Spectacle | Walvoord's Bigtop Extravaganza

Elle Joyner

Moop.
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. Multiple posts per day
Online Availability
8:00 AM - 4:00 PM
Writing Levels
  1. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Primarily Prefer Female
Genres
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
Poirot One;Lancelot;
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COME ONE, COME ALL...

Red and white cascaded to the dirt like a waterfall, a bitter wind rippling across the canvas, stirring the flaps that lay open, waiting for the poor souls standing out in the frigid field. It wasn't an ideal start to the process, but if Jeremiah knew anything at all it was how to make something appear well worth the wait.

They'd come in droves... Acts of every variation. Freaks, anomolies, twisted creatures... Fakes, some of them, but fascinating and macabre. Then there were the performers...men and women from across the globe, looking for a chance to prove themselves in the only place that would take them seriously. His father once told him that it was the Ringmaster's responsibility to make the circus more than just a job. It was a family... And if that meant a little extra care in the selection, well... The weather would have to wait, too.

"Next, please!" He called, adjusting his seat back onto a two-legged balance. A pair walked in, a young woman with dark hair and astonishingly blue eyes and a man, taller, with the chiseled look of an old statue.

"Miss Calliope Kritikos and Mr. Cicero Kritikos..." His assistant Jemma chimed, reading from their form, "Of Crete. Siblings, Sir. High wire and--"

"Trapeze." Jeremiah interrupted, grinning as his chair hit the ground again, "Koráki and Peristéri... The Wings of Crete. Magnificent."

"I expect a separate caravan for my people." Cicero started, "We Kritikos do not mingle."

"Cero..." His sister warned, but Jeremiah only laughed, throwing up his hands.

"Of course you don't! We'll see about separate carts! Welcome aboard." As Jeremiah's assistant waved them along, Calliope shot the man an apologetic look, Jeremiah returning a wink, "Next!"

"Ah. Next, sir..."

The flaps swung back and a young woman entered, her hand wrapped tightly around the lead of a majestic grey horse. Sitting up straighter, a brow rose and for a moment, even Jemma forgot her place, "My God..." She mumbled, wide eyed.

"Is that...?" Gesturing too the steed, Jeremiah stood up, stepping closer and the young woman, cheeks a fiery shade of red gave a small, nonchalant shrug.

"A Lipizzan." Jeremiah concluded, reaching out his hand to the incredible animal, "But how??"

"Oi! I didn't steal him if that's what you mean!" The young woman barked, and Jeremiah gave a boisterous laugh.

"Dear God, girl. I don't care if you did or not. He's spectacular. I trust you can ride him?"

"Wouldn't be here if I couldn't... Uh. Sir."

Grinning, Jeremiah stroked the horse along the snout, "And can he do the..."

"Airs, sir? Like a Sopwith Camel, sir."

"Wonderful... wonderful."

As Jeremiah continued to inspect the animal, Jemma seemed to remember herself, tugging her sheet back in front of her eyes, "Uh... Erz...sorry. Ezrabet Weiss, sir. And Spartan. Dressage."

"Of course. Welcome aboard, Miss Weiss."
As Ezrabet led the horse back out of the tent, Jeremiah sank back down, slightly breathless, "Next."

"That's it, sir. That's all of them."

"Excellent... Let's go relay the good news."

A few minutes later, with the whole gaggle gathered in the bigtop, seated in the stands and pouring out into the aisles, Jeremiah stood in thee central ring, adjusting his coats and meeting the crowd with a grin, "Congratulations. And welcome to Walvoord's Bigtop. If you're here, you've made the first cut... But the real audition starts tonight, when we open the show at free admission. Hope you're ready because the show... is about to begin!"

As he started off with a dramatic flair through the tent flaps, Jemma took his place, shooting her employer a look of irritation before turning to address the crowd, "You all will have three hours to come up with a three minute routine, which you will perform here, tonight, before the audience. If Mr. Walvoord is impressed, you'll find yourself gainfully employeed, of not, well... There's always Ringling Brothers. Best of luck, and see you in a few hours..."


@Mobley Eats, @KatSea
 
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Dorothy Shellstrum | Interactions: Saul

Dorothy stood in the far back of the gathered carnies, demeanor dull and unmoving as she listened to this...Walvoord man. Her interview with him had been brief. Simple. A mere bad luck hex and palm reading had done the job, warranting a reaction she was accustomed to. The ghastly concoction of fear and perplexity; the dark mother's elixir. Thick and bitter like ancient molasses.

