Florence Blackwell-Edison

"I'm afraid I'm quite average." But are you, really? +Loyal, trustworthy, intelligent, brave -Guarded, proud, rebellious, audacious

[theodore-scathelock]

Story Telling for The Heart : Florence & Theodore

[theodore-scathelock]

 “Nothing more? Are you sure?” He didn’t waste time disguising his words behind an elaborate façade that usually accompanied his sentences. He truly wanted to get to the bottom of the enigma that was Florence Blackwell and he had discovered that merely hinting at what he wanted to know would get him nowhere. Why she had chosen to venture into his tent, why she remained, despite her attempts to excuse herself, why the woman baffled him constantly, she was a puzzle he had yet to figure out that only got more infuriating with every passing day.

But they were no longer on the grounds of the circus, a place where they had to be mindful of language though their last conversation had broken all the rules of common etiquette and courtesy. Florence had made her way into the abode of one of the most scandalous men that had ever graced the circus. And Theodore was determined to have cracked they mystery of Miss Blackwell by the end of the night.

“Extravagance was never really what I sought.” He reached down, picking up one of the many satin cushions littered around the floor. Theodore played with the golden tassel hanging off one of the corners, keeping his eyes trained on Florence. “But I think that little pleasures such as these are luxurious enough for me. For now at least.”

“And not everything is about convenience.” He threw the cushion back onto the tent floor to join it’s companions. It sailed across the room before landing with a muffled thump on other pillows. “There’s a lot more to my act than just lamps and cushions. It takes far more than comfort and atmosphere to bewitch an audience the way I do. The stories, for one, need to heard and learnt. One doesn’t gain a reputation for story telling by simply repeating the same tales over and over again.”

“And just creating your little novels isn’t enough to earn you a place in the circus. I suggest exploring more before you attempt what I do.” He stopped himself before he could go any further. This situation was quickly turning sour, much like their previous encounter. But he had no desire to force their exchange into such a hostile situation. To put it simply, Theodore was tired. And to have to battle against Florence would not only leave him thoroughly exhausted but it would also ensure the author a vital victory over him, something he simply couldn’t have.

But beneath that, he did not want to fight Florence. She had come to his tent, and a part of him said that she should be treated as any other guest. He had lectured her on her prejudice against him but to hold such a petty grudge against her would by hypocritical. Her admission that he was close was enough to soothe his wounded ego for now. Theodore would reach the truth soon enough.

“And who is to say that you aren’t interested in what I have to say?” He quizzed her, though he already knew the answer. The sparkle in her eye told him everything he wished to know. She was intrigued, riveted to the idea of the tales that had been shared in his abode. Whether or not Florence consciously did it, she had given Theodore a little piece of information that was a small victory. “You may not be a lost soul but you definitely seem willing enough to stay in my tent. And,” he paused for emphasis. “You were far more interesting than them anyway. I’d would rather have you over them any day.”

Her adamant statement that she had no personal bias against him was hardly comforting. It was obvious that she did not prefer to be in his company and lying through her teeth would not serve to disguise that. But regardless, Florence was his patron for tonight, not his enemy. And her consent for him to start this show from the top was enough motivation for him to begin telling his stories again. His mind searched for some particularly interesting tidbit for Florence, some overwhelming piece of knowledge, something that would make her rethink her opinion on Theodore Scathelock.

“Most stars you see from here,” He began, gesturing at the facsimile sky above them. “are actually binary stars. That means they are a pair of stars, circling around an imaginary point of gravity, in orbit until they combust. They are always together, drawing material from one another as they are so close. They appear as one since we are so far away from them and they are so close together, but there are billions of systems like that. They are actually far more common than the single star system we have.”

“There are almost always two stars, though there’s a mass restriction. If the stars are two big, they collide and explode. Two giants, two monsters, should never be put this close together. The result are almost always explosive.”

[runaway-florence-blog]

If Theodore expected to learn everything about Florence Blackwell in one night, he would find himself sorely disappointed. Guarded and intelligent, Florence wasn't in the business of handing out secrets that were near and dear to her heart, especially not to men who had yet to prove themselves trustworthy. Her goal was to leave Theodore's tent as soon as she possibly could for fear of what he might do or assume if she stayed for far too long, but it seemed like such a plan had fallen through as soon as it was made.

Though she had decided to stay in the tent with Theodore, Florence found herself doubting her decision as soon as he began to criticize her work and the fact that she wrote novels. "You're assuming I want to become a performer," she noted with nothing more than the lift of her brow, "and I'm afraid you're quite mistaken. It's a logical conclusion, but an incorrect one." Though a spark of anger had been ignited by his words, Florence managed to wave him off as if he he was nothing more than a speck of dust or a small annoyance. From their last conversation, she had learned that such an attitude would harm him more than any wit or barbs could. 

Her attitude and agitation curbed dramatically as Theodore admitted that she was far  more interesting than the guests he had before. Though she wouldn't admit it, Florence's ego was a weakness and -- though she was still on her guard -- he had done a good job to play into her opinions of herself. She was no less wary of his intentions, but Florence decided to stay as she gave something of a smile and took a seat on one of the many cushions on the floor.

Truth be told, Florence was trying to convince herself that she held no bias against Theodore Scathelock. She wanted to believe she was too good for petty grudges and schoolgirl arguments, but as she listened and thought on her predicament, Florence realized that she had harbored quite the grudge against Theodore. Had it not been for her sour mood one particular day, she might have actually grown to like him.

She was enthralled as soon as he began to talk about stars. Leaning backward so she could better see the facade of a sky above her, Florence tried her best to imagine all those pinpricks as being two bodies that circled around one another n a continuous loop. Her mind could picture the phenomena if she concentrated long enough, but soon Florence found her attention drifting back to Theodore Scathelock and, without much thought, she found herself watching him as he told his story. It shouldn't have been too surprising that she was more interested in the storyteller and his methods instead of the story at hand but, for all intents and purposes, Florence seemed to be quite interested in both the subject and the teacher.

She had heard from a few sources that Theodore was an excellent storyteller and that he could even rival Oscar Blackwood when he was in the right mood, but for some reason she hadn't believed any of them. She simply thought he had charmed his way into a person's good favor instead of actually earning it like any self-respecting person might… But now she had to deny her former prejudice. Theodore was evidently very good at what he did, and Florence found herself hanging on to every word. 

