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Lawrence

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a character in “Cirque du Volés”, as played by phantasms

Description

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"Unfortunately, they have a particular habit of making themselves busy instead of productive."
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LAWRENCE
23 \\ male \\ sharpshooter \\ air current manipulation

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DIALOGUE: #CD7F32 | THOUGHTS: #C3C3C3





A P P E A R A N C E .

ImageImageEyes that whet like the precipices of glacial cliffs, a foremost graze into his gaze would reveal an ashen ever sharp glare. A lour that pierces and strings up the soul, his angular facial shape further advertises a hawk-like regard and a face all too naturally fixated into a fitted scowl. Like a hedged spiral, a sheened mane of white hair takes up his head.

He possesses a tanned, muscular frame. Broad shoulders suggesting considerable balance but possessing more limber limbs, corded compactly with thew and vein. Lawrence stands at an upright 6 foot form (180 cm) and weighing a deceptive 165 lbs. He also has a medium sized brand on the left part of his neck, close to the nape, the number 9 in roman numerals (IX) alongside an eagle shaped crest.

In terms of attire, the man frequently sports jackets with darker fabrics for both leisure and business. Regarding their cover, he is content with donning whatever is most appropriate for the performance, whether tasteful or hopelessly colorful, he will wear without either fuss or crack in his resting stern expression. When using his ability, his eyes shift to resemble a light bluish color.





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C H A R A C T E R

"you say I
have a resting
bitch face, was it?"





xx-Aloof
xx-Candid
xx-Worrying
xx-Stubborn
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        .........With molded scowl perpetually painting his face, it is equal parts natural and equal parts hapless for even his most innocent bout of scrutinization to manifest into a daggerish glare. On his best days, his demeanor can be interpreted as simply withdrawn. But on his worst, people often inquiry the source of his seemingly persistent vexation. He is not devoid of shifting emotions, a defined spectrum of feelings arguing the opposite. However, his ever-strung resting expressions are admittedly limited in the benefit of a more graceful conveyance. In his sparse bouts of contentment, his smile has often been described as off-putting and sentiments of warm sorrow melding into an apparent display of mistakable anger. His face often betrays his true emotions, namely his trademark worry, a source of turmoil that leads to frequent misinterpretation.

        .........Almost as a complement to his standoffish is an unfortunate tendency to speak his mind. Mostly taking the form of chiding or something more physical, Lawrence is a creature of strict routine and prone to chiming in on matters of wasted efficiency. Plaguing his blunt nature is an affinity for worry, fidgety in times of quiet and one to act on restlessness with action. The cautious type is often seldom to trust, thus without the addition of time or a good word, Lawrence is naturally on edge when encountering someone new.

        .........Despite his skills lending to a particularly popular act, he is normally more involved with their hidden agendas. He is more than willing to help his fellow performers whether in the form of backstage assistance or training purposes, but is woefully blind to the exhilaration of putting his all into his performance. To him, the act is nothing more than an efficient cover given their skill set, his aversion to these particular efforts gifting him a sore ear from the endless rebukes courtesy of the troupe's more style-minded individuals. However, a side effect of his time with the circus in question are contrasting propensities to his usually narrow personalities traits. Acceptance that his scolding will often fall to deaf ears, a practiced snarky/sassy tone to keep up with the many quick-witted in their makeshift family and an uncharacteristic susceptibility to humor, it is not an inaccuracy to say that the troupe has weakened him.




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    -L I K E S.
    ▶| small antiques, guns, quiet
    ▶| clear skies, books, Troupe
    ▶| whisky, biscuits, cats
    ▶| smell of fresh sheets
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    -D I S L I K E S.
    ▶| nobles, fat-rich foods
    ▶| smoke, ghosts, dirt
    ▶| death, police, wine
    ▶| unpredictability, cages/collars
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-M I S C.
has collection of antiques that he overrates, strict morning routine of exercise and deep cleaning, constantly worried, needs glasses to function but compensates with ability, tucks Memphis into bed when he is already asleep.
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_A B I L I T I E S
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THE SHARP-WITTED WORRYWORT GUNSLINGER

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      .........I....As the resident Cirque du Volés crackshot, Lawrence's marksmanship is more than proficient. A steady hand and a calm breath pay in dividends when aiming his firearm, for standard shots or ones which are more befitting of Circus-folk. He holds basic skills in sewing, cooking and cleaning, the latter being something he takes particular lengths to emphasize. His brawling ability is above average as well alongside holding impressive skills in pickpocketing, information gathering and gymnastics. Ever vigilant, his perceptiveness is worth making mention as well.

      .........II...In terms of weaknesses, Lawrence is prone to overwork and just being plain stubborn. Seldom to trust and allow others to share the burden of the crushing sky, his teamwork and overall social finesse could use some time for measured practice as well. An affinity for worry sometimes leads to him being unable to act, trapped by a pessimistic mind that forces him to live the worst outcomes.

      .........III..Lawrence's ability is Air Current Manipulation. Born with the ability to sense and influence the fickle ebbings of warm air, Lawrence can quickly and accurately guide either bullet and ship through potential storm and harsh winds. This also manifests as being able to read both intention and motion in the air, allowing enhanced reflexes and coordination. Lawrence is also able to manipulate his own path through the air, allowing him to eliminate all friction and enabling him enhanced balance, enhancing his stamina/jumping ability and the ability to glide short distances. Not so much one who controls wind, but one who influences air and forcing it to rise/change by manipulating the temperature and properties.

      .........IV...His ability results in his lungs being more susceptible to tampered air and smoke. A single foreign breath causing him to erupt into a coughing fit or pass out. Compared to others of the Troupe, his ability is noticeably weaker in terms of strength, forcing Lawrence to compensate with his own technique and level of control. Cold temperatures leave the air in a state where Lawrence has difficulty both reading and influencing the air currents as he is unable to warm the particles in the air.





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ImageH I S T O R Y .
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◤ BEGGAR \\ THIEF \\ KILLER \\

Born with both bloodied mouth and bloodied fist, Lawrence was an orphaned child, conceived and abandoned in the dust-laden slums. Naturally, at a young age without the boons of a standard childhood, the boy was quick to grow and turned to a life of thievery to fill his belly. Frequently met with scarce spoils and instead rewarded with beatings for his efforts. Despite his crude technique, the will to live was prevalent and he made enough to fuel his unspectacular existence.

Of course, his sparse box of skills paled in comparison to someone with more age and mastery, Lawrence having the displeasure of trying to swipe at someone who boasted both counts. Expected to be killed for his efforts, the man instead found his attempts quaint and coaxed up into joining him to survive. A lofty noblemen with connections to shady dealings, he boasted the name Lord Oberon, a lofty duke who headed his royal family and used his influence & resources to build and fund an underground drug syndicate named Reverie. When he was taken in, he found others of a similar age, all brought together to act as disposable tools for the rich and crooked.

The hellish regimen begun posthaste. Limiting their ability to even breath surface air, they spent many of their festering days starving and panting. Amongst the down-time, Lawrence found a companion in a boy named Kairo. Despite their conditions, he remained vibrant and took to his training more naturally than his peers. Frequently, his friend would whisper inspiration before they drifted into a snore "when the time is right, let's leave here and start a bookshop far away." They had the mind to keep their companionship hidden as to not be separated, but out of the twisted eyes of Reverie, they became the best of friends. To steal rival political secrets was their first lesson, but their long list of instructed crimes included acting as bodyguards, arson and eventually..murder.

One of Lawrence's solo jobs was to assassinate a caned-wielding man who had apparently kidnapped a noble woman, citing the target in question's "dumb smug mug" as an unmistakable feature. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop with ease courtesy of his ability, he gave chase to the man in question only for him to effortlessly evade him and leave him guessing. Dodging bullet and knife, but seemingly biding his time as to purposefully stay in Lawrence's detection radius, the man eventually led them both to an alleyway and beckoned a large airship to blow overhead. A ladder fell from a window and brought him skyward, the man having the audacity to bow during his exit. A second attempt on the airship in question procured similar results.

To botch his first assassination was a prelude to weakness, and he threatened to dispose of him if Lawrence continued to grasp so deeply onto his humanity. To reteach depravity, Oberon forced both Lawrence and another hapless child to fence to their last breath. Naturally, the one who he was told to fight and kill would be none other than Kairo who had failed his own assigned assassination mission due to his own pesky compassion. Eyeing each other cautiously, the pair froze with weapons in hand before Kairo finally spoke to clear the air, a warm smile swept his lips. "Just like training Lawrence, don't hold back!" Preceded with a pause, the two charged each other.

Fueled by instinct, the two fought like wild beasts. With fashioned cuts scattered on open skin, the match eventually concluded with Lawrence pinned by his only friend with knife held to his neck. But even as he accepted his fate, Kairo's hand shook with a frenzied tremble before he lowered the weapon. Knowing well that they'd be able to end each other's lives and the price of an unsatisfactory duel, the boy brought the knife close to him and slit his own throat. Lawrence describes this time as a blur, not being able to even see straight through muffled tears. Thrown into a cell after the duel for his apparent showings of weakness, he escaped his captors the same night.

After the haze that was the previous day, he awoke in white sheets and next to a window that only seemed to frame puffed clouds and clear skies. A man walked in to greet him, the same man he had been assigned to kill a few nights prior. He was wrapped in bandage, having sustained wound from his attempts to escape and eventually collapsing. With a hung head, he prepared to both thank him and apologize before leaving, but instead the caned man offered him a job and a place to stay. Their cause was less than "just", but at least he'd finally be free. Perhaps he could live out his friend's dream..or avenge him.

He accepted without hesitation.





faceclaim - Eustace from Granblue Fantasy~
roleplayer - phan~
creator of sheet - phan~




So begins...

Lawrence's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lawrence Character Portrait: Etoile Character Portrait: Pepper the Clown
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Image.............ImageImage
......A shot through the heart and a shot through the head is all the same! Bear witness with bated breath..he cranes bullet and gaze alike as the tireur d'élite of the Cirque du Volés takes careful aim!

lawrence \\ sharpshooter \\ air current manipulation

dialogue: #CD7F32x thoughts: #C3C3C3





Even as he lay close to present commerce, the sounds of saunters and jeers were muted by an ever constant ringing with his battered body hidden comfortably in the alleyway dusk from potential seeker. Despite the hardness, the floor he bled upon was amongst one of the more comfortable harsh surfaces he had found to rest, cushioned by brown dust and blanketed by numbing pain. Bruises marred his body, populated particularly around his sides with gash and fresh cut serrating his chest and back.

He should've known better to fail, known better to let his friend die, known better to run. The fruits of his mistakes lay present in skin and clothes lacerations alike. Even if he somehow lived, the chance for rest had escaped the moment he did.

