[open] 'cause, baby, you're a firework

[sunderings]

Who: Sion Astal & You!
When: February 10th - 13th.
Where: Hero Hall, Caissa Orphanage, Kabe Market.
What: Fireworks and job opportunities (building snowmen & gathering lost items).
Rating: PG...! For now.



February 10th ⇰ The Roof of Hero Hall | Fireworks!

[ Sion stands atop the ledge of the roof in the dark, the fireworks of First Bloom visible even here, at a distance, the explosions of color raining down against the stars. The display is a beautiful one, though as it progresses, Sion's expression twists, contorts. It might be glimpsed, in profile, as the light of the fireworks reflect upon his face, that while he is surely smiling, it seems as though he is crying as well, even if no tears fall.

He remembers: a night in the rain, the clash of two only ever intended for each other, and the words no matter how far you sink into darkness, how hard it becomes to escape dark places... I won't ever give up on you, Sion Astal!.

(And to think, that such a thing had come to pass in the wake of the new hope to be found in fireworks, in their blooming bursts and thundering crescendos.) ]

Should you not be enjoying the festivities below? [ —he is aware, in that moment, of a second presence upon the roof, though Fiole is the one to investigate first, flapping about and singing to the newcomer in greeting. And the expression Sion once wore... disappeared in an instant, as though it never existed at all. Instead, he is smiling, and from the very depths of his heart, it is warm. ] It is the last night of First Bloom, so I would urge you to not become absorbed in melancholy as I have, and quickly go.

[ Who knows, after all? Gloom may very well be contagious. ]


February 12th ⇰ Caissa Orphanage | Build a Snowman!

[ Ah, how quickly it had escalated.

Had his own ambition lead him here, to the cusp of his own demise? Or had it been weakness, some unnamed flaw in him, which lead him to be so easily moved by the children's own high spirits when they'd cried: taller, Mr. Sion, it has to reach higher!.

In the end, perhaps, how he'd gotten to this point mattered so very little when the thought of how to progress further came to mind. Before him: a snowman (a monstrous, behemoth of a snowman) so great in size that while it stands, two-thirds completed, there is no way for a single man to hoist the structure's head (and it is a boulder of snow, compacted by the many jam hands of children) onto the second tier.

For this task, the strength of another someone will most certainly be required, and Sion wastes no time in recruiting anyone in uniform: ]

You there, Hero! Please lend us your aid, we've quite nearly finished here.


February 13th ⇰ Kabe Market | Lost Items!

[ Thieves. The band of them (and they are rascals, the entirety of the lot!) had taken to scavenging the whole of Caissa for items which had been deemed lost, stolen first by the likes of the festival's honored guests (monkeys, smartly dressed for what they truly were: pickpockets at best!), only to be 'liberated' by their hands, the small treasures (a gilded pocket watch, engraved with words of wisdom; a cameo necklace, depicting a mother and son) brought to a central location where they might be appraised, then divided amongst all present.

Or rather, they would have been, if not for the interference of one (1), Sion Astal. For the better portion of the day, he'd tracked the motley crew, surveying the operation from afar as they amassed their spoils, awaiting the opportune moment to appear: the instant when the trio disappeared into the depths of an alleyway, convening there.

It is a trap, one which Sion had hoped the thieves might lay, for as the afternoon dwindled, and as evening bled into a brisk winter's night, he'd given them hints (deliberate glimpses of a shadow, the echo of disembodied footfalls) of his pursuit, toying with them until they'd conveniently sequestered themselves away (there is, after all, no great need to make a scene).

Amusing to him, that they meant to confront him; that they imagined they might emerge victorious from...!

A fight which he doesn't intend to start.

Sion makes his entrance, with Fiole upon his shoulder and Guiding Light at his side, and suddenly the alleyway is bright, for the Hero King of Roland is no looming specter or shade, but a beacon which can be neither gazed upon or ignored. ]

Return to me the items which you've taken, and I will see them delivered to their rightful owners. [ But wait, there's more? ] And for the effort you've put forth into recovering the articles, I will grant you a Hero's reward.

[ Two of three thieves give pause, hesitant but considering (a reward?), but the third will absolutely not have the offer, and in the blink of an eye, the man lunges forward with a knife, leaving Sion in imminent peril...!

But Sion doesn't move, he doesn't lift a hand to reach for his sword.

Perhaps he is aware of another party who lingers, yet, at the mouth of the alleyway, and is curious to find if they will play a part. But more likely, he is certain in his own ability to contend with this scenario.

Still, though, there is the question: what action will you take, if any at all? ]

Comments

[sunderings]

[ He couldn't understand it, even if he tried, as much is evident in the cant of his head; his widely solemn eyes. Never had he intended to leave anything of himself behind, no legend and no legacy which might leave him immortalized. When he'd ventured to that place, descended deep into the crypt where the Hero's body had been housed, he'd been under no illusion that after partaking of the Divinity (and wholly devouring what had once been himself) there would be a place left for him in the world. He would save it, surely, and preserve the beautiful magic that humans were, and afterward there would only be one thing left to do: disappear.