"What is the result of their explosion, Mr. Scathelock?" Surely something must have happened after a collision between two terrifying forces.

[theodore-scathelock]

Story Telling for The Heart : Florence & Theodore

[theodore-scathelock]

Theodore hadn’t expected Florence to stay, much less enter the tent after he had called her out, ending his show abruptly. He had expected her to flee, much like she had in their last encounter, but no. The woman had stayed, boldly approaching him with as much countenance as she could have possessed, considering she had been caught eavesdropping on the performance.

“And it is even more of a surprise to see you here. What did I do to deserve this visit?” He answered with a smugness he could not keep from his voice. Why had the author arrived at his tent, especially after rather vocally proclaiming to avoid him at all costs when he had last approached her. The thought that he had somehow attracted her attention flittered through his mind for a moment before he dismissed it entirely. She was a sensible, smart woman. She would not so easily be wooed by looks or one confession of interest. There had to be something more to it.

He debated several ideas as to why she would even dare to listen to him. He had thoroughly aggravated and insulted her before, to the point where her demeanour would be questionable to even the most casual of women. She had avidly stated she would like to avoid the scandal that surrounded him. Perhaps she had stumbled on his tent by accident, as many visitors often did. But if she had happened upon his show by accident, why had she lingered at the entrance, obviously eager to see him?

“What else did you expect me to be?” He asked, resting his hands on his hips. “There’s not much else a person can do in the circus when his only talent resides in his ability to manipulate words.” The circus was meant to amaze and astonish, something that was the forte of those who were physically talented. For Theodore, story telling was one of the few vocations the circus offered that made good use of his skills.

Regardless, the fact that Florence had not assumed that he would have a profession that revolved story telling spoke volumes about his words. Had she not picked up the signature flair he had in his style? He had been told many times that his sentences were often structured as if they were meant to tell a story, loaded with words that appealed to the senses and filled the mind with images. Did Florence not see any of that? Or was he simply losing his touch? His ability to bewilder the masses was the sole thing keeping him in the circus, if he were to lose that, he would be without a home or the means to inspire the impropriety he sought. 

That sole thought, the thought of leaving the circus brought terror to his mind, but the more dominant emotion was indignation. He would have to show the author his prowess in the art of narration. It seemed petty that he had to prove himself to a reveur yet he had learnt that Miss Blackwell was unlike anyone he had ever seen before, not yielding to the stereotypes that he commonly characterized people by. Maybe that’s why it was so important for him to be worthy in the eyes of the otherwise insignificant author. 

“You wouldn’t be here? Why? Because it’s me telling the stories?” He chuckled a bit, surprised that her personal distaste of him had clouded her judgement. Did she not know that quality should be dictated by skill, not personal bias? If he had anything to say about himself, he would consider him among the best of the raconteurs in the circus. “And here I hoped that my ability had managed to convince another lost soul to come to my tent.” He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture that could be seen as frustrated but compared to the people he had had to deal with, Florence was a relief to the unfortunate day he had.

“You’re here already. Why not enjoy what my tent has to offer?” He moved towards the wooden stool, resuming his position as the teacher, the story teller, the main attraction. He gestured towards the pillows strewn across the floor. “I don’t mind holding another small session for you Miss Blackwell. If you’re willing to put aside your prejudice and listen to me for just a moment.”

[runaway-florence-blog]

What had Theodore done to deserve a visit from Florence? She thought she might tell him that she had been surprised to hear such a riveting story about stars coming from a circus tent, but Florence realized that such a compliment would only serve to inflate his ego. At the last moment, Florence frowned and offered little more than a wave of her hand, “Curiosity is what brought me here. Nothing more.”

Had Florence known that she was sending Theodore's thoughts reeling simply by entering his tent, she may have chosen to pay a visit earlier than she had. If she knew that she was puzzling to the man before her, she would have used it to her advantage – that was simply how Florence Blackwell operated, especially when concerning people she didn't quite care for. She was intelligent – perhaps a bit too much in this case – and so she attributed his response to her appearance as little more than smugness; he had no reason to wonder why she had decided to grace him with a visit, and – in fact – he shouldn't have cared.

But he did, and it was a good thing that Florence was completely unaware of the fact.

“I had expected you to be something more glamorous,” she looked about his tent, to the dim lighting and the scattering of pillows about the floor, “though I shouldn't be terribly surprised. This seems to require minimal effort, and I don't see you as the type to exert yourself.”

He was absolutely right about a talent with manipulating words. Florence had barely noticed it before due to the fact that she was too immersed in her own words, but Theodore had a knack for twisting and manipulating the english language so it could serve a purpose more fitting for him. It now made sense as to why he would target her writing and her craft, especially since he was immersed in the same kind of dealings; words were powerful and writers tended to be the most jealous of companions.

After having spent a minimal amount of time in Mr. Scathelock's tent, Florence felt drained of her emotions and wit. Perhaps it was the surprise of finding the man creating such lovely stories, but she felt weary and terribly out-of-sorts; caught off-guard, Florence had nothing to do but look about the tent and put forth her best effort to mask her wonderment.

You wouldn't be here? Why? Because it's me telling the stories?

It took more than a few moments for Florence to gather her words and formulate and answer, but when she finally replied it was with a smile and something of a sigh. “Not quite,” she corrected, “but I suppose you're close enough.” Had she not told him that she didn't value scandal and she tried to distance herself from it? Yes, she could remember that moment quite clearly, but it seemed as if Theodore himself didn't quite remember the argument a week or two prior.

“Another lost soul?” She pondered the idea, still pointing her direction toward the entrance as she let out something of a laugh. “I'm afraid you'll have to try harder than that, Mr. Scathelock. Though I find it surprising that you turned away a room full of lost souls upon my entrance; perhaps you would do better to find them and finish your story. They seemed interested.” More interested than she was, perhaps. Then again, Florence was still lingering in the tent... and that spoke volumes as to how much curiosity she held toward the man and his stories.

It was the prospect of a story that gave Florence a final pause. She had heard most of one story, but the idea of a private session intrigued her enough for the woman to frown in contemplation. “I have no prejudice, Mr. Scathelock,” though it was a lie, she had managed to convince herself that it was no more true than if she had claimed that she wasn't enjoying the cold weather, “you've simply jumped to conclusions.”