Even with the limpness of a corpse, the will to stave himself from a peaceful death lay beating. Eyes glowing like a cerulean sky, Lawrence's faltering hand trembled as he commanded the air around him. Feeding smoothened oxygen into his lungs at set intervals to keep the blood flow consistent but not too quick, how long he'd hold out was unclear.

He could feel his blinks prolong, his breaths dampen and the muffled notes of...clown shoes?

In garish clothing yet no make-up, a short girl wandered somewhat aimlessly as stared skywards, watching the beanbags she was tossing. She was intensely trying to practice her Mills' Mess, softly breathing to the tune of 'Stella Ella Ola'. But something broke her concentration, sending her beanbags tumbling to the ground—and next to the body there.

"Argh, dang—Oh, Sorry, sorry..." the girl apologized as she quickly went to snatch them up, but she seemed to immediately notice that something was amiss. Steadily returning to a crouch from a respectful distance, she examined the man's face, calling out, "Hey there! Are you alright, buddy?"

His still expression stirred as the seeded sack fell and flattened in front of his vision. Existing in his floor-leveled gaze, his attention was momentarily swept up by the cushion in question before a vibrant girl crouched respectfully to take his view.

It was yet another mistake to have been found, this time by sterile eyes who didn't deserve to witness something so unsightly. Perhaps it would be kinder for Lawrence to rise and find another alleyway to die in but his current strength didn't lend itself to even rolling over.

With what little he possessed, the man craned his stare to the girl blankly before fashioning his own eyes into a defined glare. He was in no state to make such a poor first impression but she deserved a moderate dosage of wordless chastising for asking a dying man if he was "alright".

"... Is that a no?" The teenager remarked with a deadpan tone as she paced around him, trying to determine things with her own eyes. Common wisdom indicated that she ignored the destitute, who clearly wanted to avoid the prying eyes of others—yet despite appearances, this girl was all too empathetic with the plight of those who could turn to no one, whom society was willing to shed like dead skin. And closer examination revealed that the not entirely responsive state of the man couldn't simply be ascribed to public drunkenness.

"Ooh, that's... That's not good," The girl observed aloud, shifting her tone from condescending to encouraging as she paced for lack of decisiveness, "I-I mean, not great, but let's not get too dramatic, eh? Deep breaths, s'all gunna be alright... Can you move?" Before he could even answer, she cut herself off with a hurried gesture, demanding, "Actually, no, don't move... Well, I ain't your doctor, do what you will, but I'll be right back. I'm gunna get somebody who is... Well, not strictly speaking; more like a tight-rope walker, bu~ut... Ehh!" Waving noncommittedly, the girl suddenly ran off, clown shoes bouncing off the stones.

Perhaps he had been too harsh on a potential savior. If he had the breath to speak, he could justify his actions by pleading that his face just morphs that way naturally..though by the time he had finished a brief reflection, that girl had already sprinted off. Her spiel was difficult to comprehend, especially since she spoke faster than he could most likely process normally.

Regardless, he could piece together select phrases. "Don't move" standing among the few. Not inclined to be collected by authorities or whoever the squeaky stepped girl reported to, Lawrence attempted to push himself into a stand, only to go limp and slump back onto the ground. With a long hiss and practiced sigh, Lawrence relented to the girl's advice unwillingly.

True to word—albeit, with enough delay as to inspire doubt—the garish girl eventually returned, albeit with company. "This way," she urged, "He might be on the tight-rope of life and death!"

As fate would have it, one request led to another, and then to another, and by the time Lawrence's request was heeded, 'somebody' turned into several somebodies. Foremost of the company was a top-hatted man who led the crew, a familiar face and one of the last men Lawrence probably wanted visiting him in this state: Tybalt LeGrand, the Ringmaster of the Cirque du Volés, his previous target.

But there was no aggression in the man's eyes, nor in that of his companions. Did he not recognize Lawrence? He signed something to a small blonde girl beside him, and sympathetically said to another, "Maria, is there aught you can do for this poor man?"

With a halo of blonde hair and a smile that could calm even the fiercest of hearts, Maria stepped forward from behind the Ringmaster. "Oui, Tybalt, I believe I have just the thing." She knelt in front of the stranger and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, taking a close look at his words. "Excusez-moi," Maria frowned, touching the back of one warm hand gently to his cheek to see if he was responsive.

The cuts marring his skin were large and exposed, like a fly to honey, they were susceptible to infection. "This will not hurt, I promise Monsieur, but you may feel a bit tired afterwards." Like a butterfly's kiss, her fingers traced his skin and his wounds started to change, mending itself, the blood vessels repairing, the damage undoing its slashes and bruises; reverting to clean, healthy flesh.

His instincts screamed at him. The girl had not only succeeded in taking her time but she exceeded expectations by finding someone worse than the potential prospects he'd hoped not to witness his dying breath, a ringleader Frenchman with an oversized hat and oversized grin. He had simply referred to him as potential target, a conniving villain who had so shamelessly kidnapped Duchess Rien and even when evidence pointed otherwise, he still attempted to uphold his orders with weapon in hand. It was a cruel mercy to be saved by someone he had tried to murder previously, especially when he wore a warm gaze.

Still, the sight of the man alone caused his heart to beat quicker ever so slightly. Bleeding that had previously been kept quelled by rest began to flow and stain his ripped clothes. Coughing into his open palm, his eyes undertook their bluish glow. Causing the ever weightless air to somehow still further and easing his breathes, it was the same show of power that he had used that night of the attempted murder.

Fighting to stay conscious, the frenzied thoughts still lay prevalent even as his body couldn't manifest something worthy of caution. As the healer itched closer to quell his rivering wounds, his panicked stare refused to be swayed from the ringleader. A few moments passed as dainty fingers met calloused skin before Lawrence finally closed his eyes to sleep.




The room Lawrence was settled in was a small, windowless cabin that was sparsely furnished. Sitting across from the dangerous stranger was the woman from the night previous, wearing a white dress dotted with little red flowers.

She had spent the evening in the room with the stranger, checking to make sure that his wounds had closed fully and that he was still breathing. Currently, she was poised on the opposite side of the room, reading a book of poetry; waiting for him to regain consciousness.

Expecting to manifest a deeper hiss as he woke, he instead could only muster up a throaty groan courtesy of soreness and nothing more. Whatever they had done to him, it was certainly more impressive than any modern medicine could hope to match.

A single stray breath would reveal that the air had unmistakable knots of rigid pressure, and a wayward glance out the rounded window would aid in quenching the question that was preceded by the former. He lay comfortably in clean sheets close-by as to where he had attempted to spill blood a few days prior. The soaring airship that hosted... willingly the Duchess and helmed by that man.

Patting for the knife that was previously strapped to his knee, he would notice the weapon resting comfortably on the nightstand by his side before his eyes narrowed to meet the delicate woman who remained on the opposite end of the room. She carried herself like a noble, and her body language suggested that she had remained close for much longer than a passing moment.

Clearing his bruised throat, the man slumped to rest his agitated muscles and spoke. Perhaps they all didn't recognize him, or they did and they were plotting a long, slow revenge. Regardless, he'd live in ignorance if he didn't open his mouth now. "It would've been easier to have fed me to a hospital close by... and on the ground-floor."

His gaze regarded her cautiously, on the cusp of a daggerish stare despite Lawrence's attempts to appear amicable. "The soft bed is appreciated, Madam, but could you share why I'm here?"

Maria looked up from her book at the sound of shifting, watching the stranger with curious interest. Maria rose, attentive to his needs, and poured a glass of water from the pitcher beside the bed.

"Soif?" She asked instead, "Are you thirsty Monsieur?" If he agreed, she would help him sit up to drink.

"It would have been, however, our ringmaster could sense something in you that sets you apart from most others. You are like us, Monsieur."

Maria went to the door, knocking once for the person on the other side to alert the Ringmaster that their... guest had awoken.

"I am glad to hear you are comfortable." Maria smiled.

Lawrence imparted a soft nod at the women's hospitality. Though instead of welcoming the extra attentiveness, he attempted to drink from the glass all by his lonesome. Taking the cup in hand and spilling the contents into his waiting mouth with minimal trembling, he placed the container on the nightstand next to his knife before thanking the noblewoman with the slight tilt of a bow. "Thank you, Madam."

Lawrence's expression grew vexed for a moment, directed at no one in particular but seemingly ready to lash out at the slightest stimulus. The last man who had similarly rounded up wayward souls with nowhere to go was the same noble who instructed him to take the ringmaster's life. The fact that he was alive now made it clear that it wouldn't be more of the same, but the parallels irked him regardless.

"Your answer doesn't lend itself to much, I'm afraid." With a lengthy sigh, Lawrence slumped back into bed, falling limp with a muted thump. "Whatever connects me to you kind folk hopefully justifies collecting children like trinkets."

Still laid comfortably in bed, he flipped his head to angle his gaze towards the door that she had drummed upon.

Maria came forth, producing a kerchief from her pocket to wipe up the spilled water. "We are more alike than you think, mystérieux étranger." Maria smiled, she retook her perch on her little chair, folding her hands in her lap.

Maria was not a fighter and she was no noblewoman. If Lawrence attempted to take up his knife against the healer, she would be utterly defenseless, but something told her that she did not need to worry about him hurting her.

The man's head still plopped square in the middle of his cushion, parting the supple pillow, he pointed his gaze skyward as he seeped word. "With all due respect, you seem in a league of your own, Madam." His idle stare studied the rafters of the room, the same perches he had hidden upon when he first snuck onto the airship. "To whisk away wound without even being bothered to leave a scar, though I wonder where you must take from to heal so potently..."

Turning his head, his eyes softened to apologize for droning on. "Pardon my listings, I would've been long dead without your intervention."

Not long after Lawrence's awakening, the door to his cabin slid open to reveal Tybalt flanked by the small blonde girl from earlier. He removed his hat, setting it upon a chest of drawers. His movements were slow and lumbering, graceful and composed; he was a tall and imposing man, but it was by his say that Lawrence's life was spared, and so he could not have been totally bereft of gentleness.

"It is good to see you awake," the man said, donning that iconic smile like a warm coat.

Breaking the conversation was the entry of the man himself. The enigmatic ringleader... yet again tailed by a little lamb. Lawrence propped himself upright to face him, his eyes sharpening into careful regard as he relayed a glance at his dagger that lay sheathed on the table to his side.

Not wishing to beat around the bush, a dance that was certainly the ringmaster's forte, Lawrence spoke in a slow but cautious tone. "Either it's water under the bridge, or you haven't figured out what to do with me. What's the reason for such kindness, ringleader?" His words were much sharper than the inflections he had taken with Maria.

"Is altruism not motivation enough?" he asked, raising his brows. But his response was in jest; he clarified his position by adding, "You were on the brink of death, and I had little desire for the world to be robbed needlessly of another soul. Especially not one imbued with the arts you possess."

