Eventelia: Awakening

[LongLiveLife]

The thug smiled. Tact paid off, and the prince had started to buy into his ruse; all he needed now was to remove the guards and send that ransom note. The latter was simple enough—just tell any of the Royals’ goons to pass the message, possibly shake him up a smidgen before to make sure he complied, and let the money come pouring—but it required the success of the first. He followed the prince out of the building.

“Call me ‘Z’,” he said, voice returning to his regular baritone outside the cavernous echoes of the building. “Sorry, Prince, if you want my full name—most likely for that ‘Wanted’ notice you’ll be putting up at every street corner, pub wall and letterbox—I’m going to need my money first.”

He led the prince through the twists and turns of tight streets between congested terraces, left and right in successive alternation like navigating a labyrinth. Jogging ahead, he turned to face the prince and continued his backward trot. “Like I promised, you’re in for a real treat today: we’re touring the slums. This is where the poorest of the poor live, and disease and rats run rampant. Bet you haven’t even seen a rat where you’re from, am I right?” Steam shrieked as it escaped a nearby chimney, but the bevy of peasants dressed in multitudinous shades of soot-stained gray were unperturbed. He caught the look of unease that took the prince’s expression. “Don’t worry, we’re only here to pick up some supplies; we won’t be long.”

He wheeled to his left and entered the weapons shop, bringing both palms to the wooden table, arms stretched. “Miguel!” he called the blacksmith with familial amiability. “Ten throwing knives, one eight inch dagger—just the basics. Hit me up.”

“One day you will be your own death.” The blacksmith chuckled, voice aged and wheezy, as he stood up to retrieve the order. “Why don’t you give up this wild goose chase of yours, go home to mom and let the Empire handle the Fiends? You are powerless to stop them anyway.”

“Because I’m twenty-eight, too old to be living—“

“By Drite! Is that Prince Fylel you’re harboring? Boy, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“This guy?” Zayen turned and made a cursory gesture at the prince. “No, he’s just a distant cousin. One of The Joyful; they’re putting on a play soon. Pretty convincing, isn’t he? Got the sword and everything.” He tossed the money on the table, picked up the weapons, and exited the shop before the blacksmith could stop him. “Thanks, Mig. I’ll be seeing you.”

Turning now to face the prince, he said, “The lack of education in this area has left people in it bereft of sense; they’ll believe anything you tell them. And with ignorance comes danger. You’ve got to lie low here: some will kill you for being you, just for the fun of it; not everyone has my leniency.”

He ran ahead and pointed to stairs leading to the train station, a massive brick construction majestic in size and color, a rich terracotta against the stark tans of surrounding buildings. It towered over the run-down slums and threatened to engulf the neighborhood with its breadth. “Empire keeps the train stations far from the main city—trains are loud and disturb the rich folk, but apparently commoners are immune to noise.” They entered the hall, greeted by foreign smells of foreign places, foreign voices and foreign people; the Magnum Interchange burst with life and, with it, noise, both human and train. A mother held her daughter’s hand as she exited the station, smiling. “It’s ironic: the people who live around the station—most of them have not even been on one ride; they can’t afford it.” He grimaced as they strolled deeper into the station along the length of a nearby train.

“Prince!” a burly voice shouted from the opposite platform. Zayen whirled and faced the voice; the color drained from his face. Guard. Unflinching, he spun and rammed Fylel into the open carriage. Catching his weight on the upper rim of the door with both hands, he swung his body into the carriage and collapsed on his back beside the prince. The door slammed shut behind him as the train jerked forward.

This is a passenger announcement. A female voice emanated from near invisible speakers. Please ready your tickets, and ensure your seatbelt is securely fastened. Refreshments will be served shortly after all passengers have been confirmed. Enjoy your journey to Gasperade.

[Eventua]

As they'd traveled through those dark, depressing back alleys, Fylel had remained silent, part of him unable to really comprehend what the stranger named 'Z' had told him... and now what he'd been shown.
He'd known for a long time that the gap in living standards between the Strong and the Many was large, but they'd been living in rags...

How can... how could this've happened?! he thought angrily. He was stunned, frankly, and wasn't really paying much attention to the fact they were heading for the train station, lost in his own thoughts.
He was awoken from his stupor by a loud call from somewhere else.