It took a moment longer before she finally stepped forward and occupied one of the pillows on the floor. Unwilling to venture out into the cold once more, Florence found that she had made herself comfortable in Theodore's tent long before she actually decided to stay, but such things were unimportant. Her attentions were focused on the storyteller on his stool and – for the first time since she had spoken to Theodore – Florence seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say. With a placid smile on her face and her posture held at something more comfortable, she appeared to be a portrait of amicability.

“Well, Mr. Scathelock. Tell me a story.”

[blue-eyes77]

[annehathaway1995]

Anne Hathaway

[theodore-scathelock]

Story Telling for The Heart : Florence & Theodore

It was another mediocre night in the circus, a night performing just like in any other circus. Sweden hadn’t been as thrilling as he had thought and to be honest, he was disappointed. There was so much he looked forward to doing, only to have those hopes shot down each and every time. Conflicting schedules, bad weather and every now and then, a rather rowdy fight that barred him from visiting half the bars in the vicinity.

That’s why Theodore was in his tent, telling stories in a perfectly fine night where there was plenty to be doing. He was more than a little annoyed, and despite his best efforts, his reluctance leaked into his myths and explanation, marring the brilliance of the tales. But regardless, his chronicles still garnered crowd after crowd into his tent, an endless stream of people all there to fill their heads with his knowledge, whether he gave it willingly or not.

So, he played his own little revenge, a little retribution for the bland, dull time that he was greeted with when he came to their town. He told stories that broke the hearts of the children, that disgusted the adults and used so many technical terms that they failed to make sense half the time. But still they stayed. Whether it was out of courtesy or whether they truly cared about what he was telling them, the audience remained until the end of the show, where they left confused and bewildered at what they had witnessed.

That was the case with every crowd tonight and this one was no different. Insipid, dreary people who had come here just to rest, not to hear the magic he was able to weave. Their children were too active, shifting constantly, breaking the spell he wished to construct over the audience. It was infuriating that his art was dismissed so lightly, viewed as mere entertainment and not the artistry that took genius and creativity to create. Such blatant disrespect tempted him to cut the show off now, leave them hanging as he paused in the middle of a tale, anger seething beneath his skin when he caught sigh to of somebody that made his smile retake it’s place on his face.

“But of course, the larger a star is, the brighter it is, the quicker it dies. That’s because the larger it is, the bigger it’s core is, therefore, it burns more fuel. While our sun has been burning for millions of years, converting Hydrogen into Helium, other stars such as Eta Carinae are expected to turn into supanovae at anytime now. Alpha Centuri, the biggest star closest to earth will only have another couple thousand more years before it expands and shrinks to a white dwarf state.”

It was quite a depressing thought. The brightest, most beautiful things were the shortest lived, even when they were talking about the leviathan beings that roamed the skies. That rule however, was not just applied to them. It applied to everything, including the prying figure at his tent door.

“I’m afraid we shall have to stop here. There’s a certain person who seems to be interested in talking to me. Even if she is afraid to admit it.” He gestured to the person in the door way. “You may come in now. Miss Florence Blackwell.”

[runaway-florence-blog]

That voice. She had heard it before.

Florence was unsure of what possessed her to alter her usual route through the circus that night, but she found herself passing a group of tents that was entirely unfamiliar. It was strange – usually she kept with an unvaried route since the circus changed to often, but now she was passing acts that she was certain she had never seen before. It was a testament to the sheer size of the circus, but it was also somewhat frightening. She might have even taken more time to ponder on such thoughts if she hadn't been caught off-guard by a familiar voice.

If she had known that she was listening to Theodore Scathelock's stories, Florence wouldn't have stopped at the entrance of the tent to listen to a man ramble off facts and stories about the stars. She wouldn't have ever let herself get sucked into the melancholic and beautiful world that was being created only through words, and she certainly wouldn't have been jealous of the kind of tales the man could weave together. If she had known she was listening to Theodore Scathelock, Florence would have walked away as if nothing strange had happened.

Unfortunately, she lingered a moment too long. Her curiosity swelled to the point of bursting and she finally stepped into the dark tent, hoping to go unnoticed by the speaker and the crowd he was bound to draw. Lady Luck certainly wasn't smiling down on her – actually, Fortuna seemed to be scowling – for it took one step in the tent for Florence to realize her mistake.

Theodore had barely spoken before she put the pieces together; her eyes met his and a horrified chill ran through her body. The very same man she had become intrigued by was the man that she had insulted not very long before; he was the only person in the entire circus who she hated on sight and who had managed to catch her on a day that would undoubtedly incur her wrath. He was the one who thought he could win a battle of wits against her and, inevitably, he had lost. This was Theodore Scathelock, and he was the last person she thought would be behind the flap of the tent of a storyteller.

It took a moment before Florence figured out why people were filtering past her, out of the tent and into the cold and crisp air. His story hadn't ended, but the session had been halted abruptly due to the fact that she had made her presence known prematurely and she was sure to regret such a thing in the future.

“Mr. Scathelock,” she said after the last visitor had managed to leave the tent, “It's certainly a surprise to see you here.”

As she stepped into the room, Florence made no move to discard the heavy, velvet cloak that was protecting her from the biting cold of Sweden's night air. All she did was remove the hood that shielded most of her face from his view and, for a moment, she thought she might have made a mistake in doing that much.

Florence looked more pale since they had last spoken, but she didn't look sickly or even remotely unhealthy. No, the flush of red against her nose and cheeks foretold of her long walk through the cold, as did the dappling of red against her ears and the fact that her hair had been let down for the first time in a very long time. She looked different – foreign – and she felt the same way.

“So, you're a storyteller?” A long silence passed between them, “I... wouldn't have guessed.”

Feeling off her guard, Florence immediately looked toward the exit of the tent and then to Theodore Scathelock. “I wouldn't be here if I thought...” If she thought what? That he was behind the story that had reeled her in? “... I shouldn't be here at all, actually.” At that she took one step back, one step in the direction of the entrance of the tent. It wasn't a challenge – there was no anger behind her eyes this time – but instead it was confusion and perhaps a little bit of concern that sparked her interest.

Why hadn't he told her that he told stories?

[nathanielforge-deactivated20130]

Sunrise || Nathaniel and Florence

[nathanielforge-deactivated20130]

He smiled a bit and picked up the stool once again, an offer. “Then, my lady, I would be honored if you would accept my invitation to join me behind my tent. I have an excellent view and your company would not be at all unpleasant.” 

