[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

[moreasleep]

[And there it was, trouble. From the moment Sion drew his sword, Rory was on alert, his weariness evaporated. He knew very well a blade was more than just its edge, but in this situation, the alternatives were not any better. His hand hovered over his weapon. Quickly, he scanned the area for the children. Not just the ones that followed the man like moths to a flame, but all the children out enjoying the snow.

It was clear what he was up to, but there was showing off and then there was just plain dangerously stupid. It may be difficult to imagine Rory had any sort of concern for his well-being when he was clearly brimming with rage.]

No, you're not! This is not the place for this!

[He refused to allow this. He disengaged the supports for the ladder and snapped it shut before laying it flat on the snow. His jaw tightened. There was much more he wanted to say about the man's actions, but he knew better.]

I'll do this. Alone.

[His expression and tone softened as he looked to the children, but he still spoke in a way that made it clear that what he said next was not up for discussion.]

Kids, go play with him. I'll round you up when I'm done and we can all go decorating.

[sunderings]

[ This man is fragile, Sion thinks in the instant when Rory's own hand flits to his weapon, bereft of any intention to aid, only to defend; to ward against a threat which isn't one at all in a fit of barely restrained fury. More than a blade, Guiding Light is a tool, its crescent strike gentle enough to barely nudge at the snow, to push, rather than to cleave it apart. Wielding the sword takes a deft hand, a tempered touch, and Sion has been a swordsman long before he'd come into possession of the relic—there is no one better suited to be its Master, just as there is no danger in the present, only a lesson to be learned: trust does not so easily come to his companion, and some woebegone fate will likely find him because of it.

(Strange, how rather than spurning the man, Sion finds he only wants to protect him.)

But there's no time for further consideration of the other man: a hoard of children has descended upon him, and Sion has barely a moment enough to sheathe Guiding Light before small hands tug upon his braid and the hem of his coat, monopolizing him now that they've express permission. Really, it should be of no surprise that they're drawn to him—Sion looks every bit the part of some storybook prince, his golden eyes lambent, the long fall of his hair immaculate in its heavy plait!—and he does not protest as he's carted a distance away to gaze upon previously made snow angels.

When Rory has finished with his self-appointed task, he'll find Sion holding the children's attention rapt with a tale, a story of how the greatest mage of a world far, far away and a peerless beauty managed to defeat a dragon with their wits and help of a magicked blade.

Sion, he sees no reason why children should not know of the weight and strength of steel. It is best, he thinks, to prepare them for what is to come, the reason why both he and Rory are here. ]

[moreasleep]

[Left alone, Rory finally took a moment to breathe. Overall, this ended better than he thought it would. He had expected at least an argument. The tension rolled up his spine, through his shoulders, into his chest and finally exhaled out. That was the extent of his respite; now he set about to finish the task by himself.

Unsurprisingly, he took a long while to finish despite working tirelessly at it. When he came to find Sion and the group of children, his face was pale with hunger and fatigue yet he continued as if he refused to let such things slow him down. His footsteps made little noise even in the deep snow and he could hear the tale Sion told the children. It seemed harmless enough; he was not so uptight as to put a stop to it. He waited until Sion finished his tale, putting his hand over his own stomach to hush its rumblings. When it was over, he finally spoke with a smile that, to the discerning eye, had no genuine feeling behind it.]

It's time to decorate. Is everyone ready?

[Upon returning to the snow behemoth, they will find that, not only had he completed the last tier, he had also smoothed out all the seams and fortified it so there was no risk of it falling over. It was a blank slate, ready for whatever the children had to give it.]

No climbing the ladders. You leave that to us.

[By that, of course, he meant him and Sion.]

