theatre incarnate.

  I had several paths and liked none. One had me as a beast-man; another as a hunchback; the third... as the indentured servant of some outside force.  

[domirine]

Whether they like it or not, a new Director joins the Theatre…

[outsideforce]

grief.

It’s the lair of a liar, a liar’s lair, so he fishes between the words and listens to the lies, trials, and questions. He listens acutely to the tone and inflection, and mimics the words in his throat with a closed mouth. The most fanciful costumes that he has in stock are the shadows in the theatre and they have been collected like trophies.

“It’s like skinning a cat and nothing like it,” he says, “Don’t skin the beast, you get the least. N’ I’d like the most, old ghost. You ever been out, Duckie? You ever been out n’ about n’ seen a pretty lass and think to yourself: Damn I want to chase her skirt but oh my mates will accost me for runnin’ after such a pretty thing? That feelin’-”

He throws back his head and laughs at the trail of innuendo and mockery, trotting with a bit of renewed passion for the play. He’s an entire stage lower than Mark, creeping closer to the chair and the man in question.

“There was this one skirt I chased n’ I pinched their precious parcels. N’ that skirt ran real heady after me lookin’ for blood n’ my knees in the mud, n’ they got both of them, know what I mean? Ever been on your knees, Duckie?”

He steps across a few steps more. The ugly mess of Boss Vlad’s face spilled into view, his failing liver decorating the whole of him in patches, his features lethargic. That ugly thing stirred again.

“–You should try it. It’s the same feelin’ if you’re chasin’ highs and whys. I’d be happy to oblige.”

Grief puts on a personal show like a prancing pony, spilling innuendos and keeping all the information to himself. Mark learns a little about what he asked for and a lot that he didn’t, and he rolls his eyes and sinks back into the cushioned chair that overlooked his kingdom.

Grief’s thoughts are all the same: sex and bloodshed and uncanny awareness. He probably knows Mark is listening.

There’s a quiet muttering upstairs from a former Kain, the sound of a patriarch turning to his friend and saying that ‘the young thief king is shameless, isn’t he?’ and the grunt of response from an Old Burakh, before Mark waves his hand.

“ If you didn’t want to answer my questions, you could have left it at that. Take your prize for the rumors and get out of my theater, Filin. Don’t come back unless you get stuck hunting for eagles out there -- and remember what I said. You have until morning, or I’m taking him back. ”

There’s a firm tap of his cane that sets the spotlight onto the doorway, his ankles crossed once more as he curls his fingers under his cheek.

He could learn the secrets of the town from the ghosts and the shadows following a few folks. Saburov had a gaggle of them on his heels, and there was one persistent Reflection that walked in lockstep with the Vulture of the Town.

“ Go on, shoo. Bah, I wonder when that Bachelor will be back. He’s always a wealth of knowledge. ”

[outsideforce]

grief.

“They are.”

But the rumors. He waves his hand to wave off the topic. They can discuss it later. It’s all personal or business, and unfortunately, the two collide at just this juncture to have him on the buying end of things that he personally wants. It’s a disadvantaged position for any businessman to have a personal score in a product like Victor Kain.

“A dream of a little birdy tellin’ me the dead ain’t sleepin’.”

He didn’t like when Nina put her hands on people as much as he doesn’t like what he sees. He has to temper his soul or he’ll completely lose it to the pyre, but the killing got too easy and the violence got easier because it wasn’t killing.  He scares himself with how much he thinks about violence.

It’s very difficult to not think about violence looking at the shadow in the corner. He has no pretenses about his intentions not being violent either.

“I don’t like that much. But- today’s your lucky day n’ night, I ain’t lookin’ to fight.“

Maybe he’ll be less agitated afterwards is the hope.

“ They aren’t. ”

He leans back a bit, walking back and forth, the creak of the stage following his footsteps. The beaked people above them shuffle forward, throwing their shadows into relief behind Grief and Mark. The last two executor costumes left in the entire building hid the most prized possessions of the theater.