“Prince!” a burly voice shouted, and before Fylel snapped out of it and had a chance to react he'd been pushed into the nearest train, landing with a heavy thump, and then narrowly having Z land on him, though he quickly rolled to the side. He dusted himself off as he listened to the woman's voice.
Gasperade...?! He glared at Z & crossed his arms, still in a measure of disbelief.

"Why are we going to Gasperade, exactly?"
The newpaper this morning... the air force are heading into Gasperade, heh. If he thinks he can set me up for some sort of kidnapping there, he might be in for a surprise.

[stripes]

Leena looked down the train tracks as she patiently waited for her train. Her parents only dropped her off a few minutes ago and she felt so flustered, her parents were overprotective. She giggled to herself as she looked at her duffel bag, her mom packed her two lunches and too many clothes.

She yawned and looked at the sky, it kind of sucked that she wouldn't be able to practice for a couple of days and even worse, there was not much soil in Gasperade, but her old home was, she missed being there. She looked down as the train arrived and waited to board.

Leena found a empty set of seats towards the front. She sat down and looked out the window, it was starting to rain, not to mention planes were flying over her head, she hated the sounds of planes. She put one earphone into her ear, waiting for the train to move onward to her destination.

[Skitty Cat]

Click, click, click.

Looking around her, a grin spread across her face; taking in the sights and the festivities.
She listened to the music playing, spinning around; she watched as the water suddenly started dancing. Tora's eyes searched for the source; obviously someone was using their magic to control it. Absorbed in her task, Tora didn't realize until later that someone had come up from behind.

"What you up to little sister?"

A squeak escaping her, Tora wheeled to face her brother. She glowered at him, angry that he would take her by surprise. Ruffling her hair, Rhys said soothingly, “Calm down Tora, you know I didn’t mean to scare you. I know something that‘ll help to cheer you up!”

Taking her by the waist, he spun her into the crowd; matching the steps perfectly. She smiled at her brother, he was head and half taller than her; and while they both had blue eyes and fair skin; he had spiky brown hair compared to her straight, bluish-white hair. Laughing happily, Tora got lost in the music, keeping her own magic in check.

As the song melted away, giving the dancers a brief break, Tora pulled away from her brother. “I’m going to look around town, ‘Kay?” She asked, getting a nod of approval, Tora slipped into the crowd. Feeling the music humming in her veins, she followed the twists and turns. Enjoying the sounds of music around her, Tora bumped into someone and stumbled backward; falling down, she muttered, “I’m so sorry! I should’ve been more careful.”

[Professor Ven]

Once the dance was over, Witticus bowed along with the fellow Joyful, and he departed for the tents, leaving them to do as they pleased. The water effect near the end was probably from one of the newer additions to the traveling caravans; Gibyr was unphased by it happening. Some things are simply more joyful than others, like the twisting of a person's intestines after you quarter-cut open his stomach. Oh, yes indubitably, ser.

A sadistic spring in his proverbial step, however metaphorically bloody it might be, Gibyr walked to where the money-box, and the 'leader' of the caravans sat, a small pile of currency in front of him. Finances were of as little of a concern to Witticus as being a noble was to be of the 'Strong' caste. Bunch of lily-livered codfishes, all of them. I remember the first 'Strong' one I killed, that sickening rotund fellow. He screamed like a frightened member of the feminine gender, as the blade came crashing down, the look on his bemoaning face worth a thousand paintings, oh the JOY of it. .

The masked marauder held out a hand, and the currency dropped into his hand. He never checked to see if he'd been gypped or had a pay cut due to one or two of the caravan's wheels having been broken on the way. Money was nothing but a fuel for greed in humanity - he could easily know that for more than a fact. There is your young and beautiful Phoebe, lying stone dead; O Ralph, O Ralph! Imbecile, Wilhelm of Shayk'purne.

All of his kits and such were on his person, as Master Witticus left the caravan. He had gone with the Troupe since their first leaving the capital of the Empire, and this was his stop. They didn't regulate who left when or where; the only thing kept in order was who performed on what day and who did not, and there were few liars. Simply because liars don't live very long, due to having no tongues, and taking a nice dirt nap. . .

