of them nor catch sight of them until they were summoned once again, and he silently prayed that they would learn their place.

So it went. A breeze carried remnants of the hours gone by, and the buzz in the air was not far behind. It was infectious, this feeling of another victory. He could look skyward and become lost in starlight. The performers were gathered ahead, and he heard the last of Zalvema's announcement as he reached the celebration. To him, it did not matter how long they stayed here. It simply was.

Signora Delilah, of course, was likely the first to get shit-faced. The lioness had perched with Xavier, whose ability to waste alcohol was in top form, and whose eyeliner grew more garish by the second.  

Fellini intervened, tossing the cape over his shoulder with a lackadaisical flair. "Monsieur, you must learn how to hold your liquor," he said in earnest, and, motioning toward where the wine had vanished mere moments before, somehow brought the bottle back into its humble existence. A trick of shadows, that. He poured them both an even amount, then set aside the wine, tipped his hat, and added, "Delilah, you were exquisite tonight. But it seems as if your cat is becoming harder to tame. Perhaps you should consider this next time before you take to the stage."

And he was off and away. Not feeling particularly enthused for drink tonight, he would not laugh, nor would he dance. He would seek the sole member of Cirque de la Lune who, outside the confines of her sanctuary, did not flaunt, prance, leap, strut. He would seek Rune.

Eastward, the black tent loomed above him like a blemish on the earth, and for the countless times he ventured to this oddity, it never failed to draw hesitance from him at the entrance. So stoic, so otherwise unmoved in the face of everyone else, Fellini then shrunk in its presence. His breath hitched. Immense forces of magic beckoned him forward, and yet, for each second that he did not act, he felt the urge to retreat, to cower. He stepped once, twice. Unsure at first, then quickly gaining confidence, he walked into the darkness once more.

The shifting pictures did not faze him. The warped, bloodied tree, once an acute source of interest, only sparked faint curiosity. No, he had seen what this mystical space had to offer, and what drew his attention was the goddess at her center. Although she was featureless for now, something about her spoke to him with infinite beauty―the fragility with which he held herself, and the balance that threatened to creak in an interval; the fabrics that surrounded her, eerily pristine in spite of their supposed age; the candles, thousands of them, that illuminated her form, and, through her powers, would burn brightly for ages to come. She was comfort; she was fear. She was the pinnacle he sought to reach, though he knew that getting there would be nigh impossible. In her realm, shadows billowed about him, weakened and hushed by the light.

What did the words matter if she did not respond?

"I suppose you've no affinity for drink." His voice held a hint of contempt, though it certainly was not aimed at the storyteller. "If only you could have seen them tonight. According to my audience, I might have performed my best. So tell me, Rune, why must I be such a bother to you? We know you have no answers, and if you do, then you're doing your damnedest to keep them away from me."

As usual, it was akin to speaking with an ancient wall. Still, he persisted, and his voice elevated with each breath, and he slipped, though unaware, into his native language. If it sparked no reaction, there was nothing much else to be done.

He concluded: "Rune, I need guidance. I need my magic to inspire again."

No words of wisdom passed through her lips and fell upon his ears after he finished speaking to the quiet shadow in the center of the tent. The veil she wore this night was the color of onyx, starless in its obscuring beauty. The fabric's stillness was broken as it began to ripple, as though tickled by an imaginary breeze that coiled around Rune playfully. Even after several seconds that seemed like years of silence, she still did not speak.

She was the epiphany of solitude and peace. Cloaked in darkness, masked within an obsidian wasteland yet still burning with vibrant shades of the world's true colors. Silver bells gleamed and hung from the edges of her veil, but despite the movement, they did not ring. It looked as though she had not acknowledged his presence, but indeed she had. From the slightest shift in her stance, to the way the shadows differed in their subtle dance.

Rune. Ah, how simple the life of a storyteller is. To sit upon the ground each night and tell what few people that find their way into her tent, stories of the world that even the ancient gods in the heavens have forgotten. She creates art, painting a picture before their very eyes without a brush. Using words instead of color, but words are color in their own way. 

It would seem almost as though she were not listening to his words as he confided in her. He could not see beyond the inky veil that hid her closed eyes, and the face beneath the mask of the storyteller. As the silence finally settled and became still, her eyes opened. The shadows jumped and danced across the walls of the tent, and the tree of words shifted above their heads, stretching its branches, leaving it engraved with story upon story rustled with soft laughter as the shadows continued to gracefully sway to their own rhythm. The candle light flickered in thousands of different colors, causing the air in the tent to pulse with the beat of the shadows.