“I am Nathaniel Forge,” he introduced himself, “Though I suppose it’s likely you already know that. We circus members can’t possibly learn the names of the Reveurs, but my understanding is that most of you figure us out. Or at least pretend to. So, tell me, Ms.—or, I suppose is it Mrs.?—Blackwell, what is it the elite of you say about the quiet portraitist sketching the lives you’ve lived long ago or that you’ve yet to live?” 

He crossed the small but uncramped space to his trunk. He emptied some of the heavier objects, wooden frames for canvases, stacks of paper and envelopes. He emptied the coins from his tip jar, and though it hadn’t been a fruitful night for him, the coins clattered about as the spilled onto the sweet-smelling unpainted interior of his pine chest. He picked up the chest, hearing his supplies rattle around a little and, being full of hands, gestured with his head toward the flap of his tent, moving slightly with the predawn wind.  “Shall we?” he asked. 

[runaway-florence-blog]

Florence knew very well that it was improper to accept such an invitation without the consent of an escort but, since she was without an escort and she was without the ability to care, she gave a nod and a smile. “That would be marvelous, actually.” If nothing else, she would learn about the painter and what it was that he did.

It didn't take long before he was telling her about his profession, and Florence found that she was quite delighted to learn such information without having to ask a plethora of questions beforehand. She scarcely interjected -- save to tell him that it was Ms and not Mrs – but Florence did keep an animated expression about her as she watched him unpack his things and speak of his pursuits.

“I'm afraid you will be quite disappointed,” she answered when he was finally finished, “but I've heard scarcely a think about you. I've simply watched the people who filter in and out of your tent, and I must say the crowd is quite interesting.” Varied would be another word for it, but Florence didn't think it best to discuss the different properties of synonyms with someone she just met. Such things would only bore him and that wasn't Florence's desire in the least.

“I've only heard good things about your paintings, though I believe that one reveur was displeased at how unattractive you made her younger self look? To be frank, I think you were very close to the daguerreotype she showed me later.”

That mischievous smile never left Florence's lips, not even when she motioned Nathaniel forward after he had gathered up his chest. “After you. I'll follow you out.”

Once they had finally made their way outside, Florence lingered back to see what it was Nathaniel had planned for his chest. In the meantime, she folded her hands behind her back and settled on asking him a question. “Where did you learn to paint, Mr. Forge?”

[runaway-florence-blog]

Socializing is Tedious || Florence & Sibyl

[sinnett]

Sybil watched the way Florence carried herself. She was so tall and poised compared to herself. It reminded her of what her mother used to be like. She wasn’t the best in social situations either but the moment she walked into a room, all heads turned her way. She was beyond beautiful, her mother. Sybil regretted making the comparison, however, because she hoped that if Florence were ever to have children she would not throw them out into the streets when they had children of their own. She caught Florence’s smile at a moment too late for her to return one of her own. 

The crowd was bound tightly together and she was thankful that it was the tall woman leading and not her for she didn’t think she could penetrate through the mass amount of bodies that surrounded the room. She shoved a few people here and there who muttered in protest but she made it all the way through without tripping over the unnecessarily long dress she had worn. From that point on Sybil assumed that the other woman knew where they were headed but that was a preposterous thing to assume since neither of them had been in the enormous place before. Thankfully, the way to the patio was found much quicker than both had expected. 

Cool air breezed through Sybil and she closed her eyes for a few seconds, tasting it’s sweetness. She hated crowds mostly because crowds meant questions or participating. It’d been a long while since she’d renounced participating in any sort of social event unless mandatory. The only reason she bothered showing up to the one’s hosted by the Circus was that it would raise far too many questions if she failed to show up. So she went. 

“Sybil..S-sybil Sinnett.” The surname which tied her together with her family tasted bitter in her mouth. She had high hopes that Florence had never heard of her family otherwise the questions would never end. Sybil found a small chair much like the one she’d been sitting on when Florence had first arrived to the party. She took a seat there, studying her surroundings. Always looking. “Have you been acquainted with most everyone in the Circus?”

[runaway-florence-blog]

Sibyl Sinnett.

Sibyl Sinnett.

Sibyl Sinnett.

Florence did her best to connect the face with a name or the name with a face of a relative, but she found it impossible to pinpoint any Sinnetts who were of remote importance in her memory. Though Florence didn't know it, that was for the best and it was also for the best that she didn't dare raise questions about the girl's family – Florence herself believed that every person had a reason for being in the circus, though she wasn't one to ask questions of the fragile. Sibyl was very evidently fragile.

“Well, Miss Sinnett, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She curtsied, “And thank you for accompanying me to get some air. I felt as if I was suffocating in that parlor.” A mischievous smile turned the corners of the writer's lips, but she said not another word about the fact that Sibyl had been so eager to leave. Nothing else would be mentioned on the subject, as the girl had posed her own question and Florence was all-too-happy to oblige with an answer.

“Oh, I know of most everyone here. Whether I know them personally or not – well, that's another matter entirely.” For a moment Florence thought to tell the girl that she was from England, but the idea filtered out of her mind rather quickly. It was much too risky to advertise what was once her home – it would do no good for Florence to give away such vital information with such ease, even though Sibyl didn't seem the type to gossip amongst a group of performers or reveurs.

“And you? I take it that you've become acquainted with the circus somewhat?” It said a lot that the girl was brave enough to attend the midnight dinner; for some reason, Florence took that as a sign that Sibyl had become familiar with the traveling troupe and – like so many others – had made it her home. But perhaps she was wrong... perhaps another question was in order.

“Ah! If you don't mind my asking,” Florence gave something of an embarrassed smile, “how old are you?” The girl didn't look to be too old – perhaps the age that Florence's youngest sister currently held, which would have been eighteen … or maybe it was seventeen. Whatever the case, the girl was young and Florence was wondering just how such a young woman ended up following around a circus.

As Florence took her own seat somewhat-close to Sibyl, she continued to smile openly and patiently. It really did seem as if she would wait all night for some sort of an answer from the girl – there was no rush with Florence Blackwell. 

[runaway-florence-blog]

Morning Lamentations || Florence and Theodore

[theodore-scathelock]

Maybe it was just Florence’s presence, or her knack for words, or her indescribable ability to render him speechless at certain moments that kept Theodore around long enough for him to get offended. It certainly had to be something, it was impossible for him to stay around someone this long without the person having some sort of redeeming aspect.

