RP:An Eventful Day at the Circus

Vailkrin Plaza

It seems the shadow of a dark history is harder to shake off than one might think. A little north of where the old slave market once stood, in a bustling locale frequented by the rich and the lowly both, another parade of shackled and imprisoned beings, cloaked by fire and dancing and bright lights, has been set up. Sitting to one side of the plaza are a series of caravans, cages, and pens, all of them huddled around a tent of colourful material, its doors open and fluttering in a nonexistent wind. The banners read, 'Jericho's Magnificent Menagerie & Travelling Circus,' although it appears the latter part of the business must be situated elsewhere - the plaza is large, certainly, but not quite roomy enough to play host to an entire big top tent and its surrounding amenities. As it stands, the setup is still attracting plenty of attention from Vailkrin's citizens...and there is plenty to see for any curious enough to happen upon the show. Fire-breathers wander around cafe tables, belching flames and sparks like angry dragons, while dancers spin to the upbeat music of drums, flutes, and tambourines, and other circus workers spin plates, hoops, anything you can imagine. Then there are the animals. Great and vicious beasts are within arm's reach but there is no danger here, for they are all chained and locked safely behind their bars. It's a rather more vibrant affair than the original slave market, as if the gaudy show can hide the underlying theme of despair in the movements of those on display. A huge black panther paces restlessly back and forth in a too-small cage; a small and malnourished olyphont, probably a juvenile, is eating peanuts from the hands of excited children while its caretaker checks the tight collar round its neck; an ice troll from Frostmaw shuffles and growls from within its pen, its chains so short it cannot even reach the fence. In pride of place is a giant spider that spits and skitters nearby the tent, trapped in a narrow space between two barred fences and harnessed, its envenomed fangs glistening like black sickles. All are for sale, according to the signs, and it can be assumed that the ringmaster has paid off the guard already, for none of the city watch are giving the circus any trouble.

Bastion came to this place, where Bastion would not tread. Two sides to the same coin, there were two minds in one body, though only one remained aware of it. He wore boiled leathers under a mithril chain coat, and black moleskin gloves on his hands to match the rest of a black ensemble of leather pants and boots. Black and black and black, and spotless besides. Bastion spent much time caring for this gear whilst Bastion slumbered. So blinded was his softer counterpart that he carried these bags, and never knew their contents. He had the Father to thank for that, wise man that he was. Bearing the blue eyes of a ferocity Bastion never showed in pink, he set about with lance in hand and small shield and short sword on hip. He'd come to Vailkrin with a small merchant caravan, one that plied its trade on the coattails of a more successful venture. Small mercenary work was as much as Bastion could get away with in coin and adventure whilst his counterpart slept. A jet black mop of hair in need of a cropping partially obscured his vibrant blue gaze, lips set in a stern countenance, held tense and ready. He took his duty seriously, even if the fat merchant waved his bejeweled fingers at any mention of danger. "We are in Vailkrin, lad. The dead rule here, and few are those wont to earn their wrath." Bastion did as he was bade, though. The coin was real enough, though the advances of a fat, lecherous merchant were less than welcome. Young as he was, having only seen his sixteenth nameday, he still looked more a girl than a man, soft and nubile and gentle of features. He'd been hired because the merchant liked boys, not because he thought him competent with a spear. Bastion had the mind to show him just how competent he was with it, if the advances became more insistent. It would be much better coin... but a man need have standards, especially when sharing a body. Bastion stood like a statue in front of the fat man, whose red and black beard were in a braid upon his chin, staring at his young guard more often than the men that pawned his wares, of spices and jewels and enchantments and slaves. Some were better known than others, but the guards kept their gazes well averted when the circus came to town.