He, Sion Astal, one of the last monsters who yet walked the earth, would fade and allow for humanity to flourish—that had been his wish, and it is his wish still. ]

Is it truly so woeful? [ The answer is yes, of course, and he is very much aware: he is not dead yet, his story goes on, and the time when he would forsake the very last bond which tethered him to himself (that person, their memory, who kept him from becoming the Hero entirely) has not yet come to pass. ] To me, it is the simple notion of living forever which is much too sad to bear.

[ The fireworks have finished, then, in the blink of an eye, and it is as though such a wondrous thing had never lit up the night. ]

Is that not much too lonely, Gilgamesh? [ For the first time since Gilgamesh cared to approach, Sion's expression lifts, perhaps amused. ] I cannot imagine why else you might have sought out my company.

[babbylon]

It is woeful indeed that you would regret your deeds so much—regret yourself—and in so doing fail to understand why legacies are all we have as kings. I pity you for it, for the crown has clearly weighed too heavy upon your head.

[It's not really said to be insulting, this time, but it's cutting in its own way. Sharp, as if Gilgamesh believed himself to know better. To live forever was also to suffer forever, this Gilgamesh understood well, yet the way he speaks of it truly makes him seem above such limitations, such pain.

In other words, as when they met, his ego remains absolute, a buoying force in the face of a more a painful truth.]

To wear that crown means to wear the shroud of isolation. I am alone, but I am not lonely. It is not the same thing.

[He's silent on the subject of seeking out company for the evening. That may say enough in itself.]

[sunderings]

Oh? [ As though he were released from a spell, freed from some enchantment which had left him bound, rooted to his post atop the ledge, he comes alive again: lifting his arm high overhead, he bids for Fiole to take flight, the little phoenix fulfilling its Master's wish of soaring above, glimmering where the fireworks had once colored the night sky. ] I am obligated, then, to ensure that you remain as you are—wholly fulfilled and not lonesome at all—before I take my leave.

[ Which he makes to do now that the moment has passed, the reminder of the one who completed him faded and gone. He had mourned, paid homage to the man he could not save, and lamented the Demon that man would become, leaving only...

Another, still seated beside him on the ledge, brought there because of his own curse, something called a legacy, the future toward which he could not help but walk.

(Really, it's silly, and it's still much, much too sad, but then, there will always be painful truths to rise above.) ]

Come, then. [ Ah? What's this? An echo of the words he once said before? There is even the extension of his arm, the offering of his hand, though he does not expect for Gilgamesh to take it—rather, he anticipates the opposite (just what is he playing at?!). ] And know that your pity is misplaced; that there is more to kingship than the folly of pursuing a legacy.

[ But as to what that thing is... Sion does not say, he only glances down to Gilgamesh, dauntless as he seeks out the man's eyes. ]

[babbylon]

That is...

[...not possible, he means to say, but never finds the right words. Ironic, for someone who loves the sound of his own voice so much. Though this side of Sion may be for the best; with the lifting of that burden, he looks the proper part of the handsome liege again. Gilgamesh admires him openly, as he does all beautiful creatures. He bears no love for his philosophy and likely never will but he will always hold an appreciation for pretty things in his midst.

It's all rather silly and all much too sad, yes, but it's who and what they are, will always be. He hears him beckon, sees a hand extended, and smiles in a coy sort of way. The entire tone of the conversation seems to shift, from chiding to a faint coquettish air. If Sion wants the company of his fellow King, he expects to be courted.]

Then I shall revoke it. I see now it was a wasteful gift to grant.

[Gilgamesh reaches forward, but falls just short of their fingers touching. Come take it, then, is his reply. More like a dare.]

[sunderings]

[ The only things worth taking in this and any realm are those which are not so readily given—Sion is, by and large, far more surprised when Gilgamesh reaches forward (curious!) than when the man forestalls the motion (expected!), though he does not hesitate to envelop that daring hand with his own (a link of mana forming with the touch!), golden eyes falling to half-mast in direct counter to the smile he's been offered. ]

There is only one thing which I seek from you, and it is no gift, as I am certain you are well aware.

[ It is not pity, nor is it the man's idea of a King; it is neither company or courtship, but rather a fight, either unto death or possession of a crown, of a title which might rival his own. But if the conflict should ever come to pass, the time for it is not now, not on First Bloom's last night. ]

Let the only gift of the night be one I impart upon you: a swift escort to the festival.

[ And, quite naturally, Sion does mean swift. His fingers are quick to form a manacle about Gilgamesh's wrist, and if he is not stopped, he will...! Step clean off the ledge, plummeting to the ground below with a certain someone in tow. In Roland's grand empire, Sion has set a precedent for death-defying leaps and royal parkour, and though it is dark, and while there is snow and the potential for ice, he has made this jump once before, and is confident in his ability to land on his feet again.

It should be worth noting: this is Sion Astal at play. ]

[babbylon]

[Oh. He's bold, isn't he? Gilgamesh hedges a little but otherwise allows the touch, brow furrowing at words that once again prickle at him. He doesn't like the notion of being ordered, of being forced around. Something about this man will always bother him, but at the same time he's more than a bit fixated by his aura. So very much like his own, so very defiant in the face of reason and everything else.

