Post by Mystique on Oct 14, 2010 1:47:09 GMT -4
Lights glitter against the evening sky, wind wafting decadent smells, murmurs echo in the distance. All at once, music erupts, shattering the quiet of solemn solitude with reeling reveling until the crowd begins to gather. Eloquence, extravagance, and elephants barrel their way down the canopied stalls and wind around intriguing rides. A voice accentuates the intrigue with a bone thrilling cry of,
“Come one, come all, to the Cirque du Destin. A kiss to be shared on the Ferris Wheel? A heart to be stopped in the house of horrors? Fortunes to be read? Tantalizing tastes to titillate the senses? The old made young, and the fools made wise…One night can change your life.” With the silken wave of her skull-topped cane, the ticket booths chime into business.
The source of the voice is a voluptuous woman clad in a deep scarlet cloak with gold filigree in unsettling swirls. Her hair tumbles in riotous waves, down to the leather clad backs of her boots. Her white gloved hands wrap themselves with an almost sinister intensity around the cane as she studies the crowd flooding through the ticket booths.
Tonight’s the night.
Somewhere here are stories waiting to unfold beneath the ethereal beauty of this eve. Amidst the crowd of babbling homo-simpletons, there are special children walking in their almost normal trappings, playing out their almost normal lives. These she eyes with severe interest when she chances to glimpse their faces. She doesn’t know them all, nor does she want to. Those are not her stories to tell.
Out of the corner of her eye, there is a flash of interest, and her pretty aquiline face turns to watch them disappear into the amoebas pulsing of the mob. A shimmer glints around her, and a little girl wanders away from the back of the stage. Another face. Another body. Another chapter.
The ringleader takes the stage, anger flitting across her brow. One of the ventriloquists must be playing their games again. Doors had opened earlier than she’d intended, but with a cursory glance over the swamped registers at the ticket booths, she decides it was at least a productive prank for once. As she turns to leave, she spots a rose with a note attached to it.
You have a beautiful body. Thanks for letting me use it.
No signature. She scans the crowd, but no one is looking directly at her. An almost reluctant smile tugs at the edges of her lips. It was probably the Man on Stilts again. He was so persistent these days, and she had often denied him. He didn't seem to understand that what had happened was a moment of weakness. She was still feeling the loss of the Fire-Swallowing Dwarf to the Two-Headed, Three-Breasted Ballerina. Well...it might be nice to finally have dinner with someone who didn’t mind that she only had one head. She wandered off to find him.
So begins a night at the Cirque du Destin. What awaits the next adventurer is but a post away...
“Come one, come all, to the Cirque du Destin. A kiss to be shared on the Ferris Wheel? A heart to be stopped in the house of horrors? Fortunes to be read? Tantalizing tastes to titillate the senses? The old made young, and the fools made wise…One night can change your life.” With the silken wave of her skull-topped cane, the ticket booths chime into business.
The source of the voice is a voluptuous woman clad in a deep scarlet cloak with gold filigree in unsettling swirls. Her hair tumbles in riotous waves, down to the leather clad backs of her boots. Her white gloved hands wrap themselves with an almost sinister intensity around the cane as she studies the crowd flooding through the ticket booths.
Tonight’s the night.
Somewhere here are stories waiting to unfold beneath the ethereal beauty of this eve. Amidst the crowd of babbling homo-simpletons, there are special children walking in their almost normal trappings, playing out their almost normal lives. These she eyes with severe interest when she chances to glimpse their faces. She doesn’t know them all, nor does she want to. Those are not her stories to tell.
Out of the corner of her eye, there is a flash of interest, and her pretty aquiline face turns to watch them disappear into the amoebas pulsing of the mob. A shimmer glints around her, and a little girl wanders away from the back of the stage. Another face. Another body. Another chapter.
The ringleader takes the stage, anger flitting across her brow. One of the ventriloquists must be playing their games again. Doors had opened earlier than she’d intended, but with a cursory glance over the swamped registers at the ticket booths, she decides it was at least a productive prank for once. As she turns to leave, she spots a rose with a note attached to it.
You have a beautiful body. Thanks for letting me use it.
No signature. She scans the crowd, but no one is looking directly at her. An almost reluctant smile tugs at the edges of her lips. It was probably the Man on Stilts again. He was so persistent these days, and she had often denied him. He didn't seem to understand that what had happened was a moment of weakness. She was still feeling the loss of the Fire-Swallowing Dwarf to the Two-Headed, Three-Breasted Ballerina. Well...it might be nice to finally have dinner with someone who didn’t mind that she only had one head. She wandered off to find him.
So begins a night at the Cirque du Destin. What awaits the next adventurer is but a post away...