Or maybe that’s what made Florence Blackwell so unique. That she was so irrelevant, so pointless, so…useless, and yet he found himself here, behind a ticket booth, passing a perfectly good morning with banter that had failed to escalate to the shouting and attention that he had craved. He was so tempted to simply walk away, leave the budding author to herself and what ever story she had yet to carve out in her journal. But that would meant losing. And perhaps one of the things he hated most, Theodore Scathelock hated losing.

He shifted slightly at the mention of a physical relationship, as if he were uncomfortable. But behind what most would see as an act of nervousness, he was smiling. “Even if you do enter a ‘purely physical’ relationship, you’ll always get attached. Women eventually get affectionate towards things that are meant to be temporary, as if somehow clinging to what has to be lost gives it value.” He may have been a little harsh of the feminine half of his species but many mornings dealing with one night stands who refused to leave the circus had left him cynical of women.

The petty remark about her age was a little immature, in hindsight, but the reaction Florence had given him made Theodore regret not pulling the old maid card earlier. She stared at him as if he had just murdered someone in front of her, like any woman would of course. However, she didn’t seem as bothered by it, making him frown. “Petty insults? Miss Blackwell, I was only pointing out what needed to be said. It was nothing more than some advice with good intentions. I assure you.” He was lying, of course he meant to offended her and Florence would see that. But, there was no harm in pretending that he was trying to be nice.

The comment about marriage however, blew him away. He chuckled at the thought of him settling down with anybody, especially her. While it would definitely interesting to see how long he could convince somebody to go to the altar with him, he firmly decided he would enjoy his bachelorhood before even attempting such a stunt. Theodore smiled at Florence, in a rather pleasant way as he kicked the grassy terrain with the tip of his shoe. “If I wanted to ask for your hand, I’m sure you would hardly be able to resist. And all this talk of marriage, it would seem you’re the one looking for some company.”

Her answer was noncommittal. Contradictory or not, it’s still none of your concern. Theodore wanted to frown, show his displeasure at being cast aside but he wouldn’t. That would show Florence how vital she was to him at the moment and that would be a victory for the little author. And he had given her far too many already in this single morning, more than he would give to most people if they were to talk with him for about an hour. So instead, he wore a mask of geniality, letting the remark slip past in him favor of more opportunely things to discuss.

They were children in a sense, children who had yet to realize that pointless bickering would neither get them anywhere nor end anytime soon. Except that they were adults, sophisticated, intelligent and with a vocabulary to match. And they had pride. Maybe a child would have walked away in pursuit of more enjoyable past times or retreated to their toys and games but adults, adults had to win. They had a tendency to want victory the way a child wants candy. Only for some reason, doing this above the age of twelve is no longer being spoiled, it’s a way of life.

“I certainly don’t care about witnesses or going to jail.” He said, wondering if Florence was serious. “It might even be more interesting than the circus. But if I were to do something bad, it would also mean dragging your good name in the dirt too Miss Blackwell. And you’ve always been one to avoid scandal.” He was making an assumption but he knew it was accurate. Florence Blackwell screamed modesty though if Theodore had learnt through their eventful discussion that she was nothing like she seemed.

His smile fell at Florence’s next words, the façade he wore slipping off his face like a mask that had been untied. He frowned, feeling the anger bubble up inside him as Florence pulled apart everything he had built up. Perhaps he had underestimated the writer, thought he had been quick to grant her the title of wordsmith. Whether intentionally or not, Florence had pulled out something vital to Theodore and showed it to the world. And he didn’t know what to do.

He did crave attention, yes, but to have somebody pronounce it in the way she did was humiliating. It made him sound like a lonely child, something that he never was and would never be. And while he did sink to childish insults when provoked, he thought himself above such immaturity. And most definitely, he believed that he did not need a person to feel like he was worth something. Florence Blackwell however, disproved this all in the matter of a minute, quite possibly less.

He watched in silence as Florence, trying to hide his glare as she smiled all too pleasantly and walked away, wishing him a good day as if the morning could have been anything but. Theodore thought he saw fear in the way the author clutched her journals to her chest but this woman was fearless enough to provoke an animal. Fearless or just incredibly stupid.

Still, he found himself smiling after the woman and calling out to her, perhaps like a child in this aspect. He would give her that victory if it would make her stay. He had yet to make her pay for his silence after all.

“Then I shall do my very best to interest you, Miss Florence Blackwell.”

[runaway-florence-blog]

Had it not been for Florence's aversion to Theodore Scathelock and all of the scandal he could create, the woman would have left ages ago. Strange – it was her dislike for the man that kept her rooted to her spot and the same distaste that created insult after insult that she spun and freely offered to him without a single thought of the consequences or what he would think of her. Evidently she hadn't stopped to imagine that they would be within close proximity for quite some time – traveling on one train was hardly private, after all – but instead she focused on the fact that she despised the man before her and felt an overwhelming urge to put him in his place.

His assumption that every physical relationship would turn into an emotional one created very little disturbance in the author's mind. She had never clung to her relationship with her husband and – when it became quite obvious that she could bear his presence no longer – she had even sought a way out by running away to Le Cirque de Reves. But Theodore didn't know that, he couldn't, and Florence had no intention of revealing such sensitive information simply to win an argument. She could rejoice in his incorrect assumption silently, but she would never be able to prove it to his face; Florence could only listen and shoot a disgusted look his way when he insisted that he knew what he was talking about.

“Oh, I'm sure you're infinitely more experienced than I am,” she acquiesced, “and thus, I can't argue that idea with you. But I can safely say that you could do nothing to tempt me and, after this discussion, I think I can honestly say that you couldn't ever evoke much more than disgust from myself. Your understanding of women as a whole must be irrefutable since you've bedded so many – or so you say – and, therefore, how can I argue?” If she had made her sarcasm any more evident, Florence would have to blatantly tell Theodore that she thought he was an idiot. Instead, she laced each word with as much venom as she could muster and hoped that would do the trick.

Ah, but marriage was a different situation entirely and comments about Florence's age would never be received well from the female party. Though Theodore recanted to some degree, the sting of the wound was still fresh and the insult played behind his eyes like a secret waiting to be told. He knew very well what he had done and he had meant every word of what he said – why hide behind justification if he knew that Florence would see through such a weak facade? He even went as far as to say something about offering his own hand and how she would know, but to that Florence could only scoff.

