<p><strong>Timestamp: Mia 13th, 81385</strong><em> </em></p> <p><em>Private for Violaceous' Sage</em> (I hope this is the one I was supposed to start! If not smack me and I'll start the Morain x Sage one. :D)</p> <p> </p> <p>Shu was not in a good mood. This was mainly because, during his last performance, he'd knocked his backgrounds--the base for his illusions, the <em>heart</em> of his act--besides himself, of course--into the sea behind him, and apparently <em>water colors</em> washed off with--oh my!--<em>water.</em> He now had several soaking wet, blurry canvases laid out on the docks to dry, and all the 'dragons who'd been watching him when he made the fatal mistake had left in disgust. Obviously it was looked down upon to use illusions to create other 'dragon actors. Go figure. But Shukotsu was nothing if not a one-'dragon circus, and the whole point of being a one-'dragon circus was only having <em>one 'dragon.</em> If he wanted to share the spotlight with a bunch of show-offs and freak shows he'd have joined The Traveling Emporium, once run by an Aquabat Acrobat and now...well, now it was basically going to hell in a hand basket. Shu was in <em>no way</em> going down in <em>that</em> ship. And if he ever stopped performing, he'd go out in <em>style</em>, not a painfully slow spiraling descent of despair.</p> <p>Unfortunately without his backgrounds, that was pretty much where he was headed. Sitting cross-legged in front of the canvases, to watch and make sure no one stole them, Shu stared desolately at the blurred pictures that had once been...well, not quite <em>masterpieces</em>, but pretty good, by Kotsu's standards. And he'd painted them himself--alright, ripped them off from the Aquabat's circus, so they weren't completely original, but at least his <em>moved.</em> That was something those smug bastards couldn't say! Puffing his breath out, Shukotsu propped his head up on his hand and let the anger fade. It had been his own stupid fault, after all; there was no one he could blame. He'd lost his balance--something that hadn't happened in years, true--and fallen. It's what he got for setting up so close to the edge of the docks; there was a lesson, somewhere in this. Yes, that was it.</p> <p>Set the crowd with their backs to the docks so <em>they</em> fell, and his backgrounds were perfectly safe.</p>
<p>ooc // Noo I'm happy this is good C:</p> <p> </p> <p>Covered only in broken-in leather boots, a raggedy-ass backpack, and a plethora or home-poked piercings, Sage's white fur gleamed like lit from within under the influence of the bright sunlight. All long claws and narrowed eyes, she stepped onto the dock, squinting up into the sunlight even while shielding her eyes from it. She adjusted the weight of her backpack unconsciously. It was full of art supplies - acrylic paints (a surprisingly apt gift from her half-sister), a couple spray paint cans, and brushes. She didn't have enough acrylic paint for anything big, but she had enough to leave strange, vague marks of her passing in out of the way spots of her choice - usually, she spray-painted her murals, but she was hoping to do something more personal on this trip to the underbelly.</p> <p>Sage scowled broadly as she stepped around the first drying canvas, blurry and indistinct even in the sunlight, and her expression grew even more sour as she saw the others. "Talk about low quality standards," she huffed, and as she spoke up, she saw a distressed looking arden cross-legged before her. "Are you <em>protecting </em>this junk?!" She asked him, shocked. "Gods, I could do better than this refuse." She shook her head, leaned down, and peered at the paint. <em>What is it even supposed to be? I could paint better with my feet. What is this, watercolor?</em></p> <p>Sage stood back up and looked at the arden, brushing a hand through her dark, beaded dreads, which she had grown out almost to waist length for winter (not that she needed the extra heat). As usual, it wasn't until after she had spoken that she realized - hey, insulting some random Bhim inhabitant isn't really a good idea, especially when <em>he </em>might be the godforsaken artist of this stuff - but oh well. Worst case, he'd get all huffy and defensive, but she'd learned that artists usually didn't make good fighters. Usually.</p>