[sunderings]

[ Several cheers erupt from the young ones upon finding that their creation has been assembled, towering on high upon the hill that is its post, watching over their home. You did it, Mister! a little girl exclaims, and another chimes in thank you very much! before Sion ushers them away to secure their trimmings for the snowman. Before Rory's arrival, they'd time enough to gather several rounds of coal, sequined beads, garland leftover from some manner of holiday, spools of ribbon, and no less than three suitable carrots (all of which boast different size and circumference!) for noses. These things, of course, remain in the orphanage itself (Sion had no wish for the items to go missing during the snowman's construction!), and all at once, the children scatter, promising to be back soon. ]

When you smile next— [ Sion begins in the quiet, undaunted by Rory's presence. For all the world, the man seems an overgrown boy himself, hungry, tired, and much, much too cantankerous all. And while it is not within Sion's immediate power to remedy two of the three ailments, there is one thing which he can most certainly do: make to take the other man by the hand to create a link of mana between them, keeping fatigue at bay with the transfer of energy and the bloom of warmth it produces. ] —make sure it is true.

Those children... are far more astute than I, Hero.

[ And they will notice each and every one of your failings, should you allow them close to you. ]

A lack of heart will do more damage to them than any blade.

[moreasleep]

You're welcome.

[He had said to the child that thanked him. It was an automatic response. What was left of his false smile vanished altogether once the children left. This was his moment to have another rest before once again working on the snowman, or so he had thought. When Sion spoke, it was clear that Rory was not interested in listening. This man was not the first to lecture him about what he should and should not do. He could ignore the platitudes; he had enough experience from his life to perfect that. What he did not ignore was the hand coming his way. He immediately backed away before the man could take his hand.]

Don't touch me.

[His voice was not a shout, but a hiss. The look in his eyes resembled that of a cornered animal. As he continued to move away, he kept watch on him. He knew the man was fast and he suspected that he would not stay away. He folded his arms, though it hung closer to his stomach than it did his chest. You don't know shit about anything, he thought. As much as Sion tried his patience, he still did not voice these thoughts.]

I'm not raising them.

[What did it matter if his smile were true or not? This man seemed to be under the mistaken assumption that he was here for more than the job. By the end of the day he would be gone and, in time, the snow would melt away just as their memories of him. As long as he did not get too close, or let them get close to him, they would soon forget and that was how he preferred it.]

[sunderings]

Nor should you be, you are too afraid of them.

[ Where Rory is quick to fly back, Sion only remains calm, unperturbed in the wake of the other man's anger, his near-hysterics. So he'd not been wrong: this Hero who he'd beckoned forth is glass-fragile, prone to shattering if simply spoken to the wrong way. Distantly, he reminds Sion of those children ruined by the nobility of his country, conditioned to fight and fear everything in the name of a House they'd been adopted into for no other reason than bolster the reputation, the good name of the family who'd bought them. Still, Sion holds out his hand, palm bare-faced and open, fingers unwavering in the cold. ]

And you are too afraid of the world. [ To grow close to it, to be touched by it, to be so moved by the simple activity of bringing joy and the warmth of a good memory to the children of Caissa's orphanage. The thought is sad, almost too much to bear, but Sion gives no indication of sympathy, his voice ringing as a decree as he continues on: ] Take my hand, and regain some measure of your strength, or begone entirely. As you are now, you are little more than a liability.

[ And if Rory should not comply? Then Sion would not stay away. ]

I will explain your absence to the children.

[moreasleep]

[Was this happening? Was this sanctimonious asshole seriously trying to tell him about his life and giving him demands? Rory rubbed his temples to assuage his headache. This man knew nothing about him and nothing about a hard day of work. He did not need energy, he needed this guy to shut up and assist in finishing the job they were both tasked to do.]

I'm not holding your hand. And I'm not leaving until the job is done.

[As infuriating as this man was, this was still a job and Sion was just another asshole in a world full of more like him. He was determined not to let him drive him away, especially after he had already put in a great effort. He put a hand in his pocket. The leaves and flowers inside rustled softly, gently perfuming the air around him. Far louder than a few plants were the sounds of excited children.]

Kids are back. Stay away from me.