Word of the circus always spread fast through the streets, helped along by some of its own troubadours and a bit of coin, of course. It is a rarity in these parts, brimming with extravagance and awe and vicious beasts, and it's also an opening for those with less lawful inclinations. A pickpocket's dream, to be sure, as citizens gather in crowds to view the circus' main events and creatures, the dancing, the fireworks, before moving on to the merchants that set up their stalls around the plaza in lieu of the big tent being erected. Not all are affiliated with the circus, no - but the ringmaster welcomes those who wish to ply their trade along with him...for a price. Some security to keep the guard happy, and all that. Serrure, like so many others, has come to browse and admire the selection of monstrosities on display. Such bright colours in a city as dark as this shine like beacons, easy to spot from afar; he'd deviated from his original course back near the fountain, lured toward the lights like a moth to a flame. The crowds he could do without, but he'll put up with the people if it means a glimpse of something more to his tastes. He drifts idly through the flow of men and women and children, a grey ghost who seeks no attention and attracts little, waxing and waning amidst shadows and streetlights and the frequent bursts of coloured sparks overhead. Grey eyes like a settling storm, but not quite as intimidating, they're passing over tables and stalls as Serrure winds his way closer to the tent and those terrific beasts. Rimmed with dark lashes and darker circles, he looks tired, as if the vibrancy of the circus cannot quite reach and rejuvenate him the way it does the others - children are running, skipping, jumping, their parents engaged in animated conversation, admiring the sights, but Serrure is simply...there. At length, he reaches his destination, boot steps coming to a gradual halt before the spider's pen. It has been tortured, it is angry, and it hisses in frustration, but it knows it cannot escape while its caretaker is around with his staff and his sparks and electric shocks. Serrure tilts his head, observing his reflection in its eight, inky black eyes. "Hello, pet," he says, but it's lost to the swell of voices close to his left. There is a man on top of a wire straddling two of the street lamps, showing off above the crowd, and they're eating it up while the pickpockets flit among them, cutting purses and thieving from coats. It's all business, yes.

Bastion had a few things that he shared in common with Bastion. One was a sense of deep intuition, almost as though connected to the things that happened around him through indescribable means. Bastion had once explained it to the monk grandmaster. "It's as though I am watching everything from everywhere all at once. I cannot see that potted flower behind me. I only saw it at a glance. I cannot see the candles in the hall, nor the fruits in the orchard. But I can count them, name their colors, tell you which candles need replacing and which fruits are rotten, and that dogs piss is killing the flower." Supernatural, Bastion called it, though the monk told him he might merely have a sharp wit, sharper eyes. But it wasn't the five senses alone that brought him knowledge, Bastion knew it. Certainly the oddity of his touch wasn't explained as anything less than magic or divinity, and this was no different. His eyes watched pickpockets at work, counting them as easily as one might count sheep alone in a pasture. This one was good with his hands, that one was anxious. That girl rubbed the crotch of every man she robbed. She might have been the best of them. He saw Serrure speaking to the spider, and couldn't say why the man held his gaze. Perhaps it was his silver hair, or his eyes. No. It was because he didn't stand out at all. One of the merchant's men was calling out his wares, and Serrure would soon find himself heckled by the man. "Hot turkey legs, cooked in deep oil! Nothing more delicious! Get your hot turkey legs! You, young man! Have a hot turkey leg, only a silver!" Bastion rolled his eyes. The ridiculous prices of these things. He continued to watch the man though, even as the fat merchant lordling behind him laid a hand on his shoulder, and started whispering something in his ear that made his visage take a turn for the grim.

Serrure seems almost unaware of the circus itself, detached from the majority of the displays. How much of it is he seeing, you might wonder? It might all be a whirl of colour, noise, and spitting spiders, much of the extraneous detail lost to him, simply because it is not what he is currently fixated on. Those sparks barely reflect in the depths of his grey, grey eyes, which look almost vacant - they can stare through walls, through flesh and bone to find hearts and souls and secrets. A glance can send a shiver down the spine. All this might make him a good target for those cutpurses threading through the crowds, but they're quick to back off - the first who tries to make a steal jumps back as though scalded, his hand blackened by more than his thieving ways, as if burned or corroded by something. The second fails similarly, and then they decide to stick to easier quarry. Who needs to waste their time on the guy chatting to the spider, anyway? There's a woman wearing a necklace just begging to be lost. "Don't get too close, she bites," the creature's caretaker tells the man before jabbing the spider in the side with his staff, causing it to shriek and threaten him with its fangs. Serrure might have replied but it's just then that he finds himself accosted by that man. Turkey. He turns his gaze to that stall then steps over; maybe meat is the wakeup call. But, no-- he'll pay that price, ridiculous as it is, and come away with food in hand, the meat dripping in fat and oil, still sizzling. His feet lead him back to the spider, who he sneaks that turkey leg to while its guard is distracted with a potential buyer. And even the merchants themselves are not save, not those who pay for the protection of the circus' influence, and certainly not those who don't. The ringmaster's pickpockets look identical to the others, so there's nothing to distinguish them from Vailkrin's thieves or tie them to the circus - they pose as interested customers while they scout out the stalls in turn, taking stock of supplies, the wares themselves, strongboxes and chests, anything that might be of interest or has the possibility of making good money. Something no one will miss, maybe, or at least not until later. There is one at Bastion's stall, a boy younger than he, dressed in silks and with eyelashes that could turn women green with envy. He wears a demure smile that makes use of every bit of his pretty little face, but there is a glint there of something foxlike and sly. Maybe he's a good judge of character or maybe he has already scouted his mark - he's leaning against the table perusing the jewels on offer, asking Bastion's employer what one brings out his green eyes the most, picking up the crystals in turn and bringing them up to his face. His free hand, in the meantime, is after a darker gem lying unguarded on the table.

