(( This is my first Officer post, it's meant to be a big group RP, so the more the merrier. I promise a goodly dose of humor, and very little drama. ))

A cardboard moon was hung against a cardboard 'stage', a set that looked ragged and worn, the painting inexpert -- and that was a generous way to put it. Mid-afternoon and the sun was still out, but the stage was night: the moon, silvered, was a crescent against a black background, hung from one hook that jutted crookedly, a bent nail, old and rusted. The backdrop was rolling hills, stars glimmering white, flecked wildly against the slightly-too-purple shade of the sky, the countryside a little too yellowed.

It looked worn. Worn and old and still, somehow, a bit charming. Its creators were inept, perhaps, but that didn't mean that it hadn't been made with love. Somehow, despite its flaws, despite the fact that the grass looked chubby and fake, the moon flat and incongruous with the time of day, it did its work. The setting was a cool, clear summer's day, and an awning protected it from the light drizzle of a late Loshis afternoon, kept the paint from melting too much, breaking the illusion.

On the ground in front of it, settled on a sprawling, rough green blanket that looked about fifteen years old and worse for the wear, was an extremely large box. A good six feet long and four wide, it was wood, metal at the corners to keep it sturdy, a large and unlocked clasp on the front, and every inch of it was covered in loving, brightly-colored drawings. There were birds, the sun, a skinny galdori girl in a flowing dress, her hair loose and catching in the wind, a dark figure with a cloak drawn before his eyes, all of the images small enough that one needed to get close to really read them, to draw up near to the odd box and the ragged little set without getting too close for the magic of props to be destroyed.

The players were nowhere to be seen, not yet. There had been fliers all over the stacks for the past eight days or so, giving notice that the show was opening tonight, and might run for two days or maybe five or maybe a week and it probably depended on how much people left in the collection hat at the end of the night. These posters promised 'wunders' and 'ecsitemnt' and of course, the eternal draw for the students who were likely its intended audience, 'lov'. The spelling was atrocious. The hand, however, was elegant and beautiful, scrawling with swoops under the shapes of letters and flourishes to cross the 't's.

Some people had, at least, gotten the memo. Locals around the stacks, a startling number of wicks especially, had come out of the woodwork to witness whatever it was that 'Bernard's Band' were planning to perform as soon as the hour turned over. A handful of vendors circled the edges of the crowd, prowling, trying to decide if this was going to be successful enough to warrant setting up shop and making a little extra coin from the gathered crowd. All it would take was a few students to cinch the deal.

Ruhi was not interested in shows. They were silly and childish, things for the very young and the soft in the head. Ruhi was neither-- she was strong and entirely too grown-up and collected for theatre.

So it was a total coincidence that she was in the Stacks that day, intermingled with the crowd that had gathered around the crude little stage and its paper moon. The flier was most certainly not carefully tucked into her pocket, just to make sure she got the time right. If, in fact, anyone happened to suggest that it was, they were more than likely to get some unkind words and a black eye for their efforts.

Big blue eyes darted around, making sure there was no one she knew in the crowd. What if someone saw her here? Chimes but she did stand out with all these pale foreigners. Not, she amended in her thoughts, that there was anything to see. Because she wasn't here.

Of course, Shi was part of the crowd. She loved stories too much to miss that. Gardeners would have to do with a simpler meal tonight, though she had baked pies this morning to make it look better. She wasn't sure if she enjoyed the proximity of the other wicks, and the naïve nature of the paintings on the set. That youthful enthusiasm, that tekkish atmosphere, hit too close to home. Too close to the dream of a life she had thought was her. But she was not going to let that bittersweet feeling prevent her from learning a new story.

Now, a galdori field just beside her, that might be something to be afraid of. The green-eyed witch looked aside, saw a Mugrobi-looking student, and relaxed a little. Mugrobi were not supposed to be as hard as Anaxi towards the lower races. She even allowed herself a small smile to the young lady. Her previous interaction with a student hadn't turned so bad, after all.

Ruhi was galdori, and a student; the vendors flocked in her direction, a man shouting loudly nearby [not at her, not exactly but within earshot] that he had hot sausages onnastick, and someone else set up camp with umbrellas that promised to keep the worst of the rain off. There was a small crowd now, and one of the younger students with more money than sense lit up at this latter, wriggling her way over to pay far too much for an umbrella in some hideous, garish green. She looked like a third year, at most, and probably shouldn't have been out in the Stacks alone, there were high points of color on her cheeks and the curly red of her hair was frizzy and wild from the rain.

He was going to sit in the front, with the rest of the children. Of the players, there was still no sign. They might have been waiting for more viewers -- or maybe they were just of the 'terminally late' kind.