[He left the area to meet the children halfway, though he kept an eye and ear on Sion so he could not get him by surprise. The smile was back again. His pressed his hand to his side just above where his weapon rested, possibly bracing an aching muscle. It was not threatening so the children were not alarmed, but his hand was close to his knife. Did he mean to hurt the man if he got too close, was a blade more than its edge, or was it something else entirely? Not even he knew what he would do. His mind raced for ideas.]

[sunderings]

[ Rory's mind races for naught: Sion's intentions to pursue him fade in the instant the children appear, racing back toward the creation which had taken the better portion of the day to both craft and raise. A boy, no more than seven years of age, approaches Sion with a box containing rounds of coal with which to fashion eyes, a smile, and with a smile of his own and an easy laugh, the Hero King readily interprets the boy's wish—rather than make use of the ladders, Sion simply bolsters the child, dropping down into a crouch so the boy might be able to clamber atop his shoulders, before rising to his full height. There is a slight clamor from the other children (they want turns, too!), and Sion promises to lift all those who'd like to try their hand at decorating as well (children do not boast the weight of thoroughly compacted snow, after all!).

And it is in this way that snowhemoth comes alive, boasting a rather curiously disproportionate expression (is it... lopsided?), though somehow it suits the monstrosity, gentling its imposition. But then, then there is the matter of placing a (much, much too small!) hat atop the snowman's head, and it is only by using a ladder that the feat might be accomplished.

A girl hands the hat (and it is a top-hat, one Sion had scavenged the market for!) to Rory with a you can do it, right, Mister?, and Sion watches with a intrigued loft of brow, none too troubled. Surely, Rory is afraid, and surely, something had broken the man in the past (for Sion knows Rory's gesture for what it had been, and rather than bracing any strained muscle, he'd reached for his weapon again), but this...

Even if the man should pass out cold afterward, the other Hero seems the type to falter only after his task has been accomplished.

And so, Sion will watch, golden eyes glinting in the late afternoon light. ]

Of course he can do it. [ —he reassures the girl, extending his hand for her to take. And take it she does, her little fingers fitting neatly into his own, and after a moment, Sion swings the link of their hands in a delicate, playful back-and-forth; to-and-fro. ] He's done so much for us already, right?

[ Right! she and the others echo back. ]

[moreasleep]

[It was a lot off his mind when Sion backed off, but now was not the time to relax. When it came to the children, Rory showed far more patience. He heeded to their whims about the precise placement their decorations must be on the snowman. Even when they changed their minds or did not know what they wanted, he worked with them without a fuss. Once the children saw Sion taking turns carrying them on his shoulders, some of them begged Rory to do the same.

He glanced at the man as if wordlessly communicating his accusation, You caused this.

As much as he did not want to, he hid his objections and obliged, though he first took the ones that were waiting their turn rather than the ones who had just finished with Sion. Should any protest, he calmly explained with an assurance that they would get to go again once everyone else had a chance. The children took turns adding decorations to the upper tiers; ribbons and garlands for necklaces and the empty spools for, apparently, ears.

One child had a small collection of carrots to choose from for its nose. If only the vegetables still had their tops, he would have wanted to keep them. He stood before the snowman with the child on his shoulders, holding the rejected carrots and giving the child the rest one at a time. Of course, they were all undersized. They would be better off with daikon. Finally, the child selected one and it was now time to put the hat on the snowman. He gave the other carrots back, cautioning the children not to waste food.]

Where would you like it?

[He called from atop the ladder and stretched over the top tier. His height did have its advantages at times. Wherever the girl wanted the hat, directly on top, playfully askew, or elsewhere, he would find a way to place it there. Throughout the entire time with the children, he never let it show just how tired he felt and he never let it slow him down. This was not a difficult task for him. He had long since become accustomed to working until he could not go any longer. Even before his first job, he filled his free time with activities, pushing the boundaries until he had learned complete exhaustion. He knew his limits well. This did not come close.]