Once Jeremiah said his piece, she moved swiftly but without a sound. Her hood weighed heavily over her head, forcing it to adopt a natural dip, but it did nothing to slow her down. She understood her objective. She would need the proper ingredients to pull off on of her flashier spells. A conjuring. A summoning of the audience's worst fears, perhaps. She knew the source would be bountiful--dirty bloods came in bulk. Either way, she needed time to gather her things, perform, and return home quickly. Three hours.

She would need to get this over and done with in two and a half.

However, her attention was diverted by a...heavily familiar but estranged scent. This blood, the dirtiness was a kind she never thought she could smell aside from her own. This was a rarity indeed. She followed the scent, weaving and slipping through bodies like a slippery snake, until she stopped behind a seemingly normal-looking man. Older, but still young. Well, Dorothy assumed everyone here was older than her.

Dorothy leaned in to inhale deeply, slowly, letting the acrid aura paint her soul like a second coat. Her eyes widened just the slightest bit. "...My kin," she whispered.
 
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Saul Santiago

Saul's fingers twitched in irritation as he flickered the flame to light his cigarette. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he exhaled heat against his hands before letting the death sentence hang against his lip. The tobacco tasted especially sweet today, sending a pleasant shiver down his neck as he inhaled his comfort.

"Sir! Mind giving me a hand?" A sudden voice cheered next to Saul as he observed the circus freaks(he meant the word with as much affection as he could muster). Saul's eyes fluttered as he noticed a man before him, who was struggling from his wheelchair. "Just grasp onto my shoulders and push me as hard as you can." The man asked of him, and without waiting for a reply, pulled an item from the side of his chair. He propped it before him, wobbling unsteadily as his grip upon the chair arms nearly broke the material. "Anytime my good sir!" Saul blinked and with a sigh pressed his hands against the amputees shoulders, propping him into the artificial leg. The man wobbled until he managed to properly secure his knee into the prosthetic, the material seeming surprisingly dense for a false limb. Saul had not seen many of these folks around, but he knew that this was a different scenario. His brow raised wordlessly as the man lumbered briefly in his leg, grimacing. A grin soon split his cheeks into two. "Thank you kind stranger! May God keep you in his eternal heart!" The man, cheery, wobbled and turned to face Saul before pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. Flabbergasted, Saul watched the amputee guide his chair in a hobble towards a larger section of the grounds.

That was odd. I hope that man is happy to be here though. That hunk of metal looks like it really bruises his knee. Doesn't matter to me though, he chose that life style. Hell, if he wanted, he could have just been the local fool and got money that way.

Saul's shoulders slumped as he felt the hairs at the end of his neck stand straight up. Turning slowly from the carnies, he noted a younger woman locking eyes with his form. Her lips moved to whisper something, but Saul could not interpret it. His head tilted curiously. "May I help you, little miss?"
 
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Mable | Interactions: Jeremiah

Oh dear...three hours? That was all? Mable wasn't sure she could properly rehearse in time, especially eighty percent of that time would be devoted to recounting how to breathe. Dear Lord--why did she agree to this. It was all that barber's fault...That sweet, supportive, encouraging barber. It didn't matter how in denial she could be, there was no denying that she owed him. For all the years of kindness and patience. All the years of looking after her when she stopped doing so. When she stopped caring...

But still. This was downright nerve wracking.

Cautiously and fists balling up the fabric of her dress (goodness...when was the last time she wore a dress? Since Charlie? Perhaps way before then?), she shuffled through the crowed with her eyes glued to the floor. Despite her large height and stature, she felt overshadowed, dwarfed by the marvelous lights of confidence beaming from the people around her. What she wouldn't give to hold her chin up high like that. But for now, the chin remained tucked, the thick curtain of hair bunching around her neck.

She only dared to glance up once Jeremiah came into view. "Jeremiah? Sir? I..." Her grasp tightened, a slight quivering to her frame. The natural, high-pitched squeak of her voice seemed to increase tenfold. "I'm afraid th-this might've been a mistake. The people and numbers and lights..." Her eyes widened at the mere thought of it, stage fright steadily rising. "And the ridicule. What if...I don't know. I'm babbling. Sorry. Forget I brought this up, please." She turned about, as if searching desperately for an escape from her lapse in judgment. This was pathetic.
 