He took one step forward and was halfway across the room. One more, and he was beside the bed, where he crouched down to meet eyes with Lawrence. "But I am curious as to the motive for the attempt on my life."

Tybalt scratched at his beard. His focused gaze remained on Lawrence, but his smile never departed. "I would introduce myself, but to raise a blade against me, you must know who I am. You have me at a disadvantage, good sir."

The little lamb stuck to Tybalt's side, looking at the stranger with suspicion in her eyes. Even if he was like them, he had still tried to hurt the person most precious to her and to Etoile, that was unforgivable.

"I find the extents of altruism to fizzle out quicker than a more transactional kindness, but it's reason enough." Lawrence slumped into his sit, loosening the blanket that clung onto his legs. "Regardless, I can't really ask questions, I'm at your mercy and generosity."

Leveling his gaze with the wall parallel, he let loose a deep sigh before opening his mouth to speak. "The noblewoman, Duchess Rien of the Corbeau family. I was tasked with her recovery, from the hands of you, ringleader."

His idle hands drifted to the sheathed knife that rested on the surface of the table. Taking it in both hands, he pulled the weapon from the leather to reveal the metal marred with rusted ichor. Lamenting silently how he failed to save the blade, he narrowed his eyes to the floor before bringing them towards the ringleader with his signature slit stare. "And to kill you to ensure her safety was encouraged."

"They had not known that she had went willingly... and even then they would've not cared. As for me, I could not afford to fail even in light of this revelation."

With another cut breath, he scabbarded his weapon before mindfully placing it on the surface of the table. "It is well beyond pleading that it was a misunderstanding, so I can only offer my apologies. My body, that has been saved by you, you are free to do what you must to it. Though if you even feel the slightest ounce of rage, I assure you to trust it more than your compassion."

The moment he reached for his blade, Etoile stepped forward, fully prepared to make him stop.

Maria reached for her hand to stop her, giving a subtle shake of the head. It wasn't that Etoile didn't trust her Papa: it was that this man had already tried to pull something once.

She did not like strangers, not one bit.

Tybalt squinted his eyes, his smile crinkling to one side in thought. He restrained himself from responding hastily to Lawrence's obstinance of his knife; his leaving it in plain view had been a conscious decision, after all, though perhaps not the wisest one for the preservation of Etoile's calm. He brushed through her hair softly as he mulled over Lawrence's words in his head, pondering his answer.

Then, at last, he smirked. "Beaucoup de bruit pour Rien!" he announced, breaking into a hearty laugh that left him chuckling softly between words when he finally managed to recover his breath.

"I apologize; the Duchess will not soon live this one down," he explained. "I will have a meal in for you shortly. She may wish to see you as well. Will you stay awhile?"

Previously donning a sullen gaze, he had not felt the need to wield his caution until the Ringleader erupted into deafening laughter. Shortly after Lawrence described in detail his vivid instructions to end his life, and in riposte, this man was making a shameless ruckus. To think, that the healer girl had the audacity to compare someone like Lawrence to someone like her... and someone like him.

Wearing his disbelief famously, taking up much of the real-estate of his usual scowl pointed face. They had thought someone like him kidnapped a duchess. Anyone with ears could learn to follow this ringleader.

Similarly, Lawrence himself needed a breath to recover. Allowing himself to grow limp, his form fell back into rest pressed against the lulling mattress. The man oriented himself so he faced the windowed wall, scoff straying from his mouth.

"If you'll have me." His tone had found an uncharacteristic chipperness, and he couldn't stop his mouth from pursing into a soft smile.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Memphis Character Portrait: Lawrence Character Portrait: Etoile
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A drink before a journey
Collaboration with Connected, The_Queen, Scra and phantasms


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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.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Memphis Character Portrait: Lawrence Character Portrait: Rien Character Portrait: Armel Character Portrait: Karolin Baade Character Portrait: Pepper the Clown
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Manhattan was unmistakable. A blanket of coal-fueled haze mixed with the beam of gas lights to bathe the whole of the city in a warm glow. Glimmering street signs and marquees lurked in every street, the fog disguising the buildings behind to give the appearance that they were floating in an endless sky; and in that sky, the lamps were as plentiful as stars of the night.

Other stars lived here, too. The port of New York and its venerable successes attracted great minds, great talents, and great wallets alike. Here, opportunities for growth and prosperity seemed endless, and the dreams of its inhabitants were as tall as the city's modern-day towers of Babel stretching towards the heavens for selfsame glory.

However, not all dreams were to the benefit of humanity. Not all wealth was good-gotten and not all that glittered was gold. Behind the façade of altruism, tycoons wrestled amongst one another for dominance over the twin industries of steel, coal, and its myriad of children. One such blessed child was the business of tincture mogul Elliot Maycoff. He manufactured and sold a cure for all varieties of ailment at a low, low cost. Little did his customers know, that their relief was placebo and their bodies and minds were being slowly poisoned by his so-called miracle elixirs. Yet, at a poker game with like minded businessmen, he let his secret slip. In doing so, Maycoff placed a target upon his back by those who envied his position - a target that Tybalt and his band of talented individuals would not hesitate to strike.

The Fifth Avenue Hotel counted itself among one of the most exclusive in New York City. By the growing fame of the Cirque du Volés, it opened its doors to Tybalt LeGrand. With some effort, he was able to ascertain when Maycoff would be staying - and when they could strike.

Assembling key members of his circus around a grand table aboard the Redempteur, he laid out the plan.

"Lawrence. Study the locks. Copy his room key. Leave it in the potted plant by his door, then rendezvous with Rien."

As Lawrence sauntered from the speckless windows to the equally as unblemished front-faced mirrors, he shamelessly grasped the opportunity to orient the embroidered collar that clasped neatly around his limber neck. According to the reddish gold-buttoned overcoat, the snowy gloves and dark slacks, he was hotel staff. According to the name tag he adorned that belonged to some poor bloke, passed out drunk in the alley two blocks down, he was Joe.

Legs trudging as he jostled a creaky cart constructed from springy Ashwood, Lawrence mentally recited the words of the Ringmaster in constant intervals. Mold the key and meet with the noblewoman. A woefully light role when accounting his expertise, but the grand plan was also breathed by his own machinations, and this type of work was done most efficiently by his hand.

Reading the rooms as he passed, Lawerence’s steps stilled. He met the fringe of the door that recited 476. After a customary head glance at each precipice of his jacket's pauldrons, he sank to one knee and began the operation in earnest.

Of course, he had tried to fetch a direct key when he had begun his ascent in the lobby. But the particularly crooked always held unfortunate neurotic tendencies, whether it was always looking over one's own shoulder or insisting on a room that skated out of the reach of both master key and present duplicates. He didn't appreciate the shrinking of options, but the excessively prepared Lawrence was not so foolish as to not have multiple methods to accomplish a single task.

Eyes glowing with fickle bluish flame, he brought his lips close to the lock and puffed a single instance of hot breath directly into the keyhole. Like pricks on his skin, he read... or more accurately felt the air complete every metallic indent. Working his hands simultaneously as he rapt his thoughts to what he picked up, he brushed away the curtain that covered his carriage to reveal an ornate contraption. A favorite of his collection, it could effortlessly mold key blank in a matter of seconds.

As he settled, the numbers droned into his mind. Drifting his hand to his device, he flicked the keycode into the respective combination reader and with a light hiss, the box opened up to reveal the freshly stamped key.

Wasting no time, he took the metallic trinket and patted it into the soil of the nearby pot, then ambled off with a cart to link with the Prince of Shadow.

Satisfied that Lawrence knew his role to play, Tybalt moved to the next members of the heist team.

"Rien. You will lead the acquisition team. Pepper and Karolin will accompany you to the room dressed in fine garments; the man is well-known for his affinity for women, so it will surprise no one that you three were granted entry. Once Lawrence gives you the signal, proceed up to room 476 and use the key to enter the room."

Once a lady, always a lady. It was easy for Rien to slip back into a role of refinement. Oozing with confidence and armed with a demure smile, the Duchess hid half of her face behind a fan clasped in her left hand. She used the right to wave teasingly to the doorman, who pulled open the glass door to allow them entry. Men were far too easy.

With gloved fingers, Rien pushed the button for the lift to take them up, snapping her fan shut as soon as it was safe.

The lift came to an abrupt stop at the top floor; where red carpet cushioned their steps, their heels silent against the plush ground. As soon as they parted ways with the elevator, a shadow detached itself from her Rien’s feet, slithering across the red carpet and to the closest potted plant, excited to do something. Her shadow slithered to a second and a third, rustling the petals of potted dahlias, searching for the key, before returning to the Duchess. "Nearly there," Rien murmured, knowing that Pepper could hear her just fine.

The hallway was empty, save for the three ladies. In the daytime, however, the hallway served as a gateway to the bedrooms of celebrities and savvy businessmen who could afford to sleep in the lap of luxury.

Rien’s footsteps ceased in front of door 476. Her shadow swirled excitedly around the correct plant. Rien knelt down, relieving the ceramic pot of its treasure. Holding the copy-cat key made by their very own Lawrence, Rien turned towards their first real obstacle. The key slid easily into the lock and with a satisfying click! the door unlocked.

Rien ushered Pepper and Karolin inside, closing the door and locking it behind them. She tucked the key into the pocket of her gown.

"Alright ladies, let us get to work."

"The information we have suggests that the safe will be hidden behind an enormous painting of Roman nature. Karolin will assist you with the rearrangement of furnishings to the end of locating it, as well as the procurement of the heavy gold bullion said to be stored inside," Tybalt explained.

Karolin's gorgeous silk dress contrasted starkly with the sheer strength that it took to remove the described painting. Apparently, it weighed a few hundred pounds, given its solid gold frame and large size. It was less a painting than an entire framed mural, yet Karolin displaced it and set it aside as if it were little more than a child's drawing stuck to a wall.

Behind it was their next challenge.

"Pepper. Your target is the vault. It has a brand new Yale 6020 pin-tumbler cylinder lock. I will entrust it to your picks and capable ears."

Pepper’s belief was that everything had a song—it was just a matter of time, place, and occasion. Hence why she had been lightly humming a light tune to herself and her comrades, to pace their beating hearts. She repeated the same tune over and over, even if it was under her breath at points, and didn't stop—not until she began to sing in a whisper;

"Round and 'round the cobbler's bench
The monkey chased the weasel,
The monkey thought 'twas all in fun...
... Sing along if you know the lyrics!"


Regardless of her compatriots' responses to the attitude she was bringing to a serious task, she continued to sing softly as she fiddled with the lock with the lockpick she drew from her show. This was her mint-condition instrument—it could be manipulated in a countless number of ways, and each had their own notes. Yet, despite its boundless potential, this instrument was only built to play one song.