Bastion might have stopped that little nightingale of a pickpocket. It was his job, after all. But the fat merchant had grown too bold with some drug in him, and in an instant, Bastion was making a decision he'd like as not come to regret greatly. As he moved to intercept the thief that was as plain as day to him, the fat merchant grabbed him somewhere he less than appreciated, and he turned and backhanded the fat man hard enough to break a tooth. Then the merchant was roaring, and angry, and people were stopping to look. The other men at arms were moving for him, and Bastion gritted his teeth in a barely contained fury. The spear he held, he'd have to do without, it seemed. He looked to the spider cage, and aimed his spear, and threw, and a clash of metals brought the cage door open wide. Bastion would pay the consequences for his actions, he could not be caught and imprisoned here. Then, he was ducking beneath the crowd as the creature was loosed, the merchant roaring for his blood, steel clashing on steel as he fought and ran his way free, quick as a snake, and nimble as a weasel. His short sword flashed, and stained its self with blood as a man moved in and out of his pathway, and he barreled right past Serrure in his frenzied escape.

A furious roar breaks through the laughter: "Stop him!" and all of a sudden, Serrure's disjointed world is shattered with the clarity of the Now. Reality smashes into him, a whirling blur of lights and sound, waking him, or calling him back from whatever distracted state of mind he had been in. He realises too slowly that the joyous crowd he had been swimming in has turned abruptly to panic and confusion - the background noises have changed and shifted the track, and now the investigator's focus is broadening with each breath and blink and wild glance around him. The plaza, right. The circus is in town with its regular bounty of freaks and horrors. Was there turkey? Turkey. His gloves are oily with the cooking fat. All these sharp-fire thoughts of his are cut off by a sense of impending danger. The flash of a spear striking the metal cage might have been a spear imbedding itself in his back had he not leapt aside in a moment of seemingly catlike grace. It's unfortunate he breaks that illusion by falling over, forced to scramble back as the spider breaks free and makes a run for it. In seconds, the lighthearted atmosphere has turned dark with distress - the animals are clamouring, the tightrope walker has fallen, people are shouting, running, screaming. Serrure finds the epicentre of this chaos rushing by him, the boy chased by a throng of armed guards moving to the orders of the furious fat merchant. Serrure's mouth opens in a silent, "Oh," and then he whips around to race after them all as fast as he can. He breaks out of the crowd in a burst of grey and silver and black, outstripping the guards and then Bastion himself with barely a glance to any of them, tearing down the road after that escaping spider. Of course that's what he's after. If he can catch that thing and get it back to his house, he won't have to pay the extortionate price the circus was asking for.

Bastion knew he would not escape on foot. He needed a horse. He'd created all the chaos a throng of thieves could only dream of, but he'd have no chance to partake himself. Even as Serrure raced after his own bounty, Bastion grunted, and turned to the task at hand. His leathers and mithril were light, but his legs were a deal shorter than those of the grown men after him. He spotted a likely garron and made his way through, running and leaping and battering men from his path with his small shield. He felt more than a little guilt when a woman caught the edge of that shield in the chin, but there would be more innocent victims than her tonight for his folly. He was always impulsive, brash, impatient. It had only been a matter of time before he did something so foolish. He mounted the garron and wheeled about, displaying great prowess on a mount, and kicked his heels, sending it forward to and past the crowd. Once again, he found himself fleeing in the direction Serrure had taken.