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Time was pressing closer to the deadline, and like a child, anticipating... well, a trip to the circus, Jeremiah was a bundle of excitement. The man, for how he might appear prim and proper on the outside had spent most of the afternoon watching in glee as everyone practiced and planned...

He'd have accepted every single one of them if he thought he could afford their salaries.

Looking up, he spotted a young woman approaching with a sheepish sort of shuffle and a grin split his lips at the sight of her. Magnificent. Majestic. Perfect.

These were the words that rounded out his thoughts. And so it was a look of genuine surprise when he took in her words, "A mistake?? My dear girl!" Clapping his hands to hers, Jeremiah rose and without a word, propelled Mable behind him, nearly dragging the poor woman through the crowded tent to where a collection of vanities waited for adjusting hair and make up. Tugging her forward, he eased her in front of the mirror, "Tell me what you see?"
 
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Mable | Interactions: Jeremiah

Mable didn't even have a chance to react before she was being dragged along. The most she could do was release a long chain of incomprehensible babbling and flustered syllables while making sure she didn't trip on her dress. She knew she shouldn't have worn the long one, all it did was hinder her movements and drag across the floor. They'd be stained with dirt in a matter of minutes--seconds, at this rate. And then, once performance time came around, she would chock up, too scared and humiliated and insecure and beating herself up for not looking her best. Only to remember that her "best" was some freakish woman with a beard thicker than 80% of the male population in the whole city, and then growing ill from the realization and wanting nothing more than to empty the contents of her stomach in a lonely stall, feeling like a complete loser and unwanted freak--

"Tell me what you see?"

Mable blinked, surprised to see her reflection. When did she get here? God--her thoughts ran away from her again, it seemed. "Um...I-I..." Nothing immediately came to mind, aside from the usual. Disgusting. Ugly. Unnatural. Unloved. Nervously, she glanced back at Jeremiah, then back at the mirror before shrugging. "I see a-a woman with a beard, I guess?" Her voice hitched with uncertainty, not entirely sure if that was the answer he wanted to hear. Was this a trick question of some sorts? Wait...was this all part of the test? A part one? Was the performance merely part two? Or part three? Then what was part two? Could she handle all of that? "It's...Is it h-hot in here or...?"

Oh God, Mable needed to sit down.
 
Dorothy Shellstrum | Interactions: Saul

Dorothy's gaze snapped up sharply to match the man's, peering through the windows into his soul curiously. Oh...his blood was dirty indeed, there was no denying it. She couldn't recall the last time she smelled kin, but she supposed it wasn't too much of a far-fetched idea to stumble upon one among a group of carnies. Freaks attracted freaks. Sin attracted sin. The misunderstood flocked together like a honing beacon of spiritual darkness.

Slowly, she stretched out a lonely finger and prodded his sternum. One poke. One eagle-like nail digging harmlessly into flesh through the fabric of his clothing. "My kin," she repeated, somewhat louder this time. She nearly trembled with relief. This was good. This was good. She couldn't trust any other dirty blood, but this one...perhaps she could. If only sparingly. With a snap of movement, she seized him by the wrist and began dragging him through the crowd, towards the exiting flaps of the tent.

"Your assistance...is needed," she whispered, eyes glued ahead. He was big--well, bigger than her. His height and understanding of her nature would prove to be useful in her endeavors. She needed her ingredients and they may be easier to acquire with her kin's help.
 
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Saul Santiago

"Kin?" He mused, eyes narrowing less in concern and more in wonder. The poke in his sternum didn't necessarily hurt, but left him rather confused. This young lady was indeed curious, and he didn't bother to struggle against her as she pulled him along with her.

"What do you need of me, miss?" He inquired politely, although now he realized what sort of predicament he could have been in. This was bizarre, to say the least, but he was no afraid of her. She did remind him vaguely of the type of woman who would come to his sermons back in the day, but whether or not that was concerning was beyond him.

"I assume you are one of the circus's little performers?" He hypothesized, stroking his chin as he was carefully not to trip over his own feet. "Please, I would be willing to assist you if you require me for an act. I find this to be a fascinating time with your...little circus."
 
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