Nauleth normally wasn't one for street side shows. He wasn't one to stop and waste idle time, either, but the crowd that seemed to be hovering in his way along his familiar path back to campus quickly became one of those things he couldn't quite avoid getting caught up in, if only to desperately attempt to wade through it. Thankful he was without an umbrella, the dark-eyed boy began to skirt the less tightly packed outer edge of the gathering, glancing over the shoulders of others to peer at the make-shift stage with it's sorry excuse for a moon and mysteriously large box.

He felt lighter today, momentarily less burdened if only for the simple reason that he had just left the barber's with the shortest haircut he'd had in years. Not usually one for spur-of-the-moment decisions, Naul had impressed himself with what he would later call a dashing decision to crop his dark hair out of his face and above his ears—way above, leaving him without bangs to hide behind and with his aquiline features more sharply defined. Like most of his recent risk-taking, it was definitely worthwhile.

Now, if only he could clocking get back to his dorm.

The crowd was making this seemingly difficult, as was his rising curiosity. He noted the handful of other students, though he wasn't in his uniform to blend in with them. Pausing to squint at the terrible spelling, he lingered a moment to try to make out what exactly was holding up the street traffic.

Athrym nodded to the galdori behind the counter of the jewelers shop with a small smile as she took the small paper bag from him. It had a slight, comfortable weight to it, and if she dared to peek inside, she would see a clear concord sized piece of quartz. It was still uncut and unset, but Carmell had insisted on buying it now and had sent the funds for it.

Leaving the shop to the pleasent ring of the bell above the door, the platinum blonde looked around as she opened her small parasol and smoothed the mauve day gown her mother had also sent with her funds. It was not a favorite color of hers, but Carmell had insisted Athrym started avoiding the wretched blue she was so fond off. Looked far too much like the passive uniform, she had written. Grudgingly, the girl had worn the dress with its long sleeves and high throat. It didn't feel right, it felt stuffy. As soon as she got back to school she would change. The gold embroidery on the sleeves was nice enough, but still...stuffy.

Moving away from the store, she began to take the path that led back to the school grounds, slowing as she saw a buildup of people ahead. There was something happening...involving a lot of cardboard it seemed. Proceeding toward the group, she pardoned and excused between onlookers, scowling from under her fringe as she attempted to get past before something happened. The blonde didn't want to be caught in what looked like a street theatre. It was full of humans. Her blue eyes fell on them as they passed her, children, giggling. Vaguely her field bristled and she veered towards the edge of the crowd, pushing past with mumbled requests for movement.

"Excuse me...Move please...Clocking get out of the way!" Her voice was becoming higher and a little edgey. A young man with short reddish brown hair blocked her path, and with a huff, she cleared her throat.

"Could you move please?!" She asked in a strained, quiet voice, too nervous and on edge to notice the field in front of her was as familiar as her own.

Nauleth had been distracted in his attempt to make out the poorly written signage—a sloppy reminder as to why reading permits shouldn't just be handed out without discretion among the lower races, after all—but he was not so caught up in the scrawling lines that he didn't recognize Athrym's presence by her field before her voice.

"I will not." He replied coyly, keeping his voice down a little in the crowd despite his surprise at her not knowing who was in front of her. Hesitating a moment to look away from the make-shift stage, he added, "I think I quite like my view, thank you."

The dark-eyed boy grinned lopsidedly, shifting to face the blond with a chiding tone and a glance at her package, "Besides, you didn't tell me you had any errands to run in the Stacks today. I wouldn't have let you come alone had I known."

Naul didn't bother to point out his own just-finished errand, figuring it was obvious enough.

Abe weaved through the crowd, humming to herself. The tune was one she'd heard once as a child; it was pleasant and wistful, and she really ought to find the sheet music for it. Not knowing the composer would prove a difficulty, of course, but there couldn't be that many menuets for oboe and harp.

As she ducked past an umbrella merchant, she smiled faintly. So many wick fields! It was like being in Vienda again. Correction: Vienda before the riots. The Vienda of her childhood. The proper Vienda.

The Aeterna back home could put on a production. Nothing like this sad little offering. The moon would be mother-of-pearl, and the figures on the painted box would be far more accurate, anatomically speaking. However, production values didn't necessarily indicate the quality of the play itself. Perhaps they had a fantastic writer... although the profusion of spelling errors made that a rather small hope.

A few more steps, and she was in the presence of two startlingly strong fields. Not wicks, not average students.. even some adult galdori were not so puissant. That shock of white hair was vaguely familiar, too, and she was recalled to a day early in her internship at the infirmary. The Siordanti Backlash-- an interesting case file. Her name was somewhere on the paper the senior healers had published about that fascinating injury.