“ Ah, the dead rest here as best they can. The dead outside? No where to sleep in the cold, unfortunately. The dead here rest, but they’re also more important than the nameless flock outside. These are the most fanciful costumes I have in stock. ”

He waves his hand, eventually stopping to stand at the edge of the stage once more.

“ Your little project with the Old Kain’s clocks. You’ve done some work undoing his work. Why are you working on them so hard? Hm? ”

The Cathedral had been undone in an instant, but Grief had gone out of his way to cut the lines of each clock in town back to this very room. There were no more redos for the heroes of the story. No more surprise visits from the Haruspex, unfortunately.

(Well, maybe one. There was one single line connecting a watch to this space, hanging in the coat of one persistent surgeon.)

[outsideforce]

grief.

“Why not?”

Those sticky fingers crawl up to inspect the rest, but he doesn’t take anything this time. This time. The old man owes him by leaps and bounds, for all the foul he’s done. There needs to to be reciprocity, and Nina, violent and witchlike Nina, was not enough of a consolation prize. It was too distanced and too empty a victory. There were still sores from it and it was hardly what he would call justice. 

Victor, personally, owed him. He owed him quite a bit. A brass stomach, a copper set of limbs would sell and settle their accounts. A clockwork heart might even make him feel a little remorse for a few rainy days in Victor’s shop working on the music box watches in near silence. Those were… kinder days.

Grief stands up and steps back before his fingers do actually get the better of him. It would be so easy and quick to snatch the pieces of him out.

“The happenings?”

For one other collector’s piece. He knows which one is in stock, and the business of it all has him putting his frustrated hands in his pockets and straightening up. Mark nods to the shadow in a chair, and there’s this… ugly thing inside Grief that feels like it’s twisting and thrashing around again. That thing that Stakh would try to pull out of him. He can recognize that silhouette and that hideous chair in the dark.

“Rumors for the tumor. A fair price. T’will pay it. Which rumors?”

“ Because those pieces aren’t for you. ”

He waves his hand and Victor’s arm falls back into place when Grief lets him go, back to curling himself in the shadow of his wife. There’s mutterings about a path, about an anchor, about an unearthly wife and her legacy, but it’s lost under the ticking.

When asked about the rumors, he uncrosses his ankles to stand and lean over Grief once more, his hands folded over the head of his cane as he hums curiously.

“ You’re welcome to him. He’s terrible company, and I know it’s quite personal. Finish whatever business you have by morning, because the Theater is fussy about its props being out past dawn. ”

He leans back once more, eyeing the people in the room before he makes a thoughtful noise. “ The rumors that brought you here, my dear conductor. You haven’t visited my abode in the entirety of my run here, but you’re here now? It makes me wonder what whispering pulled you this way. ”

He walks back and forth across the stage, letting the spotlight follow him as he goes.

“ I have questions as well, but they can wait. ”

[outsideforce]

grief.

“Big plans?” he parrots, and ignores the warning. He ignores most things in favor of crouching in front of the older clockwork doll and flexing his fingers over the crossed joints to inspect them. They’re absolutely nothing alike. Make nor model. Just the idea is similar. Victors innards are different. The cloth pieces are different and hemmed more carefully. His fingers are different. Articulated carefully yes, but different. The pins in each joint are brass. Most of him is brass and copper. It was different styles of parts from different ages.

Grief inspects him like an appraiser, running his thumbs over a hand to force it open to carefully look at it. 

It says something when one’s soul looks patchwork to a pair of keen eyes. He taps at the etchings in one of Victor’s wrist plates and feels for pins. Coming in here with a comb to run over the plates, he could make this old doll sing. Some of these parts are worth more than several lives on the market. 

“You’d be good parts, old man,” he murmurs, whether or not he’s heard. It doesn’t matter. He’s right. He moves Victor’s arm to the joint and picks at the construction there to move his jaw up and test his neck. Frustration and fascination were at war here, and he was playing both sides. There were more pins in these places. 

And there were errant thoughts to steal these parts.

“I’m sure a Director like you got the other big pieces too.”