Serrure is not a born runner, not in the slightest. He's got himself going at quite a sprint despite that (the fact they're heading downhill might be helping) only now he is not sure how he'll be able to stop himself without faceplanting on the cobblestones. But, inch by desperate inch, he is catching up to the spider. It skitters around unsteadily on eight skinny black legs, lost and disorientated in the city, hissing angrily at startled folk in the street - once it picks up the scent of home, however, its movements become more confident and it begins to speed up. Serrure's stamina is already worn too thin. He's grasping at threads by this point, pushing his body to its limit, one arm outstretched and seeking to grab a rope on the great arachnid's harness, which flies out behind it like a banner trailing in the wind. Just...just a little more.. and then! Then he has it! The problem is that it still has yet to notice him and he does not possess the strength to stop it, so Serrure is dragged along for the ride, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. They swing round a bend and he manages to use the momentum to fling himself onto its back, one of those gloves vanishing over his shoulder, torn away by the wind as he rips it off and slams his bare palm against the arachnid's carapace. For whatever reason, this causes it to slow to a stop, faltering and going quiet, and then Serrure is...crying. Distracted by this seemingly unwarranted burst of emotion, he's forgotten about Bastion, about the guards chasing him, who are now accompanied by circus men seeking to retrieve their escaped beast and deal with its would-be thief.

Bastion felt his jaw drop at the sight of the man riding the spider, then stopping for a cry. He looked over his shoulder and swore as guards were gaining on both of their intended prey. He pulled up alongside Serrure and kicked him in the ribs. "Move, or you're going to have something to cry about!" Bastion knew precisely why he was crying... Bastion possessed the aptly named Godhand, after all, though that wasn't Bastion's gift. His right hand imparted something else entirely. He'd be yanking the mole skin glove off his right hand, and leaning down to place his flesh to Serrure's forehead... imparting the Devil hand's gifts. Morale, for men who've lost their courage, fearlessness and rage and insanity if Bastion wished it. It spurred men to action, to aggression, but for Serrure hopefully it would be just a taste; enough that he could continue fleeing, and hopefully lead the two of them safety. Damn Bastion if he knew where to run in this godsforsaken hellhole. Bastion also possessed the unique quality that he was utterly immune to an empath's talents... it was a one way street, that touch.

Serrure's body sways precariously in the harness, momentarily prone and unguarded, but instinct has him righting himself before he can fall, if only to find a foreign hand pressed against his forehead once he does. His reaction to being touched is to flinch noticeably, grey eyes widening - he blinks owlishly at Bastion as though just seeing him for the first time, struck speechless. A hand comes up to brush his own forehead, ungloved fingers tracing the skin that experienced the contact, as if he might find some answer or explanation there in the remnants. Then he wipes those errant tears away and puts his heels to the spider's abdomen, causing it to lurch forward. "This way," he'll call back to Bastion as the guardsmen come close enough to start throwing things at them. Serrure ducks beneath the arc of a dagger, urging his curious mount down a sidestreet to the left before taking a sharp right, doubling back along an adjacent road. His route will take them around the plaza via the backstreets behind its homes and businesses, heading southwest toward the infamous blood fountain and the connecting districts. As he guides the spider, Serrure will spare a glance back to Bastion and his brows will furrow in a bemused frown. For an empath, those immune to the touch are simply empty nothingness, and there is nothing Serrure finds more unsettling than staring into an abyss.

Nightshade Avenue

Bastion was well described as an abyss. He was peace and calamity in a fleshly coil, some had said. He followed swiftly behind Serrure, while they lost the pursuit. The spider acquited its self well in spite of its terror, perhaps having Serrure to thank for that, or even Bastion through the empath. Bastion had long since replaced that mole skin glove, and taken to a brooding demeanor as they finally came to a stop, the sounds of pursuit gone from them. "Let's get off the street. Neither of our stolen friends will be too hard to find. I can release the horse and send him running. What do you plan to do with that spider?" Didn't seem like an indoor pet to him. Bastion still didn't know the empath's name, nor did he feel any great need to know, but he was happy for his aid in this. Gods knew what that merchant had in store for him if he'd been caught. Rape, torture, murder, slavery, most likely. Not necessarily in that order, either. The streets were as dark in this shadowy realm, and Bastion held onto that sickening feeling that they were in a place apart from the real world, of life and normalcy, or what passed for normalcy in these lands. Those scars on his arm reminded him of just how ill prepared Bastion was for such trying times.