More recently, the Siordanti boy and presumably this other powerful student were responsible for an incident with Magma.. which she had the pleasure of healing the victims of.

"Well, if it isn't the Dangerous Duo," she muttered under her breath, not realizing she'd said it aloud.

Narrowing her eyes momentarily, the blonde glanced up at the short hair in front of her, finally paying attention to the field. Her glare turned into a tilt of the head and a slightly confused expression as the youth turned around.



Athrym stood for a moment, face turning from confusion to a slightly open mouthed look of suprise as she studied Nauleth's face and hair. His fringe was gone and his hair was all short and neat and...clocks...he even had sideburns. It made him look very distinguished, very grown up. Why hadn't he told her he was going to get a haircut. Closing her mouth, the blonde moved the package behind her a little and put on a haughty face. He did look altogether handsome with his new haircut, but she wasn't sure she wanted him to know that just yet. Mister Siordanti was still in her Between books. She wasn't angry at him anymore, just incredibly curious and dissapointed he was hiding something...but she wasn't entirely happy with him either. Something about him had changed...something had matured, and she was afraid she was missing too much.

"My errand didn't really concern you dear...besides, I'm a galdori, I can take care of myself." She said off handedly, before moving closer to him as a filthy, unshaven human male pushed past her. Blushing slightly, she looked up at Naul.

"Your hair, its short. Since whe-"



Raising an eyebrow, the platinum blonde turned slowly, pale blue eyes narrowing on the woman behind them. A teacher possibly? She was rather familiar. Was she talking about herself and Nauleth?

"I beg your pardon?" The student asked coldly, quietly thrilled by the name, but keeping up appearances all the same.

Something was happening, on the small makeshift stage; nothing terribly interesting, however, unless one was into gigantic human women with long, mud-colored braids. She was dressed in an ill-fitting dress that made her giant bosom look bigger -- but also her giant hips, her budge of stomach, the round shape of her face. She was not an appealing woman, and the bright colors of her clothing were long-since faded into muted earth tones, darker along the hem, which was a bit too short and showed off a pair of ridiculous, pointed-toe shoes.

She was adjusting the setting, the moon, shot the crowd a look. Gave the box three solid kicks and then tipped her head down toward it, frowning deeply, like she was listening for some sort of reply. One might have thought she was a clown, except that she gave off an intense impression of lacking any sense of comedy, oozed bad humor, scowled at the crowd instead of smiling, and shrunk down to hide from their attention...

No word given to the crowd. She just added a couple chairs to the stage, a second and smaller box, and stomped back around behind.

Nauleth smirked at Athrym's surprise, reaching for her arm holding the umbrella as she stepped closer to avoid the less polite members of the crowd. He might have made an effort to get the blonde to relinquish the thing so he could carry it and he might have even answered the question she began with just how spur-of-the-moment his hair cut had actually been ... until he, too, was paused by a quiet comment that may or may not have been complimenting their magical prowess. Hopefully, anyway.

Fingers still curling slowly around the handle in such a way as to brush Athrym's, he blinked at Abeline, expression fading, "Healer Ixbridge," the dark-eyed boy's voice wavered slightly—gods, he despised the Infirmary—but only for a moment, "I suppose it's slightly unavoidable to keep our exploits from one such as yourself."

Naul wanted to enjoy that, but his own memories kept him from sounding as smug as he would've liked, "Though, your title is a new one to my ears."

His eyes strayed briefly from the Healer and his fiance, briefly glancing at the large human and her seemingly unproductive movements about the stage, before looking back at the two galdori without further comment, expectant.

Step carefully, Abe. One wrong move and they'll burn you to a crisp. And they'll accidentally hit a wick, and there'll be another--

"Hmm? Ah, yes. I am officially Healer now. And I daresay I should be in your debt, Mister Siordanti. Your exploits go a long way toward keeping me employed." She smiled mischievously, dipped her head meekly, and tipped her glasses up apologetically, all in one move.

Nervous jests aside, she considered herself legitimately wary of the pair. In most respects, they stood directly opposed to her. Where she fixed things, they broke them. On purpose.

After staring at (but not registering) the walrus of a woman onstage, she turned her flighty attention-- Such difficulty concentrating lately!-- to the other student.

"And this would be Miss Bruthgrave, I presume? We live in the same building, but I don't think we've formally met..." She nodded politely. Despite Athrym's violent tendencies, she was Horation's aunt, and Abeline wouldn't want to offend the infant by snubbing his kin.

Thoughts of the baby lead her mind to-- she really couldn't get rid of that image of quills and books scattered under a certain auburn head.