“ Put those sticky fingers away, Silkworm. You’ll not get away with taking any of the parts out of here. ”

Mark leans back to simply watch the inspection, his hands drumming a nonsense beat on the cane laid across his lap. Victor remains unresponsive when Grief moves him, like something simply on display. A puppet with the strings cut to be put on a shelf to look pretty for eternity.

That’s what most of the people here were -- dolls waiting to be put on a shelf. Hand-me-downs, the lot of them.

“ Of course I got the other collectible pieces. Or I did, before someone broke them. Your builder is better at demolition, I’ll admit. Down the drain went the famous Farkhad and his benefactors. ”

Georgiy was gone -- truly gone. It had been quite a surprise to watch his shade shatter into a thousand tiny pieces when the mirror had broken.

Victor and Maria remained, because one was a Mistress and one had Plans. It’s going to be fascinating to watch it finally spill open.

“ I’ve got the only other big collector’s piece you might be interested in, though I imagine your interest is more in blood than in money. ”

There’s a tilt of his head to address the high backed chair in the room, though he doesn’t pull the spotlight to it.

“ Still, you owe me a rumor mill, don’t you? ”

[outsideforce]

grief.

“I do,” and he doesn’t elaborate, pinching his fingers together on a hand and rubbing them together, ‘money’ or in this case ‘value’. There are plenty of things to see here at the theatre, and he had been invited in quasi-courteously. Annoyingly, so he browses. He stops by Anna Angel’s shade first, nearest the door, inspecting her like a wax statue. The dove of love played a few too many games. She died as she lived, lonely and stupid. He pats her cheek and whistles.

“Ain’t you got yourself in a heap of trouble?”

He leaves her to wither in her lonesome par for the course, her in his footsteps while the spotlight spews light at him enough to squint. Should’ve brought his glasses for the scene. Each single creature, and every oddity in this place was some new process to ponder over. It’s funny. Out of all the hell-trapped folk in the room, the shadow he hears in the corner, head bowed to hide in the sand as usual, is the loudest because it ticks. 

He never saw Victor during the epidemic. Never saw him after Aglaya either. The folded man in the corner is a strange combination of clockwork parts and antique brass. His cloth is fine and tattered. It’s hand-me-down. 

“Ah, quit th’ lights,” he snips back up to the man on the stage, “You ain’t makin’ friends.”

He changes course. The original goal changes and he’s not sure if it’s frustration or misplaced care that pulls him towards Victor Kain. Both, likely. Anger’s somewhere sleeping with the chunk of him that got torn out with a knife.

“Mind shooing, Duckie? I got some clock business to tick-talk.”

The spotlight follows in his wake, trained on him from above by one of the masked Tragedians that flocked and flitted through the building. Mark just watches, saying nothing, as Grief wanders from Anna Angel across the room to Victor Kain.

The Kains were his prized performers, he thinks. The Utopians who failed, kept here by the Utopian who succeeded. He wonders what Grief sees with those strange eyes of his. An antique clockwork toy, caught in the candlelight flicker of his daughter standing overhead.

The ticking is loud if one thinks about it, or if they stand too close to Victor. Mark has already put the sound out of his mind, but it fills the theater when Grief approaches him.

“ Ah, I’m afraid he might not have much to say to you. And besides that, I have to stay here ; this room exists because I, not you, dear performer, keep it that way. Fret not, there’s nothing you’ll say here that I won’t know. ”

He smiles, his eyes crinkling with mirth, before he leans back in his seat again.

“ Big plans with those Kains. They always have such brilliant plans. I’m intrigued to see how the stageplay for that one comes to pass. ”

He taps his cane once, and the lights come down to focus on the stage once more.

[outsideforce]

grief.

Grief’s quiet for a long while, taking in the details of the scene while putting his pauper shoes to work nice and slow over the flooring. Yes, a Silkworm. What happens to a Silkworm when it avoids its untimely end though? It cocoons, hatches, and starts eating holes in everything. Silkworm though, suits him fine. The shabbiest looking silkworm the hall had ever seen. 

“Ain’t my interest until the birds started talkin’.”