"A penny for a spool of thread
A penny for a needle,
That's the way the money goes...
... Hel-looo?"


The girl waved her had around expectantly, although whether she was making a demand of her cohorts or looking for something else, she didn't exactly make clear. The pace of her nursery rhyming wavered as she adjusted her rhythm, tuning herself as she tuned the safe in turn. To an outside observer, it may not have looked like much, but within Pepper’s sound space; all that was mechanical was laid bare. One only needed to prod at all the keys to make the notes come out—and once she knew all the notes, the song came naturally to her.

"A half a pound of tuppenny rice,
A half a pound of treacle.
Mix it up and make it nice..."
A few clicks of the tongue finished her verse—followed by identical clicks of the lock, only audible to her.


The clown-incognito finally went quiet for a moment, and was nearly still. However, it was yet another moment before she took her ear off of the lock and stood to face her friends to finish her song, bouncing left and right with a big smile, she operated the lock behind her, the clicking of clockwork mechanisms backing her vocals like a drum set.

"I've no time to plead and pine,
I've no time to wheedle,
Kiss me quick and then I'm gone..."


The singer then stepped out of the way as she pulled the safe open with a showy pose, cheering; "Pop! Goes the Weasel!"

The lock opened with a resounding click, the door swinging open on its hinges; giving way to the goods inside. It was a wonder how Maycoff traveled with such a hefty load. The interior of the safe was lined with every kind of dazzling jewel, an overflowing bag of gold, and documents that surely proved all of the fraud Maycoff had been committing.

Karolin stepped forward, it was her turn next. She reached into the safe with ease, lifting the heavy bag of gold as easily as if she had picked up a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

Rien summoned her void, gesturing for Karolin to drop the goods inside. One by one, Karolin deposited the gold and jewels into the shadowy mass on the ground, until the safe had been licked-clean of its treasures. When the safe had been emptied, Karolin replaced the portrait in front of the empty container, as if they had never been there.

It was then that a voice urged in a whisper in their ears like a gentle tickle, "Maycoff is coming."

They needed to move.

Rien threw open the window and in her haste, made a grave mistake.

Karolin had moved the other way, leaving out the front door while they fled down the metal fire escape.

The escape plan, the most important detail of all, was something Tybalt did his best to hammer into their minds. "If all goes well, you three will leave the room by the front door, make your way to the lobby, and exit, taking this route to the train station which will bring you back to port," the Ringmaster said, tracing a red line he had drawn across a map of that portion of the city.

"Commit the route to memory. If you are at risk of discovery, leave instead through the window and down the fire escape, then proceed to the station. You will not outrun the police on foot, so I will give you each the money you need to charter a horse and buggy if necessary." What he did not account for, however, was that Karolin would forget to change plans. She left through the front door, shutting it behind her and began walking towards the elevators.

Maycoff, accompanied by two policemen on his payroll, caught sight of Karolin attempting to pass him in the hallway. A paranoid glance at his doorway made his heart sink. His door had not closed all the way. "Stop her," he ordered, blowing air through his nostrils and clenching his teeth. His feet could be heard stomping indignantly in the hallway as he approached his room.

Pepper would have been with Karolin, had she not noticed Rien had not followed. She ran back to the window to tug on her arm, chiding her in a whisper, "Rien, why are you deafening—uh, defense-is-straight—why are you jumpin' out the window?!" She jogged back to the door. "The Big Cheese said we run out the way we came—like civilized folk, not get caught like rats. See, Karolin remembered—" The girl sucked in air as something seemed to disturb her. Seemingly not so trusting about her means of egress, she carefully peeked out the door and gasped at what she saw, before scampering back to the window, squeaking, "Nevermind, skedaddle! What are ya’ waiting for, let's go!" She was practically shoving at Rien to escape.

This would not be the first time a part of their plan had gone wrong. A high profile target was bound to come with complications. This was, however, the first time any of them had gotten caught. It would do them no good to go back, having them all arrested would be a travesty that would become a detriment to the circus.

By the time Rien and Pepper had exited the window, it was too late to go back. Poor Karolin was apprehended by the police while the rest of them jumped through the window frame; careful to close it behind them. The fire escape swayed, from this high up, the metal creaked with the cold of the winter chill. "Come on," Rien urged, still not having noticed that one in their party was missing. Down they went, from the highest floor in the hotel, to the first. The last rung on the ladder hung five feet above the ground. They needed to make haste, someone on the opposite side of the building was yelling for the police.

"What about Karolin? She went ahead and I heard..." Pepper was hesitant to elaborate, a hint of worry in her voice. Once she found her feet on solid ground, she took a deep breath and reassured, ”... She'll be fine, she's a good girl. And tough. We'll do a little rendezvous soon... But we gotta be quick, or she'll beat us there—I can hear her running in her cute little dress shoes right now! Let's go!" Pepper gave Rien's hand a firm grip and tugged her along, urging her to move quickly. Pepper’s palms were sweaty.

Rien jumped, offering Pepper a hand down. "Karolin?" The shadow weaver blinked, looking up at the ladder as if she expected the tall girl to be standing there, awaiting instruction.

"Oh… oh no." Pepper grabbed her hand, pouring on the speed towards the train station, where they were supposed to meet should they get separated.

"Pepper-" Rien pressed her lips together. If Karolin tried to run from the police and lead them right to the train station, where they were waiting; there would be trouble. "I do not think Karolin will be there." Rien spoke softly. She slowed, forcing Pepper to slow down when they reached the main street. They needed to blend in. Rien turned towards Pepper, fixing her fur stole. "There are eyes everywhere Pepper, you must remain calm." Rien took her hand once again, warm even through her gloves, and resumed the walk to the train station. Even if she managed to school her features into a calm expression, her heart was fumbling inside of her chest. This was her fault, Rien thought. She should have been more careful to check that Karolin was with them.

"Of course," Pepper sighed, smiling and looking around as she maintained a pretty stroll alongside her friend. "She must have taken a carriage, then, with the money from Mister Tybalt." She suggested rather optimistically, "So she could get home faster. Maybe one of those new carriages with no horse? What a scam! That must be like selling a clock with no hands—or a coffee with no cup! Must be some kind of city-fad; getting nowhere fast. Guess we'll get there first, after all."

"Still," Pepper sang, with a playful tilt of her head, "We promised to rendezvous, so we'll rendezvous!" She seemed to take a liking to the word. "... Even if it takes a little while."

Manhattan's Grand Central Station was a welcoming sight, with its stony exterior and warm interior. Even at midnight, everyone scurried like rats with a destination in mind. Steam trains entered and departed the station with a purpose. Passengers lugged large suitcases or small children in their trail, offering plenty of protection from prying eyes. "This way," Rien pulled Pepper to the side, where they were supposed to meet with another from their team before returning to the ship. No one would notice two women standing near one of the marble pillars. "We will wait here." Rien's voice managed to remain gentle.

Pepper maintained a chipper disposition—they got the job done after all. She didn't say much else, however. Whether or not she was disturbed by the possibility that they had abandoned one of their own, she wasn't vocalizing it.

The time ticked on; first five minutes, then ten, twenty, and thirty. The longer they waited, the more trains passed them by, and the more certain it grew that Karolin would not be joining them at the station.

Perhaps Karolin forwent the station and took a carriage all the way to port. Certainly, Tybalt had given her enough money to charter a ride straight there, but it would have been less conspicuous to take the train. Nevertheless, they hoped that they would find Karolin at home aboard the Redempteur, for the last train of the day was pulling into the station.

"All aboard!" came the call of the conductor, sounding his bell through the station.

"Come Pepper, we mustn't keep them waiting," Rien lifted the hem of her dress, leading Pepper up the train steps and onto the carriage that would return them to their home. The train deposited them a few blocks away, at a stop with a flickering lamp on a quiet street, well past midnight. Once situated on the ground, Rien rid herself of her heels in a most un-lady-like manner and unfurled her hair from its intricate coif.

"We are nearly home," Rien murmured, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Her nerves were coiled. Even if their gathering exploits had been successful, Rien could not help but blame herself for not keeping a closer eye on her compatriots.

The ship loomed at its spot in the port, its girth casting a welcoming shadow. One night had managed to stretch to feel like a century. At long last, they were back.

Boarding via the front ramp, the girls found the ship carrying on business as usual. There was always a bit of tension in the air when a heist was carried out, but only those who needed to know about it were ever made aware of it. The fewer loose ends, the better; and those with vulnerable consciences were protected.

The usual crew were kept at least somewhat in the loop when one was planned, in case one of them needed to be substituted on short notice. Memphis was one such crewmember made aware of the plan, though Tybalt had yet to make use of his talents on a heist. Why was Karolin chosen to participate before him? According to Tybalt, it was because his particular talents—and rambunctiousness—were ill-suited to a mission of stealth. And though Karolin was a bull in a china shop on the best of days, she could at least keep quiet when needed.

Still, it must have rubbed him the wrong way to be passed up.

The audacity. Memphis's most outstanding achievement as the family traitor was so clandestine that he could not even take credit for it. Mayhaps, Tybalt was saving the best for last.

Memphis blocked the returning duo's route with arms stretched wide for an embrace that was unlikely to happen and a discreet congratulatory grin. "Welcome home! I missed you, missed me?" He said, his eyes entertained by the fine garments they donned for their heist. As a duchess, the look fit Rien like a glove, but Pepper, he had to stare a little longer to be sure.

Arms dropped, along with his confidence of mind. "Hold on, Call me blind; I only see chuckles and the love of my life…" Memphis did not miss the opportunity to fill the remainder of the day, annoying Lawrence, the bellboy. Another person was missing from the count.

"Where's Karolin?"

There was one waiting in the wings upon their return. Memphis's familiar face was a welcome sight. "How could we not?" Rien teased in reply. If one looked closely, they could see the signs of fatigue wearing down her features.

Rien's complexion was pale and there were circles beneath her eyes that the pressed powder she wore had trouble covering. Fatigue went hand-in-hand with use of the Void.

Memphis’s next question made Rien's heart sink. Pepper too, must have been saddened to hear she had not made it back. Even if it was unrealistic, some part of Rien had still hoped that Karolin would find her way home.

"Karolin was caught." Rien's voice was soft and low. Pepper would have heard it because she was Pepper, but had anyone else been near, they would have missed her words. "Where is Sir Tybalt?"

"She'll be home soon," Pepper reassured in a whisper and a light smile, before she walked past Memphis without another word—looking to make herself scarce. She didn't have very many smiles left to give for the night.

Word spread quickly aboard the close-knit ship, but Violetta was waiting in the bay, ready to relay the message even quicker. She and Lawrence had arrived earlier; now she whispered for Tybalt to present himself.