Ruhi gave a tight, stiff bow to the wick woman who smiled up at her (she wasn't used to being appro before getting distracted by the vendors hawking all sorts of things in her general direction. Such an amount of things! All of them heading in her general direction, no less! She would never admit it, but the whole atmosphere was starting to excite her just a bit. Just a little bit. Her pocket money felt heavy in her uniform. It wanted to be spent, she just knew it did. Possibly on sausages onna stick.

"I'll take one!" She said, a little too eagerly.

(( SFSR AAAAH orz ))

A vendor was only too-pleased to take Ruhi's money -- more than the sausage was really worth, to be honest, despite his machinations that she was bleeding him dry. Hers, and a handful of coins from other students, three smaller girls who then set to following Ruhi had a respectable distance, fascinated.

It wasn't long, however, before the human woman stomped back out onto stage, adjusted the moon one last time, and then whistled sharply between her fingers. This wouldn't silence the crowd, of course. A group this large was nearly impossible to quiet. It would, however, put the gears in motion, set the people in front to sitting, kill several conversations around the edges of the audience, the quiet working its way outward from the stage.

She didn't address the audience. She was, thankfully, not the act. Instead, she just thudded once on the top of the box and then stomped back off, the pointed toes of her ridiculous shoes wobbling madly as she walked.

For about twenty seconds, it seemed like nothing was going to happen; it was long enough that several conversations near the back picked up again, soft voices mingling into a steady buzz, still soft -- just in case. Then there was a twitch, the top of the box lifting, a pair of eyes peering out. The lid opened and more of the man appeared: the stringy hair combed across the top of his head, attempting to hide the bare scalp that appeared here and there; the lined face that had only been halfway covered up with stage makeup and touched with rouge around the edges, a horrifying attempt to make a wick of fifty look half that; the mangy, worn and dirty cravat tied in a loose bow around his throat, and the tattered shoulders of his coat.

He emerged slowly, carefully, and in the light, passing drizzle of the late afternoon, the illusion he was trying to put forth was not quite successful. He looked old, except for the bright, lively blue of his eyes, bright and cheerful and wrinkled with humor around the edges. A clown who held held himself like an actor, shoulders back and spine straight and hands moving in a fluid, attention-grabbing sort of way. Or perhaps an actor, just dressed up like a clown.

The lid of the box closed delicately behind him, and he paused to take in the crowd, not smiling but serious, hands clasped into the small of his back. As he stood, the hush spread until there was only a soft mumble of conversation around the edges of the group, near the vendors, offering there wares. Acceptable.

"I am Mateneo, a sailor," he began, with no preface or explanation, no title of the story, though several people stirred with expectation, perhaps knowing where this was going. His voice was surprising, clear and low and strong, strangely rich for the battered package it came wrapped up in, but his inflection was exaggerated. Over-acting. And horribly so. "On shore leave with my first mate Tib."

A tap on the top of the box and the lid opened again, a small human with long mud-brown hair tugged into a braid down his spine peeking out and then emerging. He was dressed in a rougher costume than the sailor; rough, hand-made shoes and his own jacket almost rags, it might have been a parody of the human condition. Or perhaps their costuming budget was just low. Who knew.

He didn't say a word, just tumbled out of the box, hamming it up, fumbling to his feet and blowing out a mute breath. He waved at the audience once, in a comically enthusiastic manner, while his partner attempted to set the scene: two sailors who had had a good time of it, enough that their pouches jingled with coins, who had spied a pretty lady from their ship and come ashore to find her -- and, of course, to kidnap her. They were sailors, after all.

There was too much talk, and not enough action, for the first half an hour or so. The human woman stomped back on stage to brusquely play matron of the house where the pretty girl lived, at one point, and her low voice and short lines made some of the audience members near the front snicker, brought the conversation up from a mumble to a louder buzz, the audience starting to get lost, perhaps.

Until the girl appeared, in the 'window' -- the lid of the box opening again for her to perch on the edge and brush her hair. Here, at least, the advertisement hadn't been false: she really was as beautiful as she had been set up to be, tall and willowy with dark hair that fell in loose curls almost to her waist, huge [and yes, perhaps a bit vacant] yellow eyes. A wick, like the leading man, but there had to be quite a bit of good blood in her ancestry.

She sang about a boy she'd loved, when she was a child, but how he'd disappeared, and her voice was beautiful. Compared with the heavy-handed play, the poorly-written dialogue that was mostly monologue, the shabby old man playing at being a strong young buck, this was likely the high point of the show.

If nothing else, she had the attention of most of the men, and some of the women...

