[Riot 2718] Taken
Posted: Thu Oct 18, 2018 7:59 pm
Yaris 25th, 2718
RIOTS | MIDDAY
RIOTS | MIDDAY
WSarinah stood on the platform that was fixed to one of the supportive tent poles, dressed in a warm red one piece acrobats outfit, small sequins catching the lighting as it moved. Her long legs were dressed in stockings and her feet bare as the day she was born. On one ankle a small silver chain sat quietly, the tiny bells on it waiting patiently for her to move. Her long raven locks were drawn up into a soft pile of curls, pinned strategically to ensure they didn’t come out no matter what direction she was facing. If one was aware that she carried life within her, they may be able to notice a small soft curve to her lower abdomen, nothing outstanding to a stranger but probably noticeable to a familiar face. In her hand, she held the curve of her hoop, taking a slow breath and calming her nerves. The morning sickness had subsided a couple of weeks ago, thank Alioe. Now it was just stage jitters.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to cast your eyes skyward, we call this one Beauty…
The lights shifted, giving the witch her cue, as the audience looked up she placed a foot in the hoop and pushed off, allowing the suspended aerial device to sweep around in a wide circle over their heads. She smiled, leaning to reach with an outstretched hand, elegantly moving to the music from Kellie-Mae and her band. Somewhere in the darkness behind the scenes, Tristaan was around, and whilst she couldn’t see him the brunette was aware of him.
The man that would be the da of their boch.
“...and the Beast.
On time, Clarabelle snarled as though a demon dragged from the depths of the afterlife, giving the dancer her cue to turn and sit in the hoop. Taegan would come marching out now, with Clarabelle bounding ahead, and she would let them play at being scary before she would be lowered towards them. It was all choreographed and rather dramatic, but the crowd seemed to love it.
“Get off me y’erse! Run Villie, run!” Voices could be heard from the outside of the tent, faint at first, but steadily growing. At first, a few people in the crowd noticed, turning and looking with muttered curious comments. Sarinah frowned, looking down at the people and across the tent. Perhaps there had been a misunderstanding between the vendors outside?
The ties that held the entrance shut suddenly tore open, as a bloodied wick fell back into the empty aisle, panting and wide eyed. People gasped, jumping to their feet to see better. He looked around, scrambling shakily up and pointing at the tent entrance.
“It’s a riot! A mant manna clocking ri—” His words were cut short as a whoosh of air brushed past him, stealing the oxygen from around him. As the wick gasped for air, falling to his knees and eyes bulging, audience members screamed and began to clamber for the exit. From the entrance a bleeding Seventen burst through, hands extended before him and lips uttering the monite to suck the very air from the wick’s lungs. Chaos and confusion exploded in the tent, fellow wicks leaping into the fray to save their kinsman. A woman, her violet dreadlocks flying, screamed an innotation as she rushed to the fallen man’s aid, a burst of liquid magma exploding across the space in an intense golden glow.
“Ne!” Sarinah cried out from her suspended view, watching with horror as the Seventen screamed in agony whilst the heated rock ate through flesh and bone, setting his uniform and hair on fire. The galdor stumbled back, falling into the canvas of the circus tent which caught alight like dry brush in summer.
“Hakvada!” The dancer swore, hanging from the rafters and watching the chaos go by. Her dark eyes swept the ground for the dark haired passive, realising very quickly she needed to get down.
“Tristaan?! Tristaan!” She called out, unsure if he could hear her over the shrieks of the crowd, the smell of burnt galdor flesh searing her nose.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to cast your eyes skyward, we call this one Beauty…
The lights shifted, giving the witch her cue, as the audience looked up she placed a foot in the hoop and pushed off, allowing the suspended aerial device to sweep around in a wide circle over their heads. She smiled, leaning to reach with an outstretched hand, elegantly moving to the music from Kellie-Mae and her band. Somewhere in the darkness behind the scenes, Tristaan was around, and whilst she couldn’t see him the brunette was aware of him.
The man that would be the da of their boch.
“...and the Beast.
On time, Clarabelle snarled as though a demon dragged from the depths of the afterlife, giving the dancer her cue to turn and sit in the hoop. Taegan would come marching out now, with Clarabelle bounding ahead, and she would let them play at being scary before she would be lowered towards them. It was all choreographed and rather dramatic, but the crowd seemed to love it.
“Get off me y’erse! Run Villie, run!” Voices could be heard from the outside of the tent, faint at first, but steadily growing. At first, a few people in the crowd noticed, turning and looking with muttered curious comments. Sarinah frowned, looking down at the people and across the tent. Perhaps there had been a misunderstanding between the vendors outside?
The ties that held the entrance shut suddenly tore open, as a bloodied wick fell back into the empty aisle, panting and wide eyed. People gasped, jumping to their feet to see better. He looked around, scrambling shakily up and pointing at the tent entrance.
“It’s a riot! A mant manna clocking ri—” His words were cut short as a whoosh of air brushed past him, stealing the oxygen from around him. As the wick gasped for air, falling to his knees and eyes bulging, audience members screamed and began to clamber for the exit. From the entrance a bleeding Seventen burst through, hands extended before him and lips uttering the monite to suck the very air from the wick’s lungs. Chaos and confusion exploded in the tent, fellow wicks leaping into the fray to save their kinsman. A woman, her violet dreadlocks flying, screamed an innotation as she rushed to the fallen man’s aid, a burst of liquid magma exploding across the space in an intense golden glow.
“Ne!” Sarinah cried out from her suspended view, watching with horror as the Seventen screamed in agony whilst the heated rock ate through flesh and bone, setting his uniform and hair on fire. The galdor stumbled back, falling into the canvas of the circus tent which caught alight like dry brush in summer.
“Hakvada!” The dancer swore, hanging from the rafters and watching the chaos go by. Her dark eyes swept the ground for the dark haired passive, realising very quickly she needed to get down.
“Tristaan?! Tristaan!” She called out, unsure if he could hear her over the shrieks of the crowd, the smell of burnt galdor flesh searing her nose.