It was only a minute before the Ringmaster presented himself, chin-up yet stoic. With Violetta's words to steal him; he stepped across the deck in his tall black boots, standing dignified before Rien, Pepper, and Memphis.

"Welcome home," he said, bowing his head and removing his hat in greeting.

Rien stepped forward. From his expression, he had already been briefed on the situation. ”Our evening exploits have been semi-successful," Rien admitted. She opened up the Void, depositing their winnings onto the ground. In gaining these riches, they had lost something far more important to them.

"It is my fault. I will shoulder the blame for the events that took place after."

A gentle hand clasped Pepper's shoulder. Memphis shook his head discouraging her retreat for a few reasons. Particularly, "You're saying it wrong." He twirled her to face him, releasing once he had her attention. "She'll be home soon," He declared like a fact with all the confidence in his being before tousling her hair done up for the disguise back down to Pepper-esque.

"And I am ready for a turn." Memphis added, eyes darting from Rien to Tybalt.

The short girl's lips curled up into an embarrassed smile as she cringed away from Memphis's petting. Seeing her positive outlook reflected back at her seemed to recharge some of her spirits. "Yeah. I mean, we got the job done. That is at least worth a golf-clap?"

Tybalt furrowed his brows. Few people on the ship knew for sure what was going through his head, but everyone knew that look meant trouble. In their years of asset repurposing, failures were few and small. Yet the time was going on two in the early morning, and she had not arrived.

"I am afraid your eagerness to commit crime must yield place to the more dire matter of our missing companion," he answered Memphis, "but should I have a need for a jail-buster, your services will not go unsolicited."

He reached forward and placed his hand on Rien's shoulder, looking into her eyes. "You played to the tune I composed. It is no more your fault than a violinist's for a broken string, but the conductor will face the crowd's ire. Blame me."

Then, he swiveled round, plucking his cane from beneath his arm and walking with it. Late as it was, this could not stand. With a look of determination, he set off to find the one person he knew aboard the ship that spoke Russian: Armel.

A long exasperated sigh escaped Memphis, underestimated and misunderstood as usual. He thought himself quite capable of stealing a woman, especially stealing a woman back.

Eavesdropping on Tybalt’s comforting words, he neared to pass by with words of his own. "If I may conductor, the longer you silence a violin, the harder it is for it to find its true voice again." Then bowed to take his leave, seeing as he was not needed... again.

"You can join me if you like, Peps." He offered company with a cheerful smile, whistling away the sulk as he strolled off in search of a bottle of whiskey.

The moon sat at its highest peak, offering some natural light to Armel's dimly lit atelier. Dried colors splattered on the floor and walls, and the dust of sculpted clay decorated the small room's floor and walls. It was messy and showed Armel's meticulous efforts — finely detailed sculptures, finished and unfinished paintings of different scenery, and people all laid around the room.

For tonight, his current painting was simply an excuse not to sleep. After helping Ines rest, Armel hauled himself inside to work, his hands and clothing bearing the evidence of the long hours he had been there — covered in small blotches of paint. A rare sight for the well-dressed Armel, but here he had no reason to keep appearances.

His focus lay on the canvas before him, slathered in shades of blue, black, white, yellow, red, and orange — strategically placed and mixed to depict a bright moon and starry sky. No real reason for the inspiration; it had merely popped into his head.

However, for the last hour, he had run into a stump. The painting was rather plain to his keen eyes, it needed something more, but Armel did not know what. Maybe this was a sign of stopping, along with the bristles of his brushes beginning to fray, "Well..." Armel sat down his equipment and stretched, "Perhaps it is time for some rest." as if to answer his question, there was a knock on the door.

Armel let his head fall forward dramatically and sighed, "Or not." he whispered.

"Un moment!" He stood up and walked to the window, opening it wide to air out the room. He did not want the smell of chemicals to violently attack the visitor's senses, especially if it was Ines.

After a moment, he walked to the door, wiping his hands on his dirty apron, "Oui-" Armel opened the door and froze at the sight before him. In front of him was the last person he expected to see tonight, "Tybalt? To what do I owe this visit?"

The normally-chipper Ringmaster had a somber expression, far unlike his usual demeanor. His head was held high, yet Armel knew instantly that something was wrong. On the eve of a heist, this could bode only poorly.

"Apologies for disturbing you," he said, gripping to the head of his cane, "but there has arisen a pressing need for your services." There was no need to be cryptic, as in a few minutes the whole of the ship would know something had gone wrong.

"Karolin is missing."

Armel blinked, "...Excusez-moi, missing?" His surprise turned into an urgent attitude as he processed the information.

Considering that the crew was carrying out a mission, Karolin could be walking around the city lost. However, the word missing could be a favorable conclusion rather than the correct answer. Karolin, when left alone, would stand out amongst a crowd. Therefore the worst and most likely answer is, "Did the police take her?" he mumbled, frustrated.

Armel tossed off his apron and switched it for a plain black coat. He had no time, so a coat would have to cover the paint on his white sleeves, and he'd have to do with his paint-covered hands — luckily, the rest of his attire was well-kept.

"Alright, shall we go find her?" he asked urgently with his lips curved in a calm smile — maintaining his composure is essential.

Tybalt nodded. His words were chosen carefully, and Armel reasoned the truth out in short order.

"She is, by all accounts, detained by local police. We must act with haste and surety if we are to recover her," he further explained. He stepped lively after Armel recomposed himself, taking long strides so as to make it quickly to the elevator. "She was apprehended exiting the apartment; I do not know if she was seen in the process or merely in the vicinity, and the authorities are not likely to reveal the truth to us."

Tybalt brought the elevator down to the main deck with Armel in tow, then marched his way forth from it towards the ramp which led to the city. "This is a proper fiasco, the first of its kind. Her freedom lies in our hands. Let us prevail."

-----

The sun rose upon Manhattan and still the men had not yet returned with Karolin. Hours passed, leaving the ship in mild disarray. Tybalt had not appeared for rehearsals, nor was he present at the galley's dining table for breakfast. His guiding hand had, for the briefest of moments, disappeared, for the first time in many years.

And then, finally, by midday, the two arrived back at the ship, not having slept through the eve, the morning, nor the afternoon.

Worse yet, they remained alone.

Tybalt, dragging his feet, re-entered with a gait like a shambler, clutching what looked like reams of paperwork and legal documentation under his arm. He did not say a word, but disappeared once more into the elevator, looking wholly drained of color.

The circus would find him missing from the table for lunch and supper as well.

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Character Portrait: Lawrence Character Portrait: Etoile
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It was after Tybalt and Armel had left to collect Karolin that Maria called the others to join her. Being Tybalt’s second, Maria had the authority to call the crew into the dining room. She waited until they quieted, clearing her throat before addressing the small crowd. "Monsieur's, Mademoiselles," she began with a calm smile. "I believe a celebration is in order for the release of Karolin."

"We do not have much time to set up before they return, so if everyone could please contribute, it would be of great help." Maria lifted a piece of parchment, where she had divided up tasks. "Lawrence and Etoile, I would like for you two to decorate the dining room." Maria glanced down at her paper again. "Pepper and Memphis, if you two could please go down to the storage and grab the liquor." Maria purposely separated Memphis and Lawrence, the last thing they needed was those two attempting to one-up each other. "Ines and Rien, I would like for you two to assist me in the kitchen, if you will. We may not have the finesse of Armel, but I believe, between the three of us, we should fare just fine."

As their soured operation weighed stiff on Lawrence's ever rigid shoulders, he found himself uncharacteristically straying in his own thoughts. Catching only every other word of Maria's assignments, he found now to hardly be the occasion to celebrate. It was the first time they've fallen close and it was a technicality to thank them for being able to extract one of their key members. Midway through lament, Memphis' breath spoiled his sigh, the sharpshooter retracting first then arching a crooked palm and resting it on his roommate's face. With a soft push, he turned to his shoulder and spoke with relative ease. "Perfect chance to shrink and make mates with the mites then." He saw off the two liquor-fetchers before turning and lowering to his own respective partner.”..I don't have an eye for this stuff so I'll follow your heel, mouse."

With bright eyes, Etoile looked up at Lawrence, who towered over her. For a moment she looked at him, then downwards, her little hand scribbling away, before turning the paper his way. We should go outside and collect flowers, Etoile decided. Flowers were in fashion for party decorations, at the moment. As well as comically large feathers and vines. However, there was no way for them to get feathers and vines in time for the party. This way, Etoile signed, gesturing for Lawrence to follow her to the elevator

Eyes whetted characteristically into a narrow, he focused to read the modest efforts of semi-violent jots. The little one's suggestion was to dirty their thieving hands by stealing from the grimy earth, perhaps he should thank his lucky obsessions that he packed an extra stack of napkins.

And she wanted them to take an unstable, metallic, death-box down to her proposed destination? He was foolish to think that a journey with the mouse at the helm would be a tame one. Still, even as he'd rather throw himself from the balcony and let the air cushion his descent, the sharpshooter was ever conscious of how his ability made Etoile feel.

"Not a moment to waste then, lest we smell Rien's cooking early.." With a murmur and a sigh, he followed her through the doors. Little paps first leading to no shift at all followed by Lawrence's full weighted step then begetting the elevator to groan and wobble slightly. Aiming a shaky digit, he tapped the glossy button with slow purposefulness, the glass flicking on and illuminating the dusty corners of the contraption. Retracting in a frenzy, he was quick to busy himself by polishing his bare finger with a neckerchief and rubbing oil.

Etoile watched him, her curious blue eyes following his movements to investigate what he could be doing with his hands. Like many others in the circus, Lawrence was a mystery to Etoile. Her mind toiled with the idea of Lawrence coming from a secret ring of spies, which is why he had targeted her Papa. The anger that Etoile had felt that day still burned in the back of her mind, but the mouse did not feel the need to take something as petty as revenge. Her Papa had taught her better and those feelings had subsided, leaving behind only curiosity.

The elevator wobbled as it reached the bottom of the ship, where they would be able to disembark on the bridge. Etoile pushed the metal gate open with some effort, her little arms opening it just wide enough for Lawrence to get through. Then, she gestured with a hand for Lawrence to come with her. Down the bridge and to the ground, where a small park awaited nearby, dotted with colorful flowers. These, Etoile wrote, deciding that the daffodils were perfect.

Bothering less to part the doors further, the sharpshooter pivoted to his side and snaked through the crack. Greeted by a warm breeze, Lawrence reached up to re-tighten the band that held his snowy strands into a bun lest he be slapped by loose mane. Then pressing up his sharp squared spectacles until the rims caressed the very tip of the arch that connected nose and face.