He gives a look up to all of the eerie shades, settling fast on the crooked beak masks and he frowns. The ghosts, he frowns at, too. There wasn’t much he wasn’t frowning at in here.

Then he finally re-settles on the director, who was splayed armed.

“Fold your wings, Duckie, you look like a bauble in a bottle at the pawn shop. But please, also don’t stop on the account of an untrained eye. Rumor mill has a few settlin’ in with you. A few that I’d like seein’, if this rumor is what’s being splayed like a fair priced pair of legs.

The frown on his lip curls into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He folds his hands atop his cane once more, letting Grief take in the appearance of the theater around him. There are ghosts swaying under the spotlights. Maria Kaina has her hands folded across her abdomen to Mark’s right, looking up at the portrait of Nina that framed the stage. At NIna’s feet, Victor has his head tucked between his knees.

The rest of the Kains are absent, it seems.

Elsewhere in the dark are Oyun’s broad shoulders, Anna Angel’s trembling hands, and the high-backed chair of ever-present, unfortunately-familiar authority that came with the patriarch of the Olgimsky family. Katerina stands in the dark as well, just barely framed by the long shadows cast by the Mistresses.

Mark sinks back after a moment, dropping back into his cushioned seat and tipping his cane to lay it across his lap. He sits, leans forward to brace his elbows on the arms of the chair, and considers the mirthless grin Grief gives him.

“ Rumors abound whenever a showman comes to town. By all means, I’m all ears. I’d love to hear what you’ve heard from the Town about me; you hear things no one else does, after all. ”

There’s another tap of his foot and the spotlights come on with two enormous clicking sounds, each focusing on Grief to throw him into harsh lighting.

[outsideforce]

grief.

So he leads back to stepping on mushy ground while they had mushy ground to step on. He was already going that direction for a little birdie that told a little birdie, that told him about a tall tale. Telling that he has to trot out at midnight with this thing on his back.

“Y’know, you should start bein’ useful,” he says, a little more jovial than expected. He’d ditched the furs and donned the old grey tarnished thing for this and five other shirts to keep warm. It doesn’t do much, but he makes it across the Spin-a-Yarn Square to push the heavy theatre door open with an agonized creak and duck into the framed space. It’s quiet and full of memory in here. Whose? Not his. 

He had no care or love for the theatre in town. It wasn’t part of his business until the goons showed up. Now it’s a feature of a daily annoyance. 

“So-” he calls out in the long, candlelit space. She’s dressed for a vigil, this theatre, and she looks like stepping into an open organism. He follows the strange lines in the air and pieces of things hanging from the ceiling. Something offers him “Spider” in the back of his head, and his skin prickles and the itch in his fingers strikes them into flexing.

“Where’s the whereabouts of the were-men in waterproof feathers, eh? Quackin’ for me Ducky when I was already comin’ to see the scene?”

His voice travels with the acoustics.

The Reflection offers nothing in response except a quiet hum and the echo of slushy footsteps behind him, at least until Grief reaches the Theatre doors and it vanishes to leave him to his business.

There are candles flickering in a winding path to the stairs of the stage, the chairs tucked away neat and tidy in an unseen backstage. The only chairs left belong to the ghosts and the Director, who sat on the stage with his ankles crossed and his cane tapping a light beat to match Grief’s footsteps.

Mark arches his brows in surprise at actually seeing Grief, planting both feet on the ground and standing with more grace than a man with a broken spine should be able to. His hands fold atop the cane as he leans forward.

The lines of the theatre offer the name Spider to Grief, and Mark corrects it.

“ Ah, the Silkworm arrives. I was wondering if you’d actually make your way here or not. Welcome to my humble house of productions. You’ve never come in here before, have you? Come along, have a look, see what there is to see. ”

He offers a smile, double tapping the cane and gesturing in a wide arc. There are ghosts on every corner of the Theatre, and the shape of two Executors standing overhead, their beaks caught in the spotlights.

[outsideforce]

@clockpins

With the dispatch of the last of Barley the Barber’s men and the icy storm bleeding into the town, the streets are quiet when the lights come on to bring the focus to the posters around town. They had yet to be replaced from the Tragedians holding aloft a lantern, stapled to each of the round display boards in town. . .except for the one that Grief passes closest to.