A figure bumped into him, falling down and landing on the ground with a muted thump. The silver mask's smile widened, as he leered down at the girl, who was already muttering an apology. A soft scream of the chiming of the nine little bells on his hat pealed as he adjusted his cranium, wordlessly offering a gloved hand, helping the youngling-meatsack up from her fall. Hopping into the air, he clicked the heels of the shoes, bells ringing in the wake of his bewildering, nay, frightening visage.

Moments later brought him to the train station, where he performed a front flip for a small crowd of children, nearly face-planting into the back of the bench, and landing perfectly seated in its not-so-well maintained seating, watching the train begin to warm up, steam shooting out from its vertical funnel atop the engine, as his blank, eerie mask mentally slaughtered everyone he stared at, with the mask's pitch-black eye-holes and mouth, wide as ever.

[LongLiveLife]

Panting, he rolled into a backflip, swinging his weight over then under, and landed on the balls of his feet. The carriage swerved and threatened to throw him off balance. He looked at the prince still lying on his back, possibly in shock, eyes wide open—at least he had kept conscious. Guilt ran its sinister tendrils in veins. He’d actually done it; he had succeeded in kidnapping Fylel, and it was his fault the prince now plunked on the gritted and dust-ridden floor. This was the antithesis to royal treatment if there ever was one. He shook off the remorse: there would be time enough later for that; now was time to put up false pretenses.

“Sorry about that, Prince.” He brushed dust from his torso and extended his hand to Fylel. “You know how it is: guards were coming, and we need to keep moving.”

The prince replied with a single sharp question, and understandably so given the unfortunate circumstance he found himself in. “Why are we going to Gasperade, exactly?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Zayen muttered as he turned his gaze to the rushing greens outside the window. An airplane roared overhead as it entered his line of sight.

Before the prince could launch his next enquiry the conductor opened the door on the other side of the carriage. Plump, middle-aged and hair thinning, he wore a navy blue vest and olive khakis, holding a clicker in one hand and closed the door with the other. Of the things he hated about his job, mundanity ranked the highest. His was a regular job serving regular customers as they moved about their regular lives. Nothing was ever out of place. He could navigate the train with eyes closed; he tried once. The vermillion velvet interior, mahogany lining and crimson carpets, once so regal, have lost luster in his eyes, and though new passengers never cease their wonder at the décor, he had long since lost the power to find its beauty. He drew a deep breath and, barely louder than a whisper, called, “Tickets, tickets. Show me your tickets.”

Zayen flinched; he needed to act fast. “Quick,” he said. “Grab my hand and stand up. We can make it out of this easy or hard. Easy way is you tell the guard you’re on a private trip to Gasperade; hard way is I manslaughter him and everyone on this carriage. We don’t want a scene, but I will make one if you do not cooperate.” He eyed the fast approaching conductor. “I’m sure he has kids too.” I’m sure he has kids too. The thought echoed in his mind, toying at his heartstrings before finally culminating in a hard gulp down his throat. “Your call.”

[Aliahya]

The train began filling up fast, and Jarin barely could find a place for himself…letalone the large bag he held with him.

“Excuse Me” said a brushed old lady, as Jarin awkwardly pushed by. He mummbled a stout apology, before he continued his way forward. Finally asfter much, frustrated push and pull, he found a seat…The girl who shared it, was looking towards the window, apparently lost in thought…and music. He smiled, “Hello, is this seat taken?”

His hand scratched his head awkwardly…she was…pretty…he thought.

[stripes]

Leena looked up quickly and smiled politely. She moved her backpack and sat it in her lap.

"No it's not taken" She moved looked back out the window. She wondered how her parents were doing and if her brothers were up to. She was ready to sleep in her old bed back at their old house.

[Eventua]

With a grumble, Fylel took Z's hand and got to his feet. I can't risk it...
He put on his most charismatic smile pulled the ticket collector to the side.

"U-uh, your majes-"
"Yes yes. Listen, I'm on a private trip regarding the air force, bit hush hush, understood?"
"Oh, of course, sir."
"There's a good man. This man here, he's my bodyguard. Okay?"
"I suppose..."

The officer gave a slightly annoyed grimace at the rather plain looking thug before then proceeding through the train.

The prince took a seat and placed his head in his hands, his mind flooded with, as he would call them, 'the next few turns': his mind was in a whirl as he considered the possibilities, carefully yet quickly deducting away until he had a few possible moves to play things to his advantage.
His fingers twirled around each other, steepling and entangling and untangling in a blur.