Following the mouse sparingly, the sparse park was a source of relative comforts, falling in the median of the opposite extremities of deafening loud and eerily mute. He lowered his natural guard for a moment and focused his full attention to the flowered soil, dots of golden color flickering in verdant sway. "Just these then..?" Raising his hand and beckoning the familiar warm air, his eyes burned with sky-shaded energies. However after both a slight pause and a wayward glance at his errand partner, he curbed his own ability usage. Glare returning to its normal grayish shade and the manipulated air subsiding into a disperse. Almost forgot that he wasn't trying to stress the poor mouse. She'd probably appreciate picking the flowers by hand anyway.
Spotting a stray basket, he marched over to claim the corded hamper and returned to drop it close to the little girl.

Etoile knelt closer to the ground, the smell of earth and the gentle breeze caressing them as if to say hello. For a moment, the child's gaze was fixed on the colorful flowers, bunched together in the grass. She looked back up at Lawrence, then back down at the flowers and gave a simple, singular nod. Etoile turned back to the potted plants and rolled up her light pink sleeves, digging her small fingers into the earth to pluck them close to the stem. A basket dropped softly into the grass beside her, startling the girl. Etoile jumped, backing away quickly, only to realize that it was no threat. She sighed soundlessly, settling back into the grass and gathered the flowers meticulously, placing them carefully in the basket so as not to injure their beautiful petals.

A point of genuine unease, like insects sauntering up one's spine—was watching someone willingly dirty themselves for anything aside from cleaning. While comparatively tame as the crumbs of grime only crawled up Etoile's fingertips, Lawrence could only muster the strength to observe for a few scant moments before averting his gaze.

As he retracted his eyes, he caught the heavy treads of a half-march. Scaling a moderate incline that led to the park was a pair of two policemen, coppers fulfilling their beat with a noticeable nonchalance. Huddling closer to the distracted mouse, he guarded carefully. Expressing caution as the patrol inched close before lessening as they passed, the rhythm of firm boots escaping as soon as they strolled away from earshot.

"Did our Ringleader tell you how long he and the artist would take? Might not have enough time to be delicate unfortunately." Lawrence spoke as if him standing on the sidelines in an attempt to shy away from the dirt was unironically a help at all.

Etoile's eyes sparkled in the low-light, the moon hitting them just between the shade of the trees. Even in darkness, they glittered like opulent stars. Slowly, Etoile shook her head. She did not know when Papa would be back, nor when the others would trail along behind him, one a gentle giant that broke everything in her path, the other an artist who looked as if he never wanted to be here. Etoile rose, dusting off the dirt from her hands and legs before pointing towards the ship. Even without words or a notepad, the message was clear, that she was prepared to go back.

Nodding at the girl's tapered digit, he swooped down and swung his arm around the twined handle of the now full basket. Pacing ahead, Lawrence began to lead the pair back towards the ship. It was unlikely that a bundle of flowers could sufficiently decorate every square inch, but Lawrence could at least respect the chain of command. His right to audible concern was curbed at the door as soon as he accepted that the mouse was in the captain's seat.

Despite the sharpshooter knowing fully Etoile's experience with following, his propensity for worry convinced him to crane his head in her direction in an effort to check. Waddling close, the girl would presumably be trudging along with a hitch. As for Lawrence however.. With the sharp notes of berry and leather, the sharpshooter detected the shift in scent a step behind. Bolting at full force was a neatly dressed rose-headed woman, much too absent-minded to see and much too hopelessly behind schedule to slow. In a rare moment of distractedness, Lawrence's legs tensed, the woman crashing straight into his chest. The impact caused the man to stumble slightly, efforts to catch his fall causing the basket of flowers to drop and tip onto the paved bricks.

As for the culprit, she had been thrust back onto her bottom, using the sparse window for her reflexes to do their job to instead clench a folded paper bin of English chips. Hissing, she massaged the small of her back with her fingertips before craning her autumn gaze. "..Jeez, you're built like a brick-house. Could've at least fell too!"

An unsuspecting Etoile had been trailing behind Lawrence until that moment. Every so often, she knelt to pick the yellow flowers. The ones dotted along the grass were dandelions with fluffy blossoms, but Etoile did not know the difference. She thought they were perfectly pretty to add to the decorations. With two small fistfuls, the mouse continued to move, appearing somewhat at ease in the empty park. A slight breeze rustled through her hair, swaying her golden locks in the wind. They were alone, she thought, but it was still best to remain cautious. Etoile knelt down to pluck another dandelion, momentarily distracted in the second that someone appeared and came barreling towards Lawrence, the commotion garnering her attention. With a start, Etoile dropped her flowers, which fell pitifully into the grass and froze in place, her eyes darting between the stranger and Lawrence.

The tree was much too far behind them for Etoile to hide behind and she was exposed here in the open. There was only one option. Etoile moved slowly, using Lawrence’s shapely form to conceal herself. Her shyness was pervasive. There was only one time that Etoile did not hide from strangers and it was when her Papa needed her. Now, however, it was only her and Lawrence, so Etoile hid.

With a receptive nod, Lawrence allowed his gaze to descend to meet the mouse hobbling behind his legs. It wasn't often that Etoile ran to him for shelter, perhaps she was finally finding the pardon to exonerate him or he currently existed as the lesser of two evils. Regardless, he adjusted his step to more neatly shield the smaller lass from the prying gaze, bowing down to swipe at the fallen flowers. Deftly pressing upright the wooden basket with his dress shoes before carefully rearranging the colorful bevy onto the twined surface.

"And you're built like a speeding tram, do you often run with your head down, Red?" Now that Etoile's bounty had been recollected, Lawrence gingerly deposited the container in a space close to the stowed mouse. Prolonging his stare to examine the little one for bruises before finally positioning his arms cross and whetting a glare at the perpetrator of this whole debacle.

"I'd say that's accurate.~" Quick to almost purposefully misconstrue Lawrence's sharp words as a neutral observation, she kipped up with a single hand, demonstrating notable physical ability as she dedicated her only free hand to clench her nursed card container of frites. "And the name's Daria, you immovable behemoth of a man. Remember the name or you're gonna be the one who's red!"
As swift as her fiery emotions manifest, it passed, quickly spotting Etoile eclipsed by one of Lawrence's pants legs and shamelessly crouching forward in an attempt to meet her. "Annnd what do we have here? Ohmygosh, she's like a porcelain doll. Where do I get one?"
Acting as if the constructs of social etiquette dared not to fetter her, she rummaged through her chip basket and attempted to offer one to the little girl. Clearly not in the business of often meeting children as she treated poor Etoile like a doe-eyed puppy. Despite whether she accepted Daria's gift or not, she leaned close and attempted to whisper, covering her mouth with the outer rind of her hand as if Lawrence would somehow turn a blind ear to her machinations. "Hey hey, why don't you ditch this gloomy buzzkill and play with me, hmb?"

Porcelain doll. Etoile stepped back, further stowing herself behind Lawrence’s form. It took a mere two words for goose flesh to raise on her skin. The child grasped Lawrence's pant leg with one of her hands, the other rifling through the pockets of the ruffles in her dress to retrieve her notebook and self-inking quill. The woman in red's offer of chips was met with a shake of the head. Etoile decisively did not like this stranger. At last, her fingers closed around the parchment in her pocket and she was quick to scribble her reply. No, thank you. Her Papa had taught her to be polite, even in the face of something frightening. It occurred to Etoile that she could use her words, if she really truly wished, but the risk of Lawrence hearing her whisper to the woman in red far outweighed the benefits. Even if Etoile had previously held a grudge against the man, at the moment, he was the only one standing between her and this overly-excited lady.

"Whaa..do I do something wrong?" Unexpectantly observant and receptive to Etoile's apparent aversion, Daria retracted back and tossed her previously offered frite into the infinite void of her voracious mouth. Unlike both Lawrence and the mouse, she was quick to wear her troubles on her sleeve, manifesting a deep frown before rising to full mast. "Hmb hmb, alrighty then..I suppose that's on me.." Pouting lips depressing into a delicate frown, she moped for a few moments at Etoile's apparent discomfort. Though ever fickle, the woman resumed her elfin grin as soon as the leaden air transpired. "Usually I'm pretty great with children. This does not usually happen.." The spunky woman looked up expectantly to Lawrence for reassurance, opposing as if the sharpshooter had somehow known the red-head and her one-off antics for all his life. Though as her form shifted, he did notice something peculiar.
A gleaming gold-tinted police badge.

With a rare smirk, Lawrence finally knew what it was like to watch a poor soul be on the receiving end of Etoile's judgment. Contorting his form to regard the mouse as she tugged on his slack leg, a long pronounced sigh escaped him, silently noting how that shyness of hers was always a ready constant.

Despite always wearing caution like a fine cloak, the sharpshooter couldn't say that he sensed anything dangerous from her despite the worn badge. Though to honor Etoile's wishes and his own anxious thoughts, it'd be best to bounce from the converse. "Is it 'cause of your sparkling personality? Can't say it left a blinding impression.." Pushing up his specs as he had been caught staring back down at Etoile to make sure she hadn't somehow scampered off, he placed his hands into his pockets to indicate that they were in a hurry. "The Madam's opinions don't easily sway, Officer. I'd suggest 'ya keep your distance if you don't want to see her when she's truly upped and miffed.."

"And as for us, we should get going. Quite like you, we got places to be." He flashed a slight customary smile before lowering her gaze back down to Etoile. "You want to say goodbye to the... lively stranger?"

You would think that Etoile would be used to the antics of the circus members. She was used to the compliments and stares of strangers, whose eyes clung to her skin like nails in her back. This woman could not have known the past that Etoile had run from, what feels like a century ago. Her words, which meant no harm, inflicted a memory upon the child that she would rather wish to forget. Daria’s form shifted, her sparkling badge catching Etoile's eye. The child was something of a crow, wherein shimmering, pretty objects would quickly catch her attention. As it may be, her wariness was apt. Law enforcement officers were not among those Etoile wanted to become entangled with. Lawrence, who was normally refined in his manner of speech, had taken on a strange accent. Etoile had not known him to be an actor. She supposed, if her theory about him being a spy was correct, being able to change something as simple as your manner of speaking was an easy task. His smirk, too, was odd. Etoile did not think she had ever seen the sides of Lawrence's mouth quirk upwards. Was this, too, a part of his act? Etoile was uncertain. She released his pant leg, remaining behind him [/i]Goodbye, stranger.[/i] Etoile wrote on her notepad, showing it to the officer quickly.

"AH, I am late! Y'all distracted me with cuteness, gosh dangit!" Her voice sold the impression of a frenzy but her loosened posture almost made it seem as if she was feigning panic. Knowing fully that a chance meeting with a cute child would make for a ready excuse for her superiors.

"Mhm, later. And don't bother telling me your names, I'll never remember.~" With a cheeky smile, she shoveled the rest of the frites into her mouth before taking off.