Serrure might have shivered before turning his focus back to the road ahead. He has learned from experience that if you stare into an abyss for too long, bad things are sure to follow. So he'll work on getting them all safely away from their pursuers - this city is as familiar to him as the lines on the palm of his hand, he knows all its veins and arteries, so it is not difficult to lose the men around tight corners and darkened alleys. Since stopping, the spider appears to have calmed down a lot, and now moves easier with Serrure, as if, like Bastion, it trusts the silver-haired stranger to help it escape. "I thought it would be useful," is all Serrure offers back to the other at his question, and there is the thought there to ask for his name, because after all, who exactly is he helping here? He glances back again and shakes his head. Can't be that bad, he's just a kid...but that mantra repeats itself in his head, that warning about abysses and staring. Serrure narrows his eyes, frowns, and shakes that off too. Eventually, they'll reach a broad, elegant street - Nightshade Avenue, if the signs are anything to go by. The architecture of one house mirrors the next in an impressive facade of extravagance and perhaps it was once a truly beautiful area, but now...well, it is still beautiful by Vailkrin's standards and a desirable district to live, but the brickwork is chipped and marred by a thousand years of dirt and darkness, and the road has a distinctly shadier atmosphere to it than the plaza where the circus has been set up. Bastion might learn his companion's name, here, as he pulls up outside a house with a brass plaque by the door, reading 'Serrure - Paranormal Investigator.' This building is just like the rest save for that mark to distinguish it as his own. "Down here." He'll motion to a narrow alley down the left side of the house, which opens out into an enclosed back garden of concrete and high walls. Serrure walks, leading the spider, which takes the wall above him, unable to fit down the alley itself.

Bastion followed, until they reached that alley, then sent a touch of Calamity from his hand to the horse to send it on its way. He eyed that plaque, and remembered the name. "Paranormal investigator. Endless and thankless work in these lands, I'd imagine." You were like as not to meet a dragon or a fire breathing werewolf as a man at any given pub here. His piercing blue eyes took in his surroundings as he went, trusting less to the silver haired lad than his own abilities to defend himself against him if he needed. That would change, within the next few hours, though... and it'd be Bastion who'd be here with Serrure. He needed to leave before then, or make sure that he'd judged the man's character correctly. He watched that spider crawl above him, a big hairy thing, and frightening at that. He'd rather have his spear if he had to fight it, or Peace. Unfortunately, he had neither, and would be sure to tread lightly in its presence. The man was like to be as dangerous as the beast he'd tamed, at any rate. he watched Serrure closely, and chose to give his name, and see how it was received. "Bastion. And my thanks, for your aid." He talked as a man, with experience and guile, despite his soft youth.

"You'd be surprised. Even the vampires don't want a poltergeist throwing their things around," Serrure says with the faintest touch of a laugh. Despite his gigantic friend and Bastion's internal assumptions of him, nothing about the man says 'threatening,' not his demeanour or his posture, or even his voice. He is soft words and quiet, cautious gestures, careful and hesitant (but prone to bouts of recklessness, if his earlier behaviour is anything to go by), and he is probably as wary of Bastion as the boy is of him, even with the spider to back him up. Of course, that's not to say he is weak and incapable of defending himself. He's even carrying a weapon. Two, in fact - a dagger in his left boot and a slim, elegant wand in his left coat pocket, neither of which he seems to be reaching for with the intent to kill his companion with. Perhaps the most unsettling thing about Serrure is his wholly casual manner of dealing with unspeakable horrors, while he'll react to the presence of humans with noticeable anxiety. It's either that or his eyes. "There, there... you're all right now," he murmurs soothingly to the spider as it settles in one corner of the courtyard, releasing his hold on the reins as his bare hand pats it gently beneath its eyes, just above those arm-length fangs. Then he'll turn to Bastion and nod when he gives his name, offering his own in return. "I'm Serrure, as you probably read. Friendly neighbourhood ghost hunter..and sometimes doctor." And apparently a harbourer of escapees and monstrous beasts. He gestures to the back door of the house. "If you need somewhere to lie low for a few days until the circus is out of town, you're welcome to hang around." A pause follows, and then he adds, "But if you want to make a break for it, I'd suggest taking the road round the back of the graveyard, or going through it, then east from there - it's not hard to find the city gates from there." The circus' big top tent is located at the far end of that bridge, however, on the outskirts of the dark forest. Serrure is not certain if Bastion is -from- there or not and blinks, realising he neglected to ask, well...anything. "What exactly were you running from, anyway?" The question is dropped idly as he moves to the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys.