<p>Shukotsu put on a calm front. It was his mask, his identity; he acted calm because he <em>was</em> calm. Only, that wasn't always true. At the moment, while he tried very, <em>very</em> hard to remain behind his calm mask, Shu could be called anything but. He was, in fact, visibly digging his fingers into his cheek as he sat there, his head in his palm, his freakish second pair of wings snapping open and closed with every breath he took, though they usually remained still and almost ornamental on his back. He was glaring at his ruined work, disappointed with himself and angry with everyone else, and it didn't much help that he could hear people snickering or feel them glaring as they walked passed. Oh, sure, he'd decieved them with his illusions; but wasn't that what they paid him to do? To make their problems disappear for a few, meager seconds while they stand around and stare and <em>ooh</em> and <em>ahh</em> at the poor Lukuo who's reduced to acting like a performing monkey for whatever pennies they can spare.</p> <p>He knew that was what they thought of him. He wanted to scream at them whenever they got that pitying look on their faces after a show, or indulgently let their kids run up to him when they saw him around. He wasn't a <em>beggar</em>; he'd <em>chosen</em> this life, because it was a fun, free, uncaring way of looking at the world. He didn't need <em>anyone's</em> pity. Nor, he thought as someone finally spoke up about the pitiful condition of his paintings, their <em>scorn</em>.</p> <p><strong>"Think you could do better, eh? Well, be my guest. Not like my attempts before the little <em>incident</em> were any better than this crap."</strong> He swept his free arm out over the blurred pictures, a scowl finally making its way onto his face as he added, <strong>"It's not like I'm an <em>artist.</em> I'm a freakin' <em>chef</em>, for the gods' sake. Well, <em>now</em>, anyway. This'll put the performance at least on <em>hold</em>." </strong>The last he muttered to himself, sourly, bitterly, nearly wanting to bite his own tongue off. Stupid, stupid, <em>stupid.</em></p>
<p>A harried looking 'dragon sped past Sage, his arm hitting her backpack and causing it to slide off of her shoulder as the arden spoke, and she reached to grab it before it clattered onto the dock. She was unsuccessful. A can of rich turquoise spray paint tumbled out, rolling and clanking loudly on the dock, and she hardly managed to dart out and catch it with her foot before the thing rolled right into the ocean. She stuffed it back into her pack unceremoniously, and sat down (right in the middle of the dock; people could step around her for all she cared, none of them commented on her rudeness once they saw her disconcerting eyes), looking from the ruined paintings to the pissed arden and back again.<br /><br />"Well half of your problem is that these are watercolor. Didn't the 'dragon you bought these from tell you that they wouldn't hold up to the elements?" She stared down at the blurred images, squinting slightly. The water had done considerable damage; she wasn't sure what she was looking at. "What were they of?" she queried, and flicked all six eyes to the arden. His nails were leaving angry raised lines on her face, and his small wings seemed to be having an independent seizure. God, he looks miserable. They're just some big paintings, what's so special about them? Nothing is meant to last forever. Forever falls fast and forges only flippant feelings of failure, she thought, unfocused.<br /><br />"And what were they for, anyway, if you're a chef? It looks like you had them outside in the rain or something." As caught up as she had been in making sure she didn't lose her paint, Sage hadn't really registered the word "performance"; she probably wouldn't have put together that he had a circus show anyway, as the thill had never been to a circus.</p>
<p>Shukotsu, purely for the drama-factor, as she dropped paint and caught it, stuffing it back into her pack all in one smooth motion. Of course an <em>artist</em> comes along to poke fun at his poor, deluded self. He was turning more toward resigned, now; gone was the anger, and the disappointment, and in its place was apathy. He rose swiftly to his feet, tossing his arms out and thus flaring his wings, hoping to smack an unsuspecting passerby with the edge of one. He was unsuccessful. Folding them around him again irritably, he crossed his arms, looking very much like a vampire that had just been patted on the head and sent on his way, as if no one took him seriously. He turned slightly to look at the Yki thill incredulously as she spoke, his tall ears turning toward her and then away as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>"Of <em>course</em> they're watercolor. What do I look like, a bag of money?"</strong> He snorted, nudging one of the canvases with a toe and looking at what had once been an eight-legged fire-eater. And then, as she questioned him, he folded his wings tighter around him, looking over his other "performers." <strong>"They were a circus act. Or the illusions of one, anyway."</strong> He'd have gone on to say he couldn't just pull these people from thin air, but he was busy calculating how long he'd be out of an act, and how long he'd stay here. There was a bar on the west side, but he didn't particularly like working on the west side; too many brothels.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>"I'm a chef part-time. I'd rather be on the road."</strong> And then, as he finished the last of his calculations, he continued, <strong>"Which I won't be for the next season."</strong> Which was bad; spring was the busy season.</p>