The masked figure shifts, holding a light in the same way as the poster would, before giving a sharp, short bow at the waist in greeting.

“ The Director would like to see you. There’s no show tonight. ”

They transfer the lantern between their hands, simply holding it a moment, before falling in step behind Grief. Ah, the ever faithful Reflection doggedly tracing his footsteps.

[outsideforce]

saburov.

“So the only thing needed is a bulletin board in every district?”

It’s a small request, and a reasonable one. The current post boards were too small, as well as circular. There wasn’t enough even space on them to do regular news with them.

He can manage getting bulletin boards up quickly. As far as he knows, there’s still several woodworkers and masons in the Crude Sprawl that need employment. He’d fund their work.

Saburov finishes the tea, and sets down the empty cup.

“Very well, I will handle that straightaway. Thank you for your time, Immortell.”

He reaches out a hand to shake on it.

“I’m hoping to arrange a meeting in town hall with other capable persons this Sunday at noon. Of course, you are invited to attend. Hopefully I’ll have some of the necessary bulletins made, so you can see it and plan accordingly.”

“Apologies if this venture was rather brief, but I appreciate the hospitality.“

“ Brief ventures are what I deal with best, truthfully. I don’t get many visitors and for that, I’m grateful. Too many scene changes is a pain. ”

There’s a flick of his hand as if brushing the idea off, before he hums and takes his own teacup up once more. It was a simple request: if Alexander wanted the information to go around, he simply needed to have a place to put the information.

The thing that surprises him (and Mark is very hard to surprise, so it’s a delightful feeling indeed) is that Saburov invites him to the council meeting happening at the end of the week.

“ Why, I should have a clear schedule. . .but we’ll see, won’t we? Ah, you’re making the effort to fold me back into the townsfolk. It’s more than most have done since the Kains walked about. ”

The cup is set aside so he can lean forward to shake Saburov’s hand with a sly smile cutting across his face, before he leans back once more.

“ You have a good day, governor. And you should come see the shows sometimes -- your wife quite enjoyed them, or so I’m told. More than the other Mistresses in Town. ”

[outsideforce]

saburov.

Saburov nods affirmatively, and makes his way up to the seat presented.

He won’t question the statement of the town somehow alerting Mark to his arrival. There were as many odd folk in the town as there were snowflakes on the ground-

Which was to say, absolutely covering the town with their presence.

Settling in the chair, he watches Mark file away the papers that previously occupied the table space, while listening to a small lecture on how the audience that came was the intended one.

He takes the tea offered to him, forgoing sugar or any other additive, and just savoring the brew itself.

What was he bringing to the table?

“Hm.”

He withdraws the tea from his lips and watches some of the stray floating leaves, as if he was studying the tasseography.

“… Town Hall has been in disarray.”

He states it, simply.

“The latest problem,” he sighs, setting the tea down on the table, “is that the patrolmen, while exceeding recommended numbers, still have too much responsibility. They can’t manage everything, and its effecting our communication with the rest of town.”

Annoying at best, downright lethal at worst. And more often than not, he was expecting the worst. They couldn’t afford to have breaks in communication.

“My proposal,” he states, breaking his gaze from the tea leaves, “is an offer. I noticed that you manage to consistently produce and replace those posters and advertisements over night. I’ve never even seen anyone lay them out. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you replace them in an instant… Which is advantageous.”

He studies Mark, looking over the wild hair and scarf to see if the man followed his line of thought.

“I was going to offer you a stipend, or any other financial assistance along with a request to have you and your… crew?”

He glances at a black clad figure with a white mask skulking in the wings.

“… your crew... publish bulletins and other news from Town Hall, and ensuring the populace is well informed.”

Mark listens to the explanation with his fingers steepled on the desk between them. Saburov is one of the most fascinating people in the Town to him, for he’s a man who by all outward accounts must appear normal. He balanced the Town on a tightrope out of the reach of those who would smother the strangeness.