"So then, escort, read the news lately?" he said, smirking slightly as he nodded to the newspaper being read by a rather plump man in smart business attire.

Remain calm. Cautious. Plan, think, don't let your guard down. He's dangerous, but perhaps impulsive? A doer, not a thinker...

[LongLiveLife]

As he sat across from the prince, Zayen’s eyes shot to the looming headline obscuring the businessman’s face. Military preparation amidst spring celebrations: Air Force move into Gasperade causing citizen uproar. He glared at the prince. He heard the condescension in his captive’s voice and needed to put him back in his place, remind him who held the upper hand in this gamble. “And do you know what you are going to do if they catch wind of your presence? You will stop, tell them to turn around, and walk back into their jets because you are here on a private visit; do I make myself clear?” he threatened, unflinching, tone like ice. “Anyway, we will still continue our tour in Gasperade; don’t worry. The inequality between rich and poor is rife in all the Empire’s cities.”

Turning away from the prince, he gulped and looked out of the window. He lost leverage the instant they boarded the train and knew escape from the royal guard would be impossible when it stopped. His eyelids began weighing down. Best get some sleep now, he thought. Who knows how the Empire execute convicts who threaten the lifeblood of their rulers?

When they finally arrived in Gasperade, Zayen and Fylel were greeted by the turmoil from a moving wall of men and women pushing and shoving to get from one end of the station to the other, more people than air. Mild enochlophobia set in; Zayen had always hated separation from the endless skies his magic commanded and wanted nothing more than to escape the crowd. “Move,” he commanded, stepping off the train, and darted through spaces in the herd in abrupt zigzags.

He made his way to the entrance—until the sight of a most peculiar member at the station caught his eye: an explosion of gold, mauve and viridian, the jester’s motley was impossible to ignore, so too the menacing glint of light through the eyeholes of his mask; they held eye contact for a fleeting second before a passing mother cut off his sight. Zayen shuddered. Something about those eyes, that mask, the very air around him—it rippled with terror.

They descended stairs and entered the labyrinth of caravans splayed across the city square, carnival fanfare radiating center stage. A flourish of gypsies, dancers and entertainers paraded in, out, through, to and from the peacock-painted woodwork trailers, dressed in as many colors as their caravans but washed vermillion from the light of the setting sun. “Looks like the Many are putting on one of their shows. Ever been to one outside the royal estate?” Winking, he nudged the prince. “I guarantee you: ours is better.”

As they continued to the growing audience in front of the stage, one of the female performers, a teenager from the looks of it, coming from his right absent-mindedly tripped over his feet. Reflex shot out his arm, in which she fell. And in one graceful swoop he swung her on her feet. The azure of her skirt fanned in perfect circle, sending out a spray of water that refracted stray sunlight in a glitter cascade. “Whoa, miss." Teeth shone under the shadow of his hood. "Pray tell your descent from Heaven left you unharmed.”

[Aliahya]

Jarin was relieved to know that the seat wasn’t taken. Sitting down, he gave out a sigh…Taking his bag off, he placed it next to him.

“My names Jarin” he said to the girl…it was going to be a long trip…may as well make a friend on the way. “Did you want a biscut” he asked offering her one from a small box of oat mixed biscuts. “They don’t look appitising…but they are nice, Are you travelling to see the festival?”

[IceBlueWings]

Cardea quickened her pace to the rest of the dancers when the crowd became larger, but tripped on someone's leg and with a small gasp she expected her fall onto the ground. Instead she felt herself being swung back on her feet. She blinked, startled.

"Pray tell your descent from Heaven left you unharmed.”

The voice brought her out of her state and she looked to see a man, his face covered by the shadow of his hood. She noticed another man next to him, looking somewhat...different from the people around here.

"Yes, thank you!" She said, her lips curving into a grateful smile. "Are you here to watch the festival?" She grinned, but the smile on her face turned into a disappointed frown. "How disappointing, you missed our performance." She said, but the frown didn't stay on too long. She looked at them curiously. "You two don't seem like you're from around here. Are you travellers? My name is Cardea."

