taxonomites | [location: Adventure Zone!] party like it's 1399~

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[location: Adventure Zone!] party like it's 1399~

If there was ever any one solitary thing that could get someone like Bagoas into a right bend, it would be his curiousity: not an innate quality, but one that was nurtured and groomed in his years at the Persian court. For nearly a month now, he has slipped by the bridge leading into the Northern district, casting furtive glances over yon river while his mind churned with all the fascinating particulars he had gleaned from those adventurous few broadcasts.

In the sky he's spotted a serpent, and childlike awe soon turned into an itch he couldn't scratch. He has been content in his daily comings and goings that he had forgotten the thrill of new vistas and cultures; from what he's heard, this northern district seems rife with all manner of things he never would've dreamed to see with his own eyes.

For nearly a month, he has persisted in his abstinence. He has looked his fill of the forest but not drawn near it. How could he, when Glitch's most trusted friend has stood guard for so long? His every step would be counted and frowned upon, and so, he has refrained.

Until today.

Today, there is the sound of drums and horns and strings and how could he possibly resist?

Choosing his moment with utmost care, he crouches, waits for it, and the very instant Cain's back is turned, he dashes forward and leaps from one end of the bridge to the other and doesn't stop running until he's reached the source* of this magnetic force-field. And then, there's simply one thing to do.

Dance, barefoot and coat open and billowing around him, one heavy winter boot in either hand.

* Minstrels inna village! A whole bunch of them! All done up in their snoods and tunics and rockin' their hurdy-gurdies :D

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This was bound to happen, and by now Glitch is...resigned, and also less concerned, and also curious so when he checks the map and sees what bagoas has gotten up to he follows along.

Predictably he too comes under the (metaphorical) spell of the music, the melody tugging at some primal appreciation of yes good this is the sound of merriment and merry-making. Happy folk are to be found here, possibly none happier than the barefoot Persian dancing up a storm.

Well, at least until Glitch decides to stop watching, cast his coat to drape on a convenient sawhorse, and join in as well. Challenege accepted.

If there is one thing greater than music, then it is dance; and if there is one sole thing to rise above either, that is to share them both. He pivots on his heel, coming face to face with a loved one, and from then on in there is no escape. He beams, and winds and twines and twists his dancing around his partner.

"Isn't it amazing?" He calls out, coming side to side with a look of pure excitement on his face. "I could contain myself no longer!"

Glitch laughs and throws his arms up, swaying and twirling in place to keep Bagoas in sight. It occurs to him that it's been roughly an annual since they first met, though it seems so much longer. A paper flower, a theatre, a ballroom, a quiet pool and quieter garden, and now this new thread in the tapestry.

"I forgive you," he says with a shake of his head. "Hadn't heard music here before."

True he hasn't spent much time linger close enough to make that determination, but that's neither here nor there.

ooc: ...I had a minor crisis about godmoding whether or not Bags is still holding the boots >.<;

"Oh!" Bagoas laughs, drunk on the moment, shifting his footwear to his left hand and left hip, which leads his movement.

"I don't recall asking forgiveness!"

Why yes, that's a tease and a dare and a definite spark in his eye. Like a puppy dog inviting you to play with him.

((oh, you. <3 he doesn't want them to get stolen, okay? :) ))

Edited 2013-02-27 10:13 (UTC)

All together now: "Pffft!" And yes, a tongue sticking out because we're oh so mature and the fiddlers are doing things and no monsters have shown up at all (yet), everything's lovely.

Glitch turns so they're beside each other but facing opposite direction, right to right, and holds up his right hands to be clasped, left fist planted on his hip.

"Well I don't recall getting an invitation to this shindig," he remarks with a more-coy-than-hurt pout. "So I feel forgiveness is warrented."

They are both wise beyond their years and young at heart: ageless and vibrant like the rolling Sea. Bagoas clasps the proffered hand, bumps hips with his friend, and lets the music lead the way.

"In that case, dearest Ambrose, you have my sincerest apologies."

Oh that's lovely, and Glitch leads them to turn on a balanced axis, step step hop, step step hop, but it can't go on because he'd really like a kiss and attempts to maneuver and claim one-

"Help! Thieves! Rapscallions!" The voice is thready but somehow commanding, and the minstrels gradually stop their playing. Glitch looks for the source of the cry and sees a haggard-looking old woman, hunched over and dressed in rags, making her way into the square.

Glitch glances to Bagoas and lowers their joined hands, then looks back to the woman, then, almost without his on volition, calls out: "What's happened??

"Bandits!" the woman clarifies and waves her gnarled walking stick. "They stopped me - me, a helpless old woman - on the road from the church, and took my purse. Naught in it but alms and a keepsake of my Georgie's hair, God rest 'im, but 'tis all I have in the world. Will no one get it back for me?"

Well. He looks back to his companion, frowning. "That sounds....adventuresome."

Bagoas takes a slow step back as his focus shifts from merriment and music to something much more concerning. He looks on, glancing from the old woman to Glitch and the others gathered there, and back again.

Well.

He looks to Glitch with a smile, and slides his hand through the crook of his arm. "I do believe we're in the right place for a bit of adventure. Shall we?"