And then, the silence was broken. The fragile bridge, more fragile than a snowflake to the world of silence was shattered at the sound of tinkling bells. It was like hearing the first laugh of an infant, the sigh of the world as the sun crooks its golden fingers and first touches the ground, and the sound of the stars singing above you in the night. The bells continued to ring for a split second more. There was only one meaning to this: the storyteller had come alive once again.

She had shifted. She had altered the very fabrication of reality itself. No longer was the tent darkened, and dim. No longer were they both surrounded by flickering candles, and dancing shadows. The tree had disappeared, and all that surrounded them was darkness. An ebony abyss that was filled with the echos of the bells. A different kind of light would illuminate the tent, and slowly, they began to twinkle, to fill the empty space between Rune, and Fellini. They flickered like a thousand white candles, burning with a beauty like no other. They gleamed like the full harvest moon, careless and free. They sparkled like the last smile of a person of this world, happiness and joy emanating around them. The stars bobbed and hovered around Rune like bits of ice, dazzlingly bright, yet dim in comparison to a pale, silver disk that hovered just behind the storyteller herself. A streak of light stretched across the tent's far wall, disappearing as soon as it had appeared.

Even if he could not see past the veil, he would know that her eyes were open, and that she was looking at him. Truly, staring past him into his own mind. Her eyes were the color of the stars, a dark grey. Deep, but transparent. Simple, but complex in their own way. Never before had the galaxies, nor the universe spread itself before a viewer within Rune's tent. But there was a first for everything. Perhaps she was the only one who could fathom, and envision it within her own mind.

She was a master of illusions. Her words fooled reality itself into thinking it was whatever she wished it to be. And now, it was theirs, and theirs alone to remember, and to forget. 

“Darkness and light weave themselves together to create the fabric of the universe. Apart, they are useless and immaterial. Together, they become what was, what is, and what always will be.” A voice, a voice like no other vibrates through the tent. There is a sweetness to the voice, a silvery sincerity that is weaved into it with a sharpness that suggests complete confidence in what is being said. It is almost as if they are both submerged beneath the waves of moonlight as the chiming tones of the storyteller fade completely. She says no more, for there is nothing more to explain, there is nothing more to say.

As soon as the vision of peace, and the symphony of wonder appears, it fades with the voice as well. The stars fly back to their places in the sky, and the moon that hung without a cloud in the sky dissipates into silver smoke. The candles flicker innocently, and the shadows are still for a moment, before they resume their intricate dance. And Rune? Rune is silent once more, it is almost as though she never spoke. Perhaps he imagined it all. It all depends on how much he believes.

Fellini believed. He believed as if she spoke the only truths in the world, as if her message was gospel, divine and almighty. Had he merely imagined it, it was a dirty, cruel trick of the mind. Had he merely imagined it, the natural world made him despondent, and he soon yearned for that sensation of light and sky. It was so surreal, it would have sent Dali into a coma.

He did not understand, however and, realizing this, he struck out aimlessly, hoping to grasp onto even the smallest amount of her energy. It did not come. They had driven on a roundabout, only to stop at the very beginning. The tent, for all the rhythm that ebbed and flowed throughout, now paled in comparison to her brief display, but the vigor was unmistakable. She was resurrected, after all, albeit for a sweet, short time, and he would be in denial if he ignored the change that ate away at him.

His skin tingled, electric. His weary face was fraught with awe, irritation. "Please... will you speak again?" he asked of her, at a loss, lacking the conviction that made him whole. He felt so meek before her. As he left in uncertainty, he knew the response: there was to be none.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fellini, the Bizarrist Character Portrait: Zalvema, The Ringmistress
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Zalvema and Fellini
The Ringmistress and The Bizarrist


Departing on unsteady feet, he walked aimlessly. Had any of the others taken heed of the abrupt shift in the air? Fellini shook his head as if to answer himself, slowly removing his hat and any trace of doubt that still plagued his features. Color returned to his skin, spring to his step. Dark eyes were set ahead, authoritative. What had occurred would not be acknowledged in vain, and for now would remain a discourse between the two of them, he and the Storyteller. And if the time came when their curiosity was piqued...

Darkness and light. Archetypes to the end. He shrugged it away. His head needed to be at its clearest, for whom he must speak to had little tolerance for folly. Performances had ended for the night, reality taking helm. Little was more frightening.

It was not as if there were no opportunities to evade the Ringmistress: the gattino was about, as were the deranged boys and Signora Arachnid, who seemed to want nothing more than the company of her spider. In the direst case, the magician would make a decent drinking cohort. But, no—if he did not confront her about his recent decline, then she surely would eventually, and she would be merciless.