Just as she was about to speak again, her name was heard from the host of the show. She clasped the man's hand for a moment with enthusiasm. "Stay and watch, it won't be long!" She hopped over to the stage, kicked off her sandals and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

Being alone on stage did make her a little nervous, but she had no intention of messing up. The music played for a few seconds, a slow, melodious tune. After those few seconds it became upbeat. Cardea's moved her body with flexibility, her hips moving, bellydancing to the beat of the music. She did a few tricks on stage, always followed with a smile. Though the water effect she used wasn't as strong as when she was dancing with the group, it was there, spraying out little droplets as she moved or splashes on what used to be a dry stage as she moved her feet gracefully.

Her dance was short, ending when she slowly laid down on the wet floor, earning claps from the audience. She got up, grabbed a towel from an assistant and headed back to the two strangers she met earlier. Wiping her hands and face, she grinned. "What do you think?" She asked with anticipation sparkling in her eyes.

[Professor Ven]

Silently, the entity spoken of as Witticus followed the hooded man last seen at the train station. Save for the soft, minute peals of the tiny bells on his motley and hat, he was corporeal death, shifting by passerby chatting and merchants yelling out their wares at the festival, thoughts glued to one task - killing. The pointy end of the dagger mutely poked at his gloved hand, ready to be allowed to fall into a sure executioner's grip.

Oh dearie me, did that fellow see me? I'll have to carve out his eyes, just to make sure! Ha! And a blind man will always use his tongue to speak of what shouldn't be spoken of, no? Might as well do double duty today. Or should I just play skip rope with his intestines? So many. . .possibilities. . .

Ring, ting, ting, spoke the small bells on his hat, as he nearly skipped with joy through the crowds of people. Then, he heard the blasphemous person speak. "Perhaps one of the Many are putting on their shows." The mask's empty smile warped downward with a heart-wrenching curse of twisting metal, turning into a fuming frown. It's the Joyful, not the Many, imbecile. Obviously an elf. And we all know the Empire's rules! Kill all elves!

Oh, the fellow helped a young woman up, but that didn't help the elf's future death at all. Gibyr stalked out of the crowd of common folk, and with a single toll of the bells, grasped around the hooded elf's torso from behind with an arm, the other bringing a blade to the vile speaker's throat, as he leaned over the enemy's right shoulder, taking a second peek at the fellow's companion.

Oh, an Emperor's brat. Dearie me, aren't you just a little out of the way of the Imperial Court? his mask seemed to say, as the frowning mask shifted, and Gibyr yanked the fellow slightly away from the light, and into the shade of a nearby tent less than a foot away. Shifting around to where Witticus could stand in front of the elf-thing, he brought the steel knife's blade closer to the man's throat, as the horrifying visage of the silver, gold-inlaid mask came nearer to the hooded face. Hello.

[LongLiveLife]

An arm wrung around his chest, expelling his breath as it forced him stumbling backward into shadow. Before even his eyes could adjust to the sudden darkness, they darted to meet the cold flash of metal flying to his throat. “Hello,” said the knife. Looking closer, he realized the blade was connected to the same purple, gold and green from the train station only minutes ago, its ‘voice’ seeping through the warped grin of the gilt mask. Zayen’s mouth twisted to a leer as cruel.

“Hi,” he returned without missing a beat. His voice rumbled. From the umbra of his hood the concentric circles over his right eye flared an eerie white. It was the last thing his assailant saw. For in a fraction of a second, the hooded figure summoned vortexes of air that revolved around his hands. He flung up his hands, propelling grit from the ground to the jester’s eyes in jet streams. Carried by momentum, he continued his movement in a backward leap, catching his weight on his hands before throwing his legs out of the opening in the canvas; the clang of metal dropping on the ground was confirmation enough of success.

As he landed on his feet, he swung one leg back in a reverse roundhouse kick. With ordinary mortals, this would accomplish nothing, but Zayen was no ordinary mortal; where his leg passed, the ordinarily lifeless air burst with gale force and rushed to the tent, compelled to grow in vehemence and haste. It filled the air with a heavy wail that pierced the ears of both audience and performer alike. He was now center stage. The wooden poles supporting the structure shattered upon contact, punctuating the orchestral winds with their final bar and collapsing the heavy canvas they held; its captive, swallowed.

[Eventua]

Fylel smirked slightly as Z's eyes darted to the newspaper before then meeting the glare. Have to stay confident... mustn't let my guard down...