He was also one of the strangest men in the Town, though he denied it himself. Mark had the pleasure of meeting him some time ago when he came to the Town, and he had kept his eye on the governor and his Mistress for some time.

Said Mistress was wandering the streets right now, walking the Town as Nina and Victoria tended to do as well, though she would be back with the strike of midnight.

“ Yes, communicating in this little town is surprisingly difficult for the size of it. Back in the Capitol, we had newspapers, and newsboys to run those papers every single morning. ”

A grin breaks across his face at the compliments to his advertising. The posters in the Town changed when he needed them to. As it is, the ones bearing the bird cage had been replaced by the Tragedian holding a lantern aloft. An oldie, but a goodie.

“ You’d have my Masks as your newsboys, then. I don’t have any problem with this idea, truthfully. It’s fun. It gives me a chance to touch the Town in a way I haven’t yet. ”

The Tragedians lurk in the shadows, waiting for their next stage orders, and the one that Saburov makes eye contact with raises a single finger in a shhhh motion.

“ I don’t require a stipend for it. The only thing I require is a bulletin board put up in each district -- the place is up to your discretion, of course, though one out front of the Theatre is a good start. . .and then I can get my people working on it. ”

[outsideforce]

governor.

Footfalls of a measured stride echo up into the gallery as Saburov walks into the auditorium.

The signs of the grim work that had happened here were still all too apparent. Bloodstains, scratches in the woodwork from moving gurneys, the distinct, lingering smell of antiseptics…

He’s certain he cuts as grim a figure as the remains of the impromptu hospital. Drab, conservative colors, in a military styled cut adorning a weary, battle-scarred, graying Governor.

Immortell smiles at him- and he’s too tired and too out of practice to return the gesture, save for the slight upturn at the corner of his lips.

“You were expecting a discussion?” he asks, indicating the chair in front of the desk.

He ends his stride at the apron of the stage.

“… or just not a big audience?”

All in all, he couldn’t wrap his head around the theater’s survival. Hardly anyone came to visit it, and the nature of the plays were unlike plays that other theaters could put on… Instead of stories and dramatized history, Mark was known for portraying portents- telling the future.

Nina despised this, Victoria was noticeably silent on the matter- and yet, both of their images flanked the man in front center stage.

It made him suddenly very conscious of the wedding band on his left hand. The absence of the Third of that tagloor of Mistresses, his Katerina.

He adjusted the ring on his hand, briefly, before returning the director’s initial question.

“I did have a proposition for you- someone with your skill set. I’ll take that tea. It was a very sudden thought, so I’ve not the logistics, but wanted to speak with you before the thought was lost or muddied.”

He calculates the time passing…

“I don’t think the conversation will take two hours, so I’ll be out of your hair in plenty of time for your production.”

“ My desk comes and goes. I can put it out of the way any time I need to. Here, sit, sit. I was expecting you. The town told me you were coming. ”

The theatre sits around them, empty and teeming with ghosts at the same time. There’s no portrait for Katerina here, because she yet lived in some way. The Mistresses here manipulated the Town behind the scenes -- Katerina had been center stage for some time.

She wandered the Town now, though his script for her had some interesting twists entailed within. He won’t mention that to the governor, however, scooping the pages on the desk out of the way before he sinks into his seat.

“ The audience that arrives is the intended one, no matter how small or large it is. ”

He drums his fingers on the desk once more, waiting for Saburov to take a seat across from him. He sits in a particular way to take the weight off his back, the twinge of pain along his spine reminding him that he hasn’t quite shaken off the coil he meant to.

“ The Town told me you were coming, but not what you were bringing to the table. I’m very interested in what you have in mind. The townsfolk tend to leave me to my own work, but I would like to see how you’d like to sweep me into the town. ”

He pours tea for them both, lifting it to warm his fingers.

“ Don’t worry about the time. Tell me. ”

[outsideforce]

governor!

Held over for three hours…

The town was an absolute mess, and Town Hall was even worse off for not being able to communicate effectively with either the internal workers, or the peasantry at large.