Bastion looked towards the graveyard, and the place where he might stay. It would be unwise to try and move now... they'd not suspect him to have found safe harbor, even if Serrure happened to be recognized. Not here. He was nobody. "I gave grave insult to the merchant I was guarding. Broke a few of his teeth, too." Honest as Bastion. He wondered just how much work the man saw. He sighed. "If it's all the same to you, I'd lie low here. I have a very important request, though. If I go to sleep, then when I awake my eyes will be pink, and I'll be a wholly different person. Gentle. You must tell him nothing of me, or of what happened. Tell him he hit his head. You are a doctor, he'll believe you." He didn't even look at the man as he said it. He wanted Bastion to have nothing to do with any of this. "Worst part of this whole mess is I never even got paid. And I lost my spear. Damn it all."

Serrure's mind is lingering on similar things - will he be recognised for his involvement in that mess? It's true that he is a familiar face in town, but he's also so forgettable that by this point, the men are likely trying to remember who Bastion's accomplice even is, or if he ever had one in the first place. Keys in the lock and turned, he pushes until the door swings inwards, opening into a dark scullery, with a small kitchen beyond that. The entire house is just as grey, tired, and weary as its owner, the wallpaper peeling, narrow hallways and stairs leading to the upper floors and further shadowed rooms. Serrure pauses on the back step and is motioning to invite Bastion in when he pauses, the boy's words prompting a look of confusion. But he's not one to judge; he has plenty mysteries of his own, after all. "All right." Something tells him it would be unwise to press further into the subject, and Serrure is not one to intentionally step beyond people's boundaries. He moves into the house to light a lamp in the kitchen, its pale light pushing back the curtain of darkness that fell over the empty home while its owner was gone. "In return, I'd appreciate if you kept out of the room off my study, on the second floor. You're free to explore elsewhere.. though it's not a very interesting place." Serrure tilts his head, glancing back. "I can send someone to try and find your spear, if you'd like."

Bastion looked back at his last words. "Be nice to have it back, though I'm sure someone's made off with it by now. You leave a child alone in that place, you can bet they'll be put on market somewhere." Nothing was sacred, in a den of thieves. Greed was the only lord those men knew. He had no intention of going where he wasn't welcome, though he didn't seem to mind the dankness of the place. He'd pull some gauze from a pack of his, pick a likely spot on the wall with a reinforced beam behind it, and slam his head into it, hard enough to make the place shake and put him on his ass. It'd be a few moments before he was coherent enough to wrap the gauze around his head. He'd change into a set of comfortable brown robes on the spot too, not caring if the man watched or no, before setting down on the spot. "I think I'll take a nap right here." He was dead tired. And when he awoke.... he'd be a different man, entirely.

Serrure can't help nodding in agreement to that. Someone probably had the thing before he and Bastion even made it out from beneath the shadow of the circus tent, and it might have changed hands three times by now. He moves around lighting a couple more lanterns set in the wall, stepping into the hallway, but the sudden thump that shakes his entire house has him spinning back to Bastion, stunned. "What--?" Totally perplexed, Serrure can only stare at him in puzzlement as he promptly bandages his own self-inflicted wound - but then the words spoken prior to this repeat themselves and he closes his mouth quickly. Right, right, injuries and...'other' Bastion, and all that. Though mildly concerned for his welfare, he leaves him while he changes to go about lighting those other lamps on the bottom floor, returning just before Bastion passes out. "Right there...? Oh, too late." He scrunches his nose up a touch, wondering if he should attempt moving him to a more comfortable spot, like the sofa in the front room. In the end he resorts to calling for Brute, the huge flesh golem lifting the boy easily, but carefully, and carrying him through. All of a sudden, all the fireworks and colours of the plaza, the gaudy shows and vibrant music, it all feels very far away. It begins to dawn on Serrure as he watches that sleeping abyss; the knowledge that, once again, he has gotten himself into quite a mess without intending to. Still, it was an eventful day at the circus, at any rate.