The source of Lawrence's usually mannered speech was his previous throughs as a bodyguard. Learning from a young age that if he didn't speak with a practiced tongue, then he would forfeit his ability to speak at all. Being further surrounded by the well-mannered of their troupe further clinched said incentive, enjoying bantering with the likes of Mem and Rein with utterances of comparable formality.
Though something about Red loosening his speech, bringing a rare levity to the usually graying Lawrence. An Officer nonetheless, but the hints of genuinity beckoned a sparse comfort. With a slight nod, the man waved her off. "If Karolin's captors are officers like her, perhaps my worry is misplaced." Breathing a slight back-handed compliment, he noted Etoile having dislodged from his slack leg, his leg regarding the slight glimpse into Tybalt's shoes as the clung weight lessened.

"Shall I take the lead? Or are you not too shaken up, madam mouse?" Orienting his form to fully face her, he lowered his hand and gestured for her to surrender her basket for comfort and safekeeping.

Etoile breathed another sigh of quiet relief, upon the exit of the stranger. She stepped back slowly, Lawrence's poor trousers having become victim of her small fists. The fabric was indented with creases, where she had bunched up the cloth in an attempt to use Lawrence as a shield. Etoile weighed the possibility of encountering another stranger in her mind, but ultimately decided it was safe. The child knelt to pick one last dandelion for the bundle and with it in hand, she began in her march back towards the safety of the ship, glancing back only to make sure Lawrence followed.

With the slack-fabric bunched and grimed, Lawrence would normally make readily apparent his practiced propensity for grumbling, if the culprit were anyone else but the mouse. A twined huff escaped him, he'd just have to rinse and soap the spot by hand, iron and steam the cloth and then let rest for a few days to remove any trace particles of Etoile's flower-picking fingertips. Though as the throes of their more spirited conversation came to a close, Lawrence breathed the silence and followed close, having to stop and allow the girl to overtake by a few pattered steps before gaining with long strides. He held the basket close, careful to keep the woven vessel from swinging and dispersing the exhausts of Etoile's efforts to the ebbing winds.
As soon as they reached the edge of their stroll, Lawrence turned his gaze back at the preceding ground to keep his worries of potential stalkers in check before finally following her on the metallic steps, which shut with a resounding thunk!

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Memphis Character Portrait: Lawrence Character Portrait: Ines Character Portrait: Etoile Character Portrait: Rien Character Portrait: Armel
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Later than anticipated or desired, the roll of carriage wheels made its presence known at the docks. Long had Etoile's bedtime passed - and that of most of the Redempteur's inhabitants, save its most night-worthy of owls - but, deep into the evening, the horse-drawn vehicle came to a stop and deposited its inhabitants near to the airship's moor.

Despite Tybalt's remarkable height, he was accompanied by a girl taller and stronger than he, and flanked by his now de facto lawyer, Armel. The wooden platform creaked beneath their feet as they approached their ship's main ramp.

Upon arrival, the Ringmaster, knowing intimately the quirks of his vessel, reached out his cane to tap upon just the right spot. Each thud rang out like a low gong through the cargo section, alerting his fellows to the recovery of a lost sheep.

Home sweet ship...It may have been a good bit since she had seen the ship but the tingling feeling she had seeing it was a nice feeling. But with them finally stopped, Karolin would step outside the carriage to enjoy the nice open space after being cooped up in a less than comfortable environment which was that room with metal bars.

But now far away, and remembering Tybalt's words she was a few steps away from a hug… Oh… Hugs were possible, once again. As much as the ship had missed Karolin, she too, had longed for her return. With a fuzzy, sentimental feeling in her chest, Karolin stepped forward. However, her face was blank, her normal, stoic expression like a mask across her features.

Armel stretched at the entrance, letting out a heavy sigh. Karolin was home and his duty was done. And although the detectives were persistent, the situation ended well.

Now—despite it being way past the time for a good night's sleep—Armel was determined to rest. He turned to bid his companions goodbye, but before he could speak he was cut off by a familiar voice.

"Karolin! Mr. Tybalt! Armel! Welcome home!" Ines sang in French, her eyes glistening with excitement.

Armel whispered beneath his breath, "Almost escaped. Almost."

The return of the trio was greeted by the pitter-patter of little feet. Up far past her bedtime, she excitedly held the hand of Maria, who was still in her day-clothes, having prepared for their return. "Welcome back," Maria smiled, her relief palpable.

This would not be the first time the circus had had a run-in with the law. However, it was the first time one of them had gotten caught. "Someone insisted on staying up far past her bedtime to make certain you returned." Untangling her fingers from Maria's grasp, Etoile ran forward to her Papa, grasping his pant leg with one hand, the other signing quickly.

«You were gone for too long, Papa.»

Peering down from his head's high perch upon his shoulders, Tybalt beamed a glowing smile to his adoptive daughter.
«Not by choice», he remarked back to her in sign language. Then, with one of his large hands, he ruffled her golden hair.

His attention turned to Ines with warm astonishment. "Oiseau chanteuse, I did not expect to see your shining face at this hour! It seems half the ship has gathered for this occasion!"

Karolin’s ears caught the tune of Ines’s sing-song voice, her melodic tone carrying down the hall. One by one, they poked their faces out to greet them. Oh...With this many people, surely there was a party going on. If so many gathered in one spot, there must have been something worthy of celebration. At least this was her reasoning.

"Ines. Back home. Hug?" She would greet her back in her normal deadpan tone of voice as she put her arms to the side in a gesture of a hug.

Ines' eyes brimmed with tears. She fell ill and only awoke moments ago. Filled with guilt for wasting an entire day, she was debating coming to greet them. But seeing her friends, brightened Ines' mood.

Ines walked over to Karolin and wrapped her arms around the larger woman’s waist, "I missed you, Karolin." Ines sniffled.

With the heart warming hug that Ines would embrace Karolin with, she in return would gently wrap her arms around her. Despite her strength being very well known to be extortionary, she knew full well that she should be very careful with her friends. They were of course not like her, so she would hug back gently with closed eyes to enjoy their warmth together...Nice and warm...It did feel better with the company of friends.

Of course she would perk up at the surprise Maria mentioned. "There is a party. Everyone is all together...Oh...Did something good happen while I was away?" Karolin asked as she would soon release her arms from Ines.

As through appearing from the shadows, Rien was suddenly among them, her face smeared with what looked to be flour. "Welcome back, Karolin," Rien, too, was relieved to see the gentle giant make her return.

"If everyone should like to gather in the dining room, we have prepared a bit of a surprise." Maria clapped her hands together, hoping to guide them to where each member had dutifully set up the surprise for Karolin. Rien flashed a thumbs up to Maria, indicating that the cake preparation had been a success. Maria nodded subtly in reply, smiling gratefully. They could not have done this without the help of the entire crew.

Etoile shook her head, attempting to fix her hair. «Papa, next time, you should let me whisper to la police.»Etoile signed back. She could have made them all forget that Karolin was ever there.

«No next time», he replied in sign. But who was he assuring—Etoile or himself?

With long, stilt-like steps, Tybalt strode towards the dining room, motioning for Karolin to join him.

"Come one, come all, it's time to celebrate!" he declared as he ventured through the hallways.

Not quite finding the need to join the welcome huddle, Lawrence instead busied himself halfway slogging through the more intimate beats of preparations. Of course, he didn't blame Etoile for leaving her post to greet the ringmaster early, the man himself admittedly forfeited their already fleeting time to wash the stems and sepals of every plucked flower.

Regardless, he'd find time to greet and inquire on exactly when their heist went sour after he was finished. He was strangely enjoying himself, dispersing picked litter atop the finished, dustless mantels he had scraped clean himself the morning preceding.

Concluding his own devices, he approached Tybalt, orienting himself peculiarly as to protect his mouth from Etoile's eyes and spoke in a husky half-whisper.

"Ringmaster, a word after celebrations?" When Lawrence was trusted with field-planning, the exhausts of any missteps lingered like tainted gas. He'd rather nip the source of the issue at the bud..

For their sake, and especially Karolin's.

From within the dining room, a much more sordid scene was unfolding—the sudden, dramatic bawling of a clown. "Bwoo-hoo-hoo!" Pepper sobbed melodramatically, fists concealed in her sleeves raised to her cheek to wipe at painted tears. "Memphy, dear, our darling Karolin is never coming home!" Her whining was directed at the colleague who she had been working with to set the table—or at least she had been hours ago. Now, her only occupation seemed to be warming the seats, while playing the role of a worried mother scorned.

"She just doesn't care for Mama and Papa anymore!" The tiny Mama complained, "Not since she ran off with the boys in blue... And it's because you drove her away with your shoddy jokes!" She pointed accusingly at her 'husband’. "You—buster! Oh, you drive me to drink!" Pouting, she reached out to the wine bottle they retrieved to cheekily pour herself a glass.

A man's shadow dragged his feet toward the source of the sound, one that beckoned his name with the sing-song pitch of a winebibber that rang straight to his eardrums that distance didn’t spare. Memphy he had been called, blinked slowly as if he had just woken from a long slumber. He groaned as he settled his weight on the nearest chair, shoes propped up on the table and a top hat shielding his face from the blinding lights above. Pre-drinks with the tireless resident clown was a terrible idea. He didn’t need to look out from under his hat to sense the commotion she was brewing, fingers jabbed in his direction as he was placed in a role he never entertained would come to pass…A terrible idea indeed. Although drained, he cleared his throat and hopped back onto his feet to make amends. It was still a momentous occasion, and there were more drinks to go around. Not to mention other fingers may be jabbed his way, the blame easily falling to him when things went astray. “Not now, darling, we have visitors.” He pulled Pepper away by the waist from her newly poured drink, tidied the stray strands of her bright red wig before lifting her over his shoulder in a breath’s break from her theatrical tirade.

"Goo-wargh—!! See, this is what I mean!" Pepper whined as she was clown-handled, "You have no sense of dramedic timing! I'm trying to do a bit of a bitter bit, and you're biting it!" She kicked and pounded—while subtly avoiding hurting her escort—while she threw an amusing temper tantrum, curly locks jostling like leaves in an autumn torrent. "Honestly, you think I don't know that?"

"Welcome back, Karolin." Rien poured herself a glass of wine, joining in the festivities. They had no qualms with drinking on this ship, some even thought to make a game of it on slow nights, where they had nothing to do but wait to reach their next destination. Tonight, the air was a bit lighter. The previous somber haze that had hung over them began to lift, Karolin having at last returned to them.


Just as implied, Pepper's hearing stole away all suspense. It was not long before the others, too, could hear the approach of footsteps and the tapping of Tybalt's staff upon the hull. Tybalt's long strides took him to the entrance of the dining room, where someone would surely fix Karolin a meal. "I am quite sure you are famished," he said in an address to his newly freed crewmate. "Prison food is...nothing to write home about, as the kids say. But a home-cooked meal should have you right as rain." He was careful not to imply too much. Hopefully, then, as he ushered Karolin inside, she did not expect to see the feast laden before her: scrumptious soups and meats, still-warm bread, and a large chocolate cake as a centerpiece. Crisp, bright fresh flowers lined the room on all sides, as did bottles of wine and highly-distilled vodka imported from Karolin's homeland. And, in the seats, all who had the endurance to stay up at this late hour to greet the prodigal strongwoman.