At least ten people came over and asked the same damn questions, occupying Olga’s precious time, and Saburov’s as well- something that could have been handled with a simple, timely posted bulletin or address…

All of the patrolmen had enough to do and were overworked as is… they couldn’t manage the first few bulletins he’d tried to send out- what with muggers and stray dogs prowling… alongside their other duties…

It just wasn’t feasible. Absolutely frustrating.

He rubs his temples under a street lamp and forces himself to take a breath and calm down with the rise and fall of his chest. Glancing upwards, he spots the posters for the Theater.

Funnily enough, every day they were different. No one even saw who placed the advertisements for the Theater up. The only thing that the town knew is that Mark was the one responsible for it… somehow.

It’s that thought that sparks an idea.

He looks up at the pitch black sky and sighs. It’s not like he was going home on time anyway.

Spurring right, he walks in the complete opposite direction of the Rod, to the Theater, to request an audience with Mark Immortell…

… or perhaps be an audience in turn?

The Theater looms over the center of Spin-a-yarn Square, the massive cracked face of an expressionless mask gazing out at nothing in particular.

Saburov opens the doors to the Theater, and enters the dark.

@outsideforce

The Theatre sits quiet, the empty shell of a surgical hospital that popped up and died out just as quickly as the Sand Pest did. Stepping inside is stepping into a wide, dark room -- it’s quiet except for the gentle tap-tap-tap of a pen on a table.

There are still bloodstains on the floor. He hasn’t quite gotten them all scrubbed out. If one looks close enough, there are footprints still here and there -- three distinct ones. A dandy’s walking shoes, a butcher’s work boots, and a girl’s errand-running shoes.

The chairs are pushed to the sides of the room, leaving a wide walkway up to the stage. The curtains are pulled back, showing the shape of the Town flanked by the Mistresses who had since passed -- Victoria, her head bowed in prayer, and Nina, her shoulders back in defiance.

Between them, there’s a desk tucked into the shadows of the theatre, complete with a tea set with steam rising from it and a cushioned chair across from it. It almost, almost looks a mockery of his desk in the Town Hall. Behind it, Mark Immortell drums his fingers in a steady rhythm as he reads over something laid out in front of him.

Before Saburov can cross into the room proper, he looks up, offering a crooked smile before there’s the thump of his cane on the wood and he stands up, moving to stand at the edge of the stage.

“ Enter front and center: the governor! And to what do I owe a gracious visit from our esteemed leader? ”

He can’t help the smile, leaning forward on his cane before he gestures back.

“ Forgive my rudeness -- an offering for you. A cup of tea while we discuss. Come along, come along. ”

[ollikiwi]

Puppets

[yuliciagames]

Pathologic 2: The Theatre

The Theatre welcomes the distinguished audience at any time. There’s a performance of the Masks every evening, and the blood gets rinsed off every night.

[outsideforce]

mistresscapella​:

pathofhighday​:

“Hmph. Alright, since you extended the invitation…“

Khan steps out of the spotlight to rub at his eye. The light was a bit of a strain in the dark house.

His eye takes a moment to adjust and it still isn’t great. He can see the mural of the Mistresses, his mother standing opposite of Victoria. He wondered if Mark would add Katerina to it as well.

The bird costumed people have been kind of quiet since they got in, but it’s hard to miss their glowing eyes, and the shadows they cast. There’s still other… people here, though. Those people are motionless. Still. Poised like mannequins, and if it weren’t for the subtle motion of their idle posing, Khan would have assumed that they were.

He sees a flash of a red dress behind Nina’s towering portrait, and frowns. There’s a strange familiarity and the familiar in one place.

“… What is this theater, really?“

@mistresscapella​

Capella frowns as Khan steps out of the light so he can see better. She steps with him, away from Mark, but she doesn’t think he sees his father or his sister, not like she did. However, out of the spotlight, her vision expands as well.