Her tent was the grandest. Inferiority claimed him once again as it had done before Rune. He rid the ethereal woman from his thoughts and spoke with utmost respect, daring not to tread inside without her permission. His voice was leveled, but strong: "Buona sera, Zalvema, e come sta? Are you there? I know we've some matters to discuss—might as well get on with it now." Despite the echoing sounds of the jolly crew in the distance, it was silent in Zalvema's tent, and after a long moment, she spoke.

"Come in." A voice of heavy disinterest. She stood tall at the farthest corner of her makeshift home, pouring herself a glass of fragrant liquor.

Fellini obliged, crossing what felt like an immeasurable length to stand in her presence. He kept a few feet away from Zalvema. A low bow was his greeting, his grip tightening on the brim of his hat. "Ringmistress, I must apologize for my..." The words were forced. "For my subpar showings as of late. I'm sure you were the first to notice. Call it a creative drought, if you will."

"And what do you plan to do about this... creative drought?" the woman asked, turning her willowy frame around to watch him. Her thin fingers entwined about the glass she held in front of her. "Have a drink with me," she purred, curling her lips into a brief smirk.

How he wish he knew. Sharply, he rose, and it took a few intervals for him to accept her offer. Her tone had never put him at ease; this time was no different.

"Si," he replied, smirking in return with a sly arch of his brow. Quivering fingers round the bottle, then glass said otherwise. "Patience, Zalvema. You shall see, and you shall be amazed! A work in progress, we'll call it. Beautiful beyond all belief. But we must wait, you and I."

Sipping at the liquor, he downed it quickly. He never ceased pacing. The brief confidence that found him left as soon as it came, and he immediately regretted his words. The woman's gaze sharped as she was told to be patient, and were she with any other crew member, she would have grown impatient just for the purpose that she was told to be otherwise. This was, however, the bizarrist she was in company with. Taking two long strides towards a cushioned seat, Zalvema made herself comfortable. "Tell me more about this work in progress," she muttered, setting her own glass of intoxicating liquid atop her bony knee.

Yes, tell her more, talk carefully. Fellini tensed as she moved, bracing for an earlier punishment. But, at least for this moment, he was spared. Yet he was still expected to describe a spectacle he had not yet considered. Pouring another glass, he put his stagnant mind to work, widely gesturing as he detailed the impromptu performance: "Well, there is a girl—no, a woman. And she is pure, pure like nothing else in this world. She is young, but timeless, and her power?"

He drank, never shifting his heated gaze from the Ringmistress. "Her power knows no bounds. And I seek this power. I need it to... to become whole. Without it, I am as useless as any passing mortal. But this is all I know. I must continue to learn."

"I don't suppose we're talking about Rune, are we?" The woman knew her members, even Rune, from top to bottom, in and out. However, when Zalvema had taken over the attraction, Rune had already been a part of it, and she was one of the only ones that Zuzu didn't dare dispose and replace. "If she is sparking your creativity, I see no problem here, then."

"Ah, thank you, thank you," he said, exhaling a sigh of relief. With good graces, he decided to tell her: "It is Rune, and I only mention her because she finally spoke to me tonight. I have never been so thrilled. But... you know how she can be. She's cryptic, introverted. As I said, it will take time."

"She spoke to you?" Now Zalvema looked more than interested, maybe a bit jealous at the discovery, though there was the unmistakable pride for Fellini, even if it was drowned by her own selfishness. The woman straightened in her seat, those cold pools displaying something other than indifference for a rare occurrence. "What did she say?" Zuzu inquired, stone gaze locked onto the man.

He ceased his pacing as if the emotive response in her eyes had frozen him in place. The sight struck him like a physical blow, relentless and unexpected. Her curiosity was more than welcome, but what lay behind it and what may come of it had him on edge. There was the sudden urge to keep Rune's advice to himself, even if he barely grasped her wisdom. "Nothing."

That wouldn't suffice.

"Nothing at all," Fellini echoed. "She speaks in riddles I've yet to understand. They would be of no interest to you, Ringmistress, I assure you that."

The woman sat motionless in response to his words. She didn't quite believe him, yet she could hardly believe Rune speaking to him.

"Leave." Zuzu, freshly frustrated, flicked her wrist towards the entrance of the tent.

For an instant, silence was not an option; he must speak. She was fascinating. Defiance wrought his expression—it was the satisfaction of knowing that kept him lively as he set the liquor glass from where it had been. It was the knowledge that he could keep between he and the mythical woman, to discover amongst themselves. But his lips were shut. Once more, he bowed deeply before the lady of the Cirque. Respect was planted on the back of her hand in the form of a kiss.

With that, he spun on his heel and left. She would not see the tenacity draining from his face. Her persistence alone was enough to scare him, and the inevitable grudge quickened his pace. Did I strike a chord, Zalvema?