Kaolin's thoughts would shift at the sudden prospect of food. From her question of who the party was for, her mind was now on the prospect of stuffing her face with food from home once again.

And well...The prison food was food, it was nice of them. Two slices of bread with some jelly three meals a day. Prisoners really did get some benefits even if they did so-called 'bad' things. But the smell of nice hot food in the air certainly did interest her more than slices of bread and jelly.

"Thank you. And a thank you to whoever cooked it." She would soon walk on over like a curious cat looking over all the options, the food and...Oh the drinks? She saw some of those bottles before back home...Her father drank a lot of those clear liquids from bottles. And she saw other people in other houses drinking them and dancing around afterwards...Strange...Her father always was in a bad mood when he drank that...

How strange indeed...She would take one bottle and begin making a plate with all sorts of nice steaming foods with no rhyme or reason. She was after all not a picky eater after all. But she was indeed quite curious on what this 'vodka' does to people.
November 10, 2022


The tall woman normally intimidated the mouse. It was not as if the mouse detested Karolin, no, she was merely wary of someone that towered over her and was strong enough to lift the entire dining room table.

Etoile mustered up her courage, moving out from behind her Papa, taking out her quill and pad of paper. 《Welcome home, I brought the flowers, with Lawrence, for you.》 She scribbled with nimble fingers. Etoile held the pad up for Karolin to read, but she must have done so too late.

Maria, in that moment, walked over with a plate for Karolin, smiling in that motherly way of her's. "Welcome back, Karolin, tu nous as manqué. We have missed you."

Amid the pleasantries and welcomes home, Tybalt bowed to dismiss himself for a moment. He and Lawrence had meant to have words; not cross ones, ideally, but for one of their own to find themselves behind bars merited discussion. Between the grieving and legal proceedings, it was difficult to find time to address what went wrong, but now that Karolin was home, the ache of the error was nipping at Tybalt's constitution with every step, like a misplaced pebble in his balmorals.

With a subtle wave of his staff in Lawrence's direction, he invited his fastidious companion to join him away from the dining room, then slipped into the hallway.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Memphis Character Portrait: Lawrence Character Portrait: Ines Character Portrait: Etoile Character Portrait: Rien Character Portrait: Armel
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Excusing herself from the late festivities, Pepper left the dining room, only to pass by Lawrence and Tybalt in the hall. With a jaunty march, she was counting, "Forty-two, forty-seven, forty-eight, sixty-one—Exqueeze me, sirs." She greeted the ringleader and sharpshooter. Raising her heels and pointing her toes in on each other, she ambiguously riddled them, "How many shoes afoot are a foot?"

The girl then answered quite confusingly, "None, of course! Shoes aren't feet. But there's two shoes for every foot, and every foot is on board—every foot plus two. Now, it sounds like every foot that wears a shoe has at least one shoe, but everyone that wears a shoe—except horses—has only two feet..."

"Now, the sole reason I ask," she paused to smirk at her pun before continuing, "I thought we were missing somebody, so I'm just retracing the steps—recounting, I mean... We were missing two big feet until just now, but I think we've got two extra big feet? I'm just checking the deck below to make sure nobody's extra pair of shoes are walking out on the party—But wait! Shoes aren't feet! How we~eird..." Hardly waiting for a breath, much less a response, Pepper spun around on her heels and continued her strut down the hall, counting footsteps once more—not entirely all her own, as some of them were in French.

It had taken years for Tybalt to master decoding Pepper's particular parleying proclivities, which on the best of days were opaque, at the worst all but inscrutable. Not that she wasn't well-spoken - she said what she meant and meant what she said - but her meanings were not so much veiled as they were painted over. Tybalt removed his hat partly in greeting and partly to scratch his head. He redonned it, cocking his lips to the left and to the right, like he was chewing over the words. At last, recognition filled his eyes.

"Extra feet, you say?" he answered, rolling his shoulders and puffing out his chest. "Without a dance partner? I shall rectify it; my gratitude, Pepper."

Tybalt flashed a knowing smile at Lawrence, one with hints of weariness. Between the dire straits and the hard fight for Karolin's return, his constitution wore thin.

~~~

Marching back to the lower deck, the Ringmaster was quick to spot a face standing out from those he was used to seeing: a bright-eyed messenger man scrabbling about for acknowledgement despite the wee hours of the eve. By now the clock had past 2 unaccompanied by a daytime bell. What on earth was a courier doing searching about at this late hour?

Tybalt approached the young man lingering at the entrance, who was turning his head to and fro while clutching a sealed envelope to his chest. They locked eyes, and the man stood upright, presenting the letter with a shaking hand.

"Message for you, Mr. LeGrand!" He reported.

"At this hour?" he said, taking hold of the envelope and nicking its seal open with the tip of his staff.

"Of urgent priority," the messenger replied.

Tybalt pried apart the folds of the envelope, sliding out the letter and running his eyes over the text. "I gathered so," he answered.

"My apologies for the brevity and the inconvenience. There has arisen a desperate and immediate need for an act of appropriate grandeur to be presented at this year's Exposition universelle in Chicago, Illinois. The name of your troupe has been on the short list for some time. Cirque du Voles would be received with full honor and sponsorship, as well as considerable compensation for the lack of advance notice. If you agree to attend, please inform our courier. We await your answer and performance.

Tybalt tilted his head to one side, reaching into his pocket for a handful of coins to give to the messenger.

"What should I tell them, Mr. LeGrand?" he asked.

"Tell them we accept!" Tybalt answered, his lips curling into a wide grin.





The ship was aflutter with activity, the pounding of feet audible on nearly every floor of the ship. All hands were on deck, working like a well-oiled machine. Together, they worked to ready their flying device to take to the air. On one side of the lowest floor, there was a large handle that when turned, would alleviate the bridge from its position on the ground. From the balcony on the exterior, the ropes were pulled up. One by one, they were lifted, their crew rescinding the items that kept the Redempture securely fastened to the dock.

The engine sputtered, spewing black smoke from its belly like a dragon with a foul cough.The sputtering gave way to a soft purr, the ship now ready for flight.

”Hang on te something,” their skillful pilot, a red headed bloke named Rory MacGillan grinned, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He wore a golden badge pinned to his lapel, a relic of his glory days as a pilot in the Royal Navy. His red hair was slicked back, having grown a bit long, it was held together by an elastic with a fake sunflower fastened to the band. It was anyone’s guess which little lady of the ship had gifted it to him.

”Bring her up slowly, Red.” Samson warned, his gaze remained trained out the window, his stellar eyesight allowing him to see things that others would need binoculars for. The engine made a strange noise and both men outwardly groaned.


”Estella!” Rory shouted, stomping his foot on the ground. A panel popped upwards, revealing a slim girl with skin like umber and eyes like stars. Her hands were covered in grease and her oversized glasses were smudged with it, too. She had short black hair which she tucked behind both ears, and wore gray overalls and a pearl necklace that was startlingly clean despite the state she was in. ”Yes?” Estella asked, adjusting her glasses.

”What’re you doin’ down there? You want to get swallowed by the engine, do ya?” Estella placed both palms on either side of the deck and hoisted herself out, sitting on the ground and closing the panel she had crawled out from. ”If my calculations are correct, we could get to Chicago one hour earlier than Samson’s projections, based on my modification.”

Samson scoffed. Little was known about the man, other than that he had great eyesight and a nose for navigation. ”Found a new route, did you? Do you want to take over the maps, then?” He gestured as the airship began to lift, taking flight.

”It’s not the maps,” Estella went to the wall, running a hand across its metallic surface. ”You hear that purr? I’m confident with the adjustments I made, we’ll see a difference.”

”You better be right.” Red turned away, taking the helm. ”Now fetch me some coffee, it’s gonna be a long night.”

On another side of the ship, Blaise was assisting Genya in cleaning up the dining room. The party had ended, but the celebration lived on. There was palpable relief in the air, not only that Karolin had been rescued from the dreadful grasp of the law, but that they were leaving Manhattan in search of brighter skies and a handsomely paid performance. ”Ms. Genya,” Blaise started, averting his gaze. The gentle giant was often too shy for his own good. ”As we have discussed in the past, just Genya is fine,” she glanced up from collecting dishes, reaching forward quickly to capture an escaped plate that would have slid off of the table.

”Do you think something like this could happen again?” It was clear that the events of the last week weighed heavily on Blaise’s mind.

Genya shook her head, ”No, this was a freak-erm, incident, rather. The Ringmaster knows what he is doing and I have full confidence in our dedicated staff.” Blaise nodded, but his brow furrowed, as if he was unconvinced by her words.

On a deck below them, three men stood huddled, their card game interrupted by a door opening behind them. The smell of whiskey was prevalent in the practice room, the three of them having sneaked off after lifting the ropes and securing the provisions in the kitchen.

”Is there room for one more, boys?” A voice came from the doorway, a slender, but tall frame leaning against the opening. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders and her arms were crossed. All three stiffened, caught in the act. While the rest of the ship was preparing, Riftan, James, and Alistair were playing cards and drinking themselves into a stupor.

”The jig is up, boys.” James Martella shook his head and laughed. They collected their cards and shook their heads, cursing Rien for making them help. ”You should all go to bed, anywho. We land in two days, our acts need to be perfect.”

”Yes, yes,” Alistair waved a hand. He was Etoile’s trapeze partner, but often went off-script to tease the child and garner a reaction from the audience. He clapped Rien on the back, ”See you in the morning.” They held no ill will against her, if it had been any other night, Rien would have joined them rather than scolded the men for slacking off.

One deck above them, Violetta knelt down to lift a sleeping Etoile off of a settee. She had taken to rest there, waiting for her Papa. The child started, always a light sleeper and pushed herself away from Violetta, who deposited her carefully on the ground so as not to injure her. ”Are you alright?” Violetta whispered, her voice physically incapable of speaking even an octave louder.

Etoile nodded, looking up at Violetta with a wary expression. Slowly, sleepily, the child rose and dusted herself off, looking around the room she had fallen asleep in. She rubbed one eye and scurried off, like a mouse that had been discovered in the pantry. Where was her Papa? Why were they moving? Etoile could hear their calls, the back and forth banter of those that lived on the ship.

They were flying, but to where? She went up the steps, to the long hallway with doors decorated with names and paper cut outs. Cautiously, Etoile entered her Papa’s room and clambered onto his bed, waiting for him to return.