One of the first people she notices it the hulking shadow near the entrance. Even from the distance she can pick out the massive figure of Foreman Oyun. He’s not far from where she saw Khan’s father crouched on the ground. Against her better judgment she continues to turn, looking around the open theatre. Georgiy Kain stands contemplative, and Katerina Saburova faces a wall like Oyun, held tilted down and hands folded like she normally stood in life. Maria mirrors her mother’s pose, looking like a porcelain doll… a broken one - she looks like she’s crumbling at her seems, and Capella thinks she can see Nina’s portrait through her. Turning quickly away, her eyes catch the barest glint of light above them. On the second story is Eva, longing on the ground like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s definitely transparent.. in fact she looks a stained glass window, fractured pieces reflecting different colors that orbit in each other’s space. 

But of all these things? The worst one is the back of a chair she sees, standing out amongst the ones pushed against the wall. She recognizes the high back, and sees two familiar boots between the legs and just the tiniest sliver of a bald head…

Capella steps backward, bumping into Khan. She grabs his wrist tightly. This doesn’t feel right. This isn’t….

@outsideforce​ 

The dead linger in these walls, standing in the moment, ready with last words on their lips. Each and every one of them had a path left to travel, but alas, it mattered not.

Mark watched them from his seat, leaned back and taking the pain off of his spine, and watching them both come to the realization that there are ghosts here. Khan asks the question and Mark taps his foot, the toe of his shoe clicking on the wood beneath him.

“ The Theatre is the Town, and the Town is the stage. If you should be so lucky, you’ll find yourself here of your own volition -- but, if not, we have places for you as well. ”

He turns his head to look at the figures scattered around, and considers the others who nearly ended up here. There’s a broken light flickering where Peter Stamatin should stand -- he’s dead, but he walks. It’s quite a perplexing situation.

“ Go on, both of you. You have snakes to hunt. ”

@pathofhighday​

[outsideforce]

mistresscapella​:

pathofhighday​:

Khan cranes to try and see the other ‘miserable souls’ that Mark mentions, and all he can manage to make out are shadows, silhouettes of people facing the walls. The spotlight makes him blind in the periphery of his one eye.

He considers the ‘snake’ mentioned, and tucks it away in his memory. It could be literal, it could be metaphoric. He was certain he’d know it when he saw.

“Let the adults handle it?“

He scoffs, “Have you seen the adults here? They act more like figure pieces than actual responsible people. Even the capable ones are wholly selfish, save for a noted few.“

He looks back to Mark, “What would you have done to handle it? You’re an adult too. You can’t just act like you’re separate from this. You live here too- regardless of if you hardly leave this building.“

“Just as well,“ he murmurs and folds his arms, “I’ve been taking care of myself and all the other children since before Mom died. I’ll continue to do so- even when I do become an adult.“

@mistresscapella​

Khan’s right - Mark Immortell isn’t removed from this, particularly because he knew this information and didn’t seem pressed to go out of his way to tell anyone. 

They’ll have to manage the scaled person then. That’s fine. They’ve managed the children of this town for quite some time now. 

“Likewise. One can’t wait simply because someone else is supposed to take action. Someone has to take care of the children, regardless of who should.”

Like a hydra, cut off one head and two take its place - she worries this may be a recurring problem in years to come, even if they cut this thread currently ensnaring the town. But they have to stop the immediate danger before they can worry about the future. 

“Is there anything else you know that might help us? Anything at all?”

@outsideforce​

“ Dear boy, I am just the director of this play. The actors are the ones who must take precedence to solve the problems, or the play becomes boring! ”

He sighs a bit, shaking his head, before he gives an almost amused expression crossing his face.

“ What would I have done? It didn’t matter what I would do. It isn’t my part to play this time. ”

Capella’s questions draw his eyes to her as he strokes his chin for a long moment.

“ Don’t fret over this so much for the time being. The actors aren’t in place yet. We haven’t even changed the set yet! So, you have time. They won’t arrive until the largest group of the Kin do. They’ll slip in among the familiar-unfamiliar faces. ”

He taps his cane three times and sinks into a seat that appears to the side of the stage, grunting a bit without meaning to. Ah, relief.

“ Now, children, shall I remind you that you aren’t allowed in here? Though -- by all means, have a look around. ”

@pathofhighday​