"And do you know what you are going to do if they catch wind of your presence? You will stop, tell them to turn around, and walk back into their jets because you are here on a private visit; do I make myself clear?" came Z's threat, unflinching, tone like ice.

"Of course." he replied softly, slightly unsure what a 'jet' was.

"Anyway, we will still continue our tour in Gasperade; don’t worry. The inequality between rich and poor is rife in all the Empire’s cities."

Z turned to look out the window and rested his eyes for bit: Fylel thought it would be good to do the same, and thought about everything he'd seen so far.

Those people... I knew there were those in trouble, but, I don't... how could this have happened? The first Emperor gave his life to forge this Empire. He paid the ultimate price to try and bring unity, so how did we come to this? The Many are meant to serve, not live in squalor...
For a moment he considered making a run for it or getting the one or two armoued guards who sat at the other end of the carriage, but he decided against it.
I'll stay with him and listen... I need to see how great the difference is.

When they finally arrived in Gasperade, they were greeted by the turmoil from a moving wall of men and women pushing and shoving to get from one end of the station to the other, more people than air.
Fylel quickly felt stifled, many years of introverted reading and being viewed as a freak having left him socially awkward and stifled by the presence of other people.

"Move," commanded Z, as they left the train, and they darted through spaces in the herd in abrupt zigzags.
They descended stairs and entered the labyrinth of caravans splayed across the city square, carnival fanfare radiating center stage. A flourish of gypsies, dancers and entertainers paraded in, out, through, to and from the peacock-painted woodwork trailers, dressed in as many colors as their caravans but washed vermillion from the light of the setting sun.

"Looks like the Joyful are putting on one of their shows. Ever been to one outside the royal estate?" Winking, Z nudged the prince. "I guarantee you: ours are better."

As they continued to the growing audience in front of the stage, one of the female performers, a teenager from the looks of it, coming from their right absent-mindedly tripped over Z. In what seemed to Fylel to be a blur of motion to him, the young girl was now in his companion's arms.

"Whoa, miss." Teeth shone under the shadow of Z's hood. "Pray tell your descent from Heaven left you unharmed."

She was dazed for a moment, but smiled up at him. Do they know each other?

"Yes, thank you!" She said, her lips curving into a grateful smile. "Are you here to watch the festival?" She grinned.

"Oh, uh, yes, indeed we are-" came Fylel's reply, but it was cut off as her smile turned into a frown.

"How disappointing, you missed our performance." She said, but the frown didn't stay on too long. She looked at them curiously. "You two don't seem like you're from around here. Are you travellers? My name is Cardea."
"It's a very nice name! And, uh-" came Fylel's.

Just as he was about to continue, the girl's name was heard from the host of the show. She clasped Z's hand for a moment with enthusiasm.
"Stay and watch, it won't be long!" She hopped over to the stage, kicked off her sandals and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.
I haven't seen a show in quite some time... I wonder what it will be like.

The music played for a few seconds, a slow, melodious tune. After those few seconds it became upbeat. Cardea's moved her body with flexibility, her hips moving, bellydancing to the beat of the music. She did a few tricks on stage, always followed with a smile, the crowd responding with silent awe. Fylel gave a soft gasp, and his hands felt clamby with sweat.
Very talented, very... yes. Ahem.
The dance was punctuated with sprays of water, dampening the once dry stage and adding to the effect. His eyes widened slightly. It looks like... no, surely not.

Her dance was short, ending when she slowly laid down on the wet floor, earning claps from the audience. She got up, grabbed a towel from an assistant and headed back to Fylle & his companion. Wiping her hands and face, she grinned.
"What do you think?" She asked with anticipation sparkling in her eyes, but she then looked around, concerned. "Where did your friend go?" she asked him.
Wait, what?

Looking around, he realised that Z had disappeared. He'd been so focused -or perhaps mesmerized would be a better term- that he'd not even noticed that his kidnapper had left.
That's... odd. Heh, maybe he realised how foolish it was to-

Unfortunately, his thoughts were interupted by a massive explosion of air from one of the tents. The crowd turned, shocked at the sight of Z stepping out, the tent falling over another individual, obscuring the vision of who it was.
Now what...?

Concerned and curious he ran over.
"Z! What, what happened?"