“Oh, I assure you – your brand of charm would not work on me, Mr. Scathelock. Though I might point out here that you were the one to propose marriage in the first place, which would lead me to think that you have more interest in the subject than I do.” She smiled briefly, feeling as if she had gathered some kind of footing in this argument.

Theodore was ridiculous – little more than a child – and Florence refused to let him think that he was better than her. Though she couldn't see it (or she didn't want to, really), Florence was no better than Theodore in that respect; both of them wanted to win and were willing to act like petulant children if it took it, though Florence never would have admitted that she was being childish. She was above such things – her behavior was simply better – and she didn't need anyone to tell her whether or not she was being mature. Florence Blackwell was the epitome of maturity; she couldn't help that her current company was very far from her standards.

It was this pride that led Florence to draw such bold conclusions of Theodore, to tell him that he wanted people to want him and that he thrived on whatever attention would support his ego. Her pride and her intelligence when paired together, were dangerous tools and could easily take a person down more than a few pegs whenever she desired to. His silence and the change in his facade was all she needed to know that she had been right about everything, about his ego and his mannerisms as well as his thought-process. What a liberating feeling that was.

Her departure came for two reasons, one being because she was ahead in their little war of words and the next being that she had become bored. Perhaps fear was a subconscious motivator, for Theodore had made it very clear that he thought nothing of harming Florence as long as it meant that her name would be sullied and Florence had always been one to consider flight instead of fight in such situations. Whatever the case, she walked away feeling as if she had won and with little more than Theodore's silence to announce her departure.

Then I shall do my very best to interest you, Miss Florence Blackwell.

She paused, considered the thought as she took a step forward and let a little grin tug at the corners of her lips. That call to her was akin to the trumps of victory playing behind her, proving that she had somehow gotten under his skin and had managed to render him without any retort.

“I won't count on it,” she called after him, always one to have the last word even though she offered her answer with a hasty smile thrown over her shoulder. Once her visage was pointed forward, facing away from Theodore, she let her grin widen into something more ecstatic and relieved. If nothing else, she had found something to relieve her writers block and something to pen for the day's writing.

Theodore Scathelock had become an asset, whether he knew it or not.

[walkingfairytale]

1888 dress

[nathanielforge-deactivated20130]

Sunrise || Nathaniel and Florence

[nathanielforge-deactivated20130]

“Well, I’m afraid if you’re curious you’d find better prospects elsewhere. I’m just a portrait artist, ma’am. Noting more. It’s not terribly exciting to look around my tent. Just a man, a stool, and some art supplies. I suppose I am rather fond of that lamp,” Nathaniel gestured toward his light source, “Specially made, burns nice and white, but it’s not terribly special.” 

Fancying himself something of a gentleman, Nathaniel felt obligated to be polite, especially to a young woman such as the one standing before him. She seemed only a little younger than his wife at home, and interested in the world around her like she was, so Nathaniel offered his arm to her. “I could escort you to the labyrinth, if you’d like. It’s not a show and it doesn’t require much supervision, so we keep it open till we close.” 

Truthfully, he wanted this woman to go away and leave him to his morning. He didn’t mind company, usually, though that wasn’t to say he didn’t mind his own company, either, however, his mornings seemed fundamentally his. Even when he’d lived in London, he spent long hours out on the balcony of the flat he lived in with his family, painting and sketching and writing at times of the morning most would have considered night. Though he’d long abandoned writing and he painted mostly in private, he still loved the sunrise. 

[runaway-florence-blog]

An amused smile crossed Florence's face as the artist began to point out various objects around his room, though she did give a chuckle when he mentioned that he enjoyed the lamp he had. She thought to ask him why, but instead of prying she offered a nod and a murmured compliment about how lovely the lamp seemed. A lamp that burned so white would be an asset to him, she knew that much and she certainly didn't think it needed to be repeated as he pointed out the features of the lamp that he enjoyed and then fell silent on the subject.

Propriety didn't phase Florence in the slightest unless the person accused of the opposite was Theodore Scathelock – that was a man who had no good graces as far as she was concerned. The artist – Mr. Forge, was it? – seemed polite enough and that was reason enough for her to wave a hand when he offered to take her to the labyrinth. There was no need to intrude on his good company, especially since many of the performers were ready to sleep or meander about the circus during the wee hours of the morning.

“Forgive me for saying, but you seem rather distracted.” A nod was all she gave before she continued, “And I'll take no offense if you want me to leave.”

A long moment passed as Florence studied the man's face, and then the room they stood in. She seemed to be contemplating the offer of walking through the labyrinth, but she knew she wouldn't actually consider such an idea. When she had first begun following the circus, Florence meandered through the labyrinth too many times to recall – it had been a source of inspiration for her book and had provided a nice escape from the scrutinizing eye of various reveurs and performers. What better place to acquire privacy than within the walls of a maze?

“Besides,” she added as she took one more step back, “I was rather hoping to watch the sun rise. A labyrinth isn't the best place for that.”

It occurred to her then that she hadn't properly introduced herself, and without a moment of hesitation she beamed something of a modest grin. “Florence, by the way. My name is Florence Blackwell, and I'm sorry to have interrupted your morning.” 

[capsthefavs]

[nathanielforge-deactivated20130]

Sunrise || Nathaniel and Florence

Nathaniel pulled his stool to behind his tent. The night was ending and only a few Reveurs remained on the black-and-white paths. He leaned against the support of his tent as he lit a cigarette He didn’t smoke often, but there was something about watching the sunrise with a cigarette pulled from his father’s old ivory and silver case he simple loved.

He yawned as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. The sun wouldn’t rise for a half hour or more yet, but he was low on charcoal and the darkness before the dawn held an odd sort of allure to him. It was its own time, neither day nor night nor a normal sort of in-between time like sunrise or sunset.

He wished he had the skill or the eye to capture this time. The richness of the blacks and deepness of the sky. Nathaniel knew that this was not the sort of thing he was capable of. He was a mere portrait artist and doubted he would ever be anything but one. 

He contented himself with the fact that it payed his families bills. 

He was just beginning to really lose himself in the sky when he heard his tent flap open. For a moment, he held out hope that this straggler would see he was away and leave, but he soon heard a woman’s voice call out. 

He sighed and lowered the stool onto all four legs. He picked up and carried it with him as he walked around to the entrance. “I’m closed,” he said, his voice tired and monotonous. “I’d make an exception for a Reveur, usually, but I’m afraid I’m out of charcoal, you’ll have to come back tomorrow night.” 