Of course he has no time to complain about where they're headed and how they get there. Sion yanks him along, he yelps, and down they go, and Gilgamesh finds himself so surprised by it the usual surge of anger doesn't follow. Just indignant noises and fussing once they land, red flying to his face and making him look much, much younger than he really is.]

I... I never granted you permission for such a thing...!

[Notably, Gilgamesh does not let go of Sion's hand. If anything, he holds tightly, stubborn in it now. He yanks and pulls as if in a punitive gesture, just to express rebelliousness. But Gilgamesh has also decided he doesn't mind him so much because of it, because he hasn't felt a rush like that in a very long time.

In that moment, he felt young again. Like an adventurer again, braving the desert sands of Uruk so very long ago alongside his brother.]

[sunderings]

[ Sion, he can't help but laugh, not out of mockery (though Gilgamesh's face is certainly red, and there had most assuredly been a rather undignified yelp which had echoed on, after their fall!), but out of simple happiness. Free-fall is Sion's preferred state of being, and while it is often made harmless and blunted by the seal of kuen, having no such safety net makes it all the more worthwhile, even with present company in hand. ]

You landed on your feet.

[ —Sion hums, lofting a brow high as he's clung to and tugged, enabling the show of rebelliousness if only so that he might see his (captive? commandeered King?) placated. And so he will dance, following the motion with what, for all the world, seems to be the ease and grace of one who is accustomed to such a frivolous practice (and he is, his partner oftentimes being the smallest Lady of House Eris, those sworn to protect Roland's King!). ]

What's more, I need no permission to act, not upon my own obligation. [ Is that what Gilgamesh is, then? An obligation? At the time when he'd declared as much, Sion had heard no protest, no objection! ] My authority, as always, remains—

[ In a heartbeat, Sion has taken off again, strengthening his hold upon Gilgamesh, determined to move (plow?!) forward even if the man should dig his heels into the cold earth below. The Hero King has never been one for courting (despite his subordinate's urges for him to marry, to continue his line!), but instead carrying all those willing (and, at times, even those who were not!) to follow him on, to some distant horizon.

And if Gilgamesh should not break away, Sion will be an effective escort (swift on his feet before, he is only swifter still thanks to the Pawn rank's boon!), barreling toward the town square and into the epicenter of the festivities. ]

—sovereign and absolute!

[babbylon]

[Gilgamesh was at heart, despite his occasionally slothful tendencies lounging on Kirei's couch drinking him out of house and home, a driven and enthusiastic man. He preferred a life of excitement, of passion, to miring in boredom; he was Uruk's greatest King as well as their greatest adventurer, after all. Of course he responded well to those of similar energy, Heroes such as himself.

Still, Sion leaves him breathless in a way he hasn't been in a long time. The faster the man moves, the more determined he is to keep up. He doesn't break away, no, sees that as admitting defeat, and simply huffs and puffs and resolves to outdo him. This was also Gilgamesh at play, and he was very, very competitive in his sport.

At a certain point he all but attaches himself to Sion's arm so he couldn't escape even if he wanted to. If Sion wanted a date for the evening, so be it. Now he was stuck with a bratty, boisterous King who'd argue with him just for the sake of it.]

You numskull! We've already had this conversation, my crown ranks highest of all...!

[But it sounds triumphant as opposed to antagonistic. Sion's confidence is catching on, and he's even grinning, too.]

[sunderings]

Conversation?

[ Blazing past street-goers, vaulting over all obstacles in their path, and narrowly escaping collision no less than seven times, they are a glint, a glimmer of silver and gold in the night, destined to feed into one another's energy and spiral higher and higher, bereft of a ceiling or end...! Or rather, they surely could, if only Sion allowed for it. Truth be told, he hadn't accounted for this, for the other man to so readily glom onto his arm, matching him in both alacrity and speed as he blitzed forward, without a care. Always, it had been his intention to escort to, but not during, and Sion had been of the mind that he would be able to 'lose' Gilgamesh (and lose him easily!) in the crowd shortly after arriving at their destination.

But would he be able to manage as much now? They are quite near to First Bloom, the number of people congesting the streets has heightened, and they'll not be able to keep their present pace for much longer...! ]

We exchanged no such words, you merely blew a load of hot air. You buffoon!

[ Too conveniently, there is a tree—a tree which Sion does nothing to avoid, for all that it lies within their direct trajectory. His intent? To meet the tree head on, of course, and to swing Gilgamesh to the right, where he would shift to the left, leaving the link of their arms to break against the tree-trunk.

(And hopefully, that would be the only thing to break!)

Fact: Sion Astal loathes festivals, and despite knowing their worth, and how they did well to promote unity among all those in attendance, he would take every opportunity to avoid them altogether. His wish to escort Gilgamesh into the very center of the joyous merrymaking and cavorting about is a simple manifestation of this dislike.

Why not pair one boisterous thing with another, after all? ]