Athrym transfered ownship of the umbrella to her fiance's grip, automatically and without a feeling of being taken from. It was an unconcious move as she looked the healer over. So, she knew Nauleth, or rather, Nauleth knew her. Briefly the blonde wondered if it had been from his brailing. Then again, he had been in there since then, so it was doubtful. The movement on the stage distracted her for a moment, her top lip turning slightly at the sight of the lump of a human woman on the stage.



Turning back at the sound of the healers voice, she smiled slightly, giving Naul a sidelong glance. He definitly spent more time in there than one should really, given his prowess.



Athrym bowed a little, more of a head nod.

"That would be myself, and no, we haven't met. I'm not often in the infirmary and until recently I've not been much of a-"

Circle peg.

"-people person." A whistle from the stage snapped her head around, and she watched curiously as things began to happen. It was the shaggy men getting out of the box that began to turn her curiousity back into disgust, then bordem. Turning back to Nauleth, she tugged his arm.

"Clocks, can we please find a way out of this? I don't think I can endure another moment of this-" It was then a clear, crystal voice filled the air. Beautiful and haunting, enough so to fill any young woman with envy. Turning her blue eyes to the stage, she narrowed them as she glared at the dark haired songstress, eyes sweeping over the male population of the crowd before turning back to Nauleth, and glancing at Abeline.

"Witch in Galdori clothing, getting all those fools in a rut. Honestly, don't they have any upbringing. Filthy halfbreed that she is." Her voice ran through with disgust.

Like the males, Abeline's attention was undeniably on the beautifully-singing witch. Unconsciously, her lips pursed, and her fingers twitched over her coat buttons. Her expression was far from envy, too.. yet neither did it match the reaching, grasping, groping look that ill-became many of the men. She was concentrating on the music itself, playing along with a fictitious woodwind.

Really ought to dig the old squeaking adder out again...

A grating noise interrupted her appreciation of the arts; it sounded like a disgruntled wasp invading the inner recesses of a well-crafted flute. She glanced at the beleaguered instrument--Miss Bruthgrave--squinting slightly.

"Of course. Wait, what? Filthy? N--" The healer blinked, hastily looking from Athrym to the girl on stage, then back again. "I-I mean, she couldn't keep curls like that without bathing."

Great. I can see my epitaph now: Abeline Ixbridge, Fearless Defender of the Washed Masses.

Nauleth was still watching everything unfold on stage, having turned his face away to hide a lopsided expression of chagrin at Healer Ixbridge's declaration that his own brailing had assisted her in securing her current position. He had nothing to say to that, and the very comment made the left side of his face tingle in memory.

Still, the tug on his arm tore his dark-eyed gaze away from the witch with the lovely voice with a smirk, half-amused and half-disquieted. The edge of disgust in Athrym's voice brought a few snide remarks of his own to the tip of his tongue, but he somehow managed to hold them there, taut and ready, at Abeline's wash-related defense.

Surely, the Healer was only attempting to be humorous. Not serious.

Nauleth's smirk widened into something more predatory, accented not only by his sharp features, but also his tone, "Well, bathed or not, there's no washing the taint of human blood out of a wick's veins. They're still perversions when compared to our graceful place, magically and socially speaking, of course."

He wasn't about to admit that their half-blood didn't stop them from performing well. Memories of the circus weren't too distant in his memory.

Tilting his head at Athrym, he added with a bit of hesitance—as if he was slightly curious about what the goings-on were to entail even if only for some haughty, malicious reason, "We can leave if you'd like."

Athrym raised an eyebrow at the healer, unsure exactly how to respond to that. Was the woman a sympathizer?



The blonde agreed with a silent nod, pursing her lips as she watched the show continue. Granted, the halfbreed had a nice voice, but there was still a wick sitting up there...no matter how pretty it was. Looking at Naul, she chewed her lip for a moment, before sighing a little.

"No its alright, we can stay a while longer, I suppose." She said softly.

The sheer unadulterated arrogance of the boy's words managed to illicit only a quirked eyebrow and a thoughtful purse to the healer's lips. He represented the majority opinion among her kind, of course, and, rather than shock her, he merely reminded her of the value of prudence. Clearly, she'd been spending too much time around like-minded individuals. That slip shouldn't have happened.

"Indeed. I don't recommend you try, either." Her sharp, obsidian eyes were on him for a facet of an instant. Then, her gaze flicked past the crowd, and she smirked at the stage. "Exsanguination is such a messy business."

With a faint nod to Athrym, she said, "Though I have never in my life seen a worse play, I intend to stick it out 'till the bitter end." Her smirk widened as she explained, "A self-imposed challenge to my perseverance."