[runaway-florence-blog]

A few years ago Florence never would have thought that she would end up making a habit of staying up all night and sleeping all day, but a few years ago she never would have imagined that she would follow a circus either. So many things had changed in such a short span of time, sometimes it made Florence dizzy just to think about it. What felt like centuries had only happened in a short number of years – she had seen places, escaped things and immersed herself in this strange, monochrome-with-a-splash-of-red world that was slowly becoming her home. Occasionally it was nice to just take a moment to breathe.

That's what sunrises were for. Florence liked to stop whatever she was doing, step outside her box-car or tent and watch as the cool of the night gave way to the heat of the day. Though her own world moved at an incredibly fast speed, Florence could take comfort in the fact that the sun rose and fell every morning and evening in the very same way. Despite the change of scenery or location, the sun and moon continued their trek across the sky – always seeming so close, but still separated by hundreds of millions of miles. What a tragedy.

It was the story of the sun and moon that she scrawled down in her notebook just before the sun began to rise, just before she put down her pen and shut her pad for the day. Florence could resume her work once the sun was up, but for now she took a moment to breathe in the night air and listen to the songs of birds that she had taken for granted while the nib of her pen scratched against parchment. A new day was dawning and a new sense of wonderment was birthed with it.

Had it not been for the fact that she was feeling refreshed and renewed, Florence may not have entered a tent that was only somewhat familiar. She had watched the tent for most of the night as she wrote and she had seen an array of reactions from people who meandered in and out of the area – some were infuriated, while some seemed to be pleased and others seemed almost catatonic in their disbelief. What could create such an array of emotions?

As she stepped over the threshold of the tent, Florence gave a little call of “Hello?” while she peered about the empty space. A few brave steps were taken forward before she managed to locate the tent's proprietor, and with a smile she greeted his announcement of being closed.

“Oh, no... No, I'm not here for that,” she answered as she gently lifted one hand. “I'm only curious, but if I should leave...?” The half-question lingered in the air as she retreated one step, turning slightly toward the door while waiting for some kind of reaction from the man to tell her whether she should stay or go. The sun was rising, the circus was closing; he had every right to turn her away.

[runaway-florence-blog]

Morning Lamentations || Florence and Theodore

[theodore-scathelock]

Theodore hated silence. It was a quiet killer, ironically. It slaughtered gossip, annihilated comfort and massacred laughter. It was the bane of the world that he lived in. There was so much that could be done when someone left a conversation hanging. So he did his best to fill it with whatever he could. Blackmail, secrets, lies even, were all fabricated in the hopes of eliminating the cursed affliction that hung over society like a plague.

But what he hated the most when that ‘peace’ was created by him. True, those times were far and few between but every now and then, even he struggled for words. One of those rare times was when he first joined the circus. He was struck dumb when he was told to do something. Of course, loquacity and volubility followed suit but that single moment where his words abandoned him was seared into his mind.

So, the silence with Florence hung over him like a red banner, constantly reminding him of his short-comings and failures with the subject. Had he really been bested? No, Florence may have been skilled at manipulating words but she was not of the same caliber as him. He had won his way into the circus with his stories alone. It was his words that gave him an advantage, a control over those who were unlucky enough to be caught in a war of words with him. And he was not going to lose to a lowly reveur who was incapable of producing a simple novel.

“They are not as different as you think.” He retorted, perhaps a little more harshly than he intended too. “In order to bed a woman, you must understand her and vice versa. There’s no way around it, no matter how many women would like to pretend there is a gap. If they simple enough to allow a man into their bed, then they are easy enough to decipher.”

He smiled at the comment about being a Miss, knowing that Florence had just given something away. “I apologize. I didn’t realize a woman as old as you would still be single. Isn’t it about time you settled down? Found a man and stopped dancing around the world following a circus that is as controversial as it is popular? The time is ticking Miss Blackwell. One day you won’t be as pretty as you are today and there’ll be no one to come up and offer you company on a morning such as this.”

“And as for waiting for the problem to go away, are you not waiting for met to get bored? My dear, you are truly a contradictory soul.” It wasn’t an insult nor a compliment, merely an observation on Theodore’s behalf. The more he stayed around the budding author, the more intrigued he was. That was her special ability, to hold the attention of those who would rather do far more interesting things that fight a half hearted battle with her.

“Anything rash?” He chuckled to himself, hiding the growing smirk behind his hand. “Have you not heard anything about me? I may just be more of an enigma to you than you are to me. I have never cared whether a woman is the epitome of dignity or nothing but a lowly actress from the slums. I highly doubt that something as simple as being in public is going to stop me. So I suggest you change your thinking and be a little bit more wary about who you chose to converse with.” 

The conversation seemed to have taken on a more humorous light for Theodore. “All this talk about winning,” He dragged his words out, as if he wanted to lengthen the conversation. “is there truly any point to it? Because is anyone of us is to walk away with the victory, then the odds are against you Miss Blackwell. You are the one walking away, after all.” He knew using her name was going to aggravate her, but what was the point of playing this game if someone didn’t get angry at some point in time? The allure of competition existed only because of it’s tendency for violence.

“So come and stay a little longer. Show us this acclaimed tenacity that you have professed. After all, the day is only just beginning and we have the rest of our lives to decide who wins and who loses.”

[runaway-florence-blog]

Florence could easily stomach silence – after all, silence had become something quite coveted in her household during her girlhood – but when that silence was brought about by Theodore Scathelock, she found herself uneasy. He was plotting – he had to be! – and she had no way of knowing what thoughts were brewing in his mind; he wasn't an open book like many of the members of the circus, and she knew for a fact that he was the type to do the unexpected simply for a reaction. Theodore was a wild-card and Florence hated that about him.

His advice on women came as a wonderful relief; though Florence didn't want to hear anything he had to say, the incessant drone of his voice was enough to fill the silence but it also worked significantly against Florence's nerves. Such was the price she had to pay in order to be rid of the silence that caused such unease.

“Oh, please. You don't have to understand anyone to have a purely physical relationship with them.” Florence was nearly certain of that fact. Her husband hadn't understood a word of what she said, and yet he certainly had wasted no time in claiming whatever marital relations he was entitled to. Theodore was no different – or so she assumed – and he had no reason to bother with technicalities like names or occupations when he wanted only one thing. Why would he waste his time with that? Especially when the circus was constantly moving.

When her age was brought into question, Florence simply stared at Theodore as if he had just sprouted another limb. What part of her age or marital status was any of his business? If she hadn't been so determined to keep her marital status private, Florence might have snapped at Theodore with every intention of revealing the fact that she was married. Instead, she only shook her head and clicked her tongue thrice. “So you've already resorted to petty insults? My age? My, my... I'm disappointed.”

But she wasn't. Not really. Florence understood that she was supposed to be offended – and she was, on some level – but the idea of marrying didn't appeal to her. If something to trivial mattered to the budding author then she wouldn't have run away to the circus, she would have stayed at her home with her doting husband and the potential of a house full of children. “Time may be ticking by, but I don't see how that is any of your concern. Unless, of course, you'll be asking for my hand. If that's the case, then you're doing quite a poor job of it.”

A contradictory soul? Yes, Florence supposed she could admit to being that much. Her mother used to say something of the same, though Florence never paid any heed to what her mother had to say... the woman was a nutter on her best days, flighty and emotionally unstable. Then again, living in a house full of rambunctious children might do that to a soul.

With a roll of her shoulders, Florence gave a reply that was just as noncommittal as she could make it. “Contradictory or not, it's still none of your concern.” Though she had handed Theodore a small victory, she evidently wasn't prepared to admit that... not aloud and not yet. Besides, the day was young; she hadn't any reason to walk away and leave Theodore to thinking that he had managed to addle her nerves or – worse yet – win.

She had the mentality of a child, as did he, and that mentality was perhaps the only thing keeping them in close proximity. Neither adult wanted to admit that they could be bested by the other, and so they continued to throw insults and verbal barbs with every intention of outlasting one another. The only problem was that they would eventually run out of material – someone would have to admit defeat – and the pair in question was likely to resort to something more physical than verbal ammunition if that moment came to pass.

“As much as I'm sure you want me to believe that I should fear you, I highly doubt that any of your threats aren't hollow.” Florence gestured to the scene around them, to the workers who were busying themselves after a night of performing and to the crew that fixed any little problems that may have arisen in previous shows. “Even if you were to make any sort of advance, I'm afraid there are plenty of witnesses to attest to the fact that I certainly don't want you. And that brings up another point, now that I'm thinking on it...”

She paused, stepped forward and knit her brows together as her eyes began to light with the spark of the challenge that was about to issue. “You want someone to want you. Even if you pretend not to care, that's still a fact. You would rather break someone down and make them beg simply because that would feed your enormous ego, and you wouldn't dare do anything to me right now because I don't want you.”

She thought she had made her point quite clear with that message, but his remark about winning caught her ears just as she turned to leave. The odds were against her? Florence turned slightly, lifting her brows and offering a smile that could only be described as pleasant – if someone was watching, then they might have thought that she was politely bidding goodbye to Theodore Scathelock.

“I may be the one walking away, but you're the one calling after me like a child. You've proven my point, Mr. Scathelock. Before you further destroy your image, perhaps it would be best to return to your tent?” An encouraging nod was all she gave before she turned again, clutching her journals as she tossed a final remark over her shoulder, “I'm only tenacious when it comes to things that interest me. Good day, Mr. Scathelock.”

[soldierb]

[pa12mv-blog]

[runaway-florence-blog]

Socializing is Tedious || Florence & Sibyl

[sinnett]

Sybil noticed that the girl was staring at her but she kept her look averted. She stared down at her hands which were adorned by laced gloves. She was beginning to get so pale that her hands were almost the same color as the gloves. A while back this thought might have brought a laugh to Sybil’s face but not now - now it worried her. She was clearly not getting enough to eat, she didn’t really see herself having much of a future. She followed the Circus because it was something to do. She enjoyed watching the acrobats perform because they belonged somewhere. The storyteller belonged somewhere. The animals even had a home. But her? Well, she was miserable whether she was in the Circus or not. To be fair - she did rather enjoy herself whenever people were actually performing but any other time it was quite difficult for Sybil to even find a peace of mind. 

The lady next to her asked a question that confused Sybil. The first question was if she’d rather be somewhere else. It took a moment for Sybil to realize that she meant somewhere else like a patio or a different room. At first she had thought that the lady was able to read minds or something of the sort and wanted to know if she would rather not be following the Circus, if she’d rather be back home. The truth of the matter was she always wished to go back home. That was the difficult part of returning to London. She missed her mother’s embrace so much but at the time she couldn’t help but see her parents as her enemies for having denied her. Part of her wanted to blame them for her child’s death but a larger part of Sybil simply blamed herself. “A patio would be quite lovely. I-I think I need some..a-air.” She knew that it was very rude to leave the party at the moment but before waiting to see if the lady would agree with her she stood up. She, however, couldn’t bring herself to leave unless the lady before her led the way. 

[runaway-florence-blog]

Manners didn't matter as much to Florence as the fact that the girl beside her was uncomfortable. Truth be told, Florence herself was also growing tired of the crowds involved with the midnight dinner and she wanted a breath of fresh air, however she wouldn't have acted upon her desire if it hadn't been for the appearance of the little Sinnet.

The girl looked miserable – pale and small among the crowd of reveurs and performers who paid more mind to their conversations rather than the goings on around them – and Florence felt more than a small wave of pity at the sheer sight of the blonde. It didn't occur to her that Sibyl was waiting for an opportunity to leave but, after she had given the offer of finding a patio, the writer realized that she was doing as much of a favor to Sibyl as she was herself. Poor girl – how long had she endured the crowd around her?

“Air is invaluable,” Florence agreed, “especially when the air reeks of so many different perfumes.” A side-ways smile was granted to Sibyl before Florence took a few steps forward. She would lead – she preferred it that way – and she even gave a glance to the smaller blonde to make sure that she was going to follow. After only a few moments, Florence slowly began to weave her way through the crowd at a pace that she thought Sibyl would be able to follow.

Finding a patio hadn't taken as much time as Florence thought it would; soon enough, she found herself greeted by a curtain of stars and the cool night air. Since it was considered terribly rude to leave a party of women, the patio held nary another person, which was quite optimum for the pair who had sought refuge away from the crowds.

“Well then,” Florence breathed, “I suppose introductions are in order?” She tried her best to smile, turning her gaze so she could get a better look at Sibyl while she offered her hand politely. “I'm Florence Blackwell. You are...?”

[money-honeygirl-deactivated2014]