He gestures at the woman and beyond. She in turn lights up like the sun itself, as they say, spilling all the details of her gruesome encounter. Within moments they are on their way.

"I wonder if this will be more like the adventure one dreamt of as a boy..."

Glitch is unsure what his dream adventures were, or if they existed, but it's not the moment to dwell on that. This was a time to see where the road would take them.

"I imagine it may be," he suggests brightly, eyeing the landscape for anything untoward. "Helping the helpless, righting wrongs...it's a good, proper quest."

Over the rise and around the bend she said, yes? Then a copse of trees on the left, the bandit's camp's suppose to be beyond that.

Bagoas is not the only citizen drawn by music. It's true that Jeremy's tastes run a little bit more Depeche Mode than medieval fife, but, music, he likes music, and he's taken World Music several times (once he even passed the class), so...

Have a tourist, by every bit of his body language. He's wandering around the Ren-Faire-esque toy village, eating what looks to be an enormous turkey drumstick, taking in the scenery with a blithe acceptance that is one part still a devout refusal to think about any of this too hard, and another part the acceptance of spectacle that comes when one lives in Las Vegas.

He stops to watch the dancers, the music. Taking bites of his turkey while tapping one foot and bobbing his head and watching the kid dancing with his boots in hands. Yeah. The sight tugs a smile to his face. Maybe he'll join in when he's done with lunch.

The kid dances like a wild thing; like someone who has stumbled across treasure not only in the metaphorical sense, and is living the moment to its fullest. His hair glimmers and gleams in the sun, a bundle of waves just waiting to twist and bend into curls given another inch or so of length: and when he raises his hands high, his sleeves reveal the silvery bracelet that sets him apart from the other performers. The song ends, the kid laughs, and wastes no time at all in voicing his appreciation. He drops his boots, beaming at the minstrels, pressing their hands one pair after the other. "Fantastic. A marvel unlike anything I have ever heard."

And when his bracelet gives a silent ding, he doesn't mind. They've more than earned a donation or two.

The music starts up again, and Bagoas bows, hand to heart, then bends to pick up his boots. Perchance to dance again, in a minute - then his eyes alight on a peculiar, chubby-cheeked, scruffy face, and a head of vivacious (if frizzy) curls that make him smile despite himself.

"Oh. Hello."

Jeremy is juggling his turkey drumstick, trying to find a way to hold it that will let him clap. He manages it just as Bagoas greets him-- he jams the drumstick sideways at his mouth, bites down, and now he has free (if greasy-and-sticky) fingers and hand with which to applaud, tada.

Hey, God totally intended man to use his mouth as a third grippy thing.

After clapping, Jeremy puts the turkey leg back in his hand and offers Bagoas a somewhat messy grin of greeting in turn.

"Hey yourself-- awesome dancing. Hold on, I gotta-- does nobody here at the Renfest believe in napkins--"

Jeremy looks around. No, Jeremy, they don't.

"Argh, sorry," he says, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve in lieu of anything classier. "Man, you never think your dad's right about how Grown Men Carry Handkerchieves, Son, until you're in a sitch like this, huh?"

Bagoas watches the peculiarly unkempt man (peculiar in the way he seems perfectly aware of etiquette despite not employing it), and finds himself utterly charmed.

He smiles, and inclines his head in polite deference to the other's anecdote. "No need. Where I come from, men carry arms, not handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs are left to ones such as myself."

"To dancers?" Jeremy adopts a wiggle that is by no means a good imitation of Bagoas's graceful undulations. "Dance of the seven veils, gaze deeply into my eyes and my... handkerchief!"

Another bite of turkey, chew-swallow-shrug. "Don't mind me, I'm just bullshitting. You dance professionally? Because you clearly should. I know girls in the clubs who couldn't pull off some of those moves."

He doesn't think he has ever been spoken to with such unwarranted familiarity and felt so at ease with it. He chortles despite himself, resisting the urge to put his face in his hands.

Instead he brushes the dust and dirt off his feet, replacing one boot after the other. He brings his eyes up, looking through dense black lashes. "I studied under the best trainer, but no, I am no dancer. Not in the professional sense."

Tilting his head to the side, Bagoas looks more directly at the disarmingly blunt man. For a moment he wonders if there's a chance at anything other than the polite interest already presented. Another moment has him wondering if longer hair would make any difference. "Can you guess what I am? I'll even provide clues, if you'd like them."

Edited 2013-02-27 10:15 (UTC)

Jeremy absorbs all this, and plops down cross-legged onto the packed earth of the central square, squinting up at the doe-eyed young man (? mental question mark appended to that, in his head) with the Mediterranean coloring.

He's reminded a little of Metody-- the overall delicacy of face and limb, the features that are too pretty for most guys he's known. With Metody he'd come down mentally on the side of 'female'. Here he's leaning the other way, although the longer he looks at the kid he's not entirely sure what detail is making him think that.

This kid's a little taller, and dark where Metody's all bleached-goth-pale. Jeremy thinks of Candy back in Vegas, Candy-who-is-Jimmy when off the stage, but no, it's not right, Candy has an Adam's apple despite the otherwise-pretty-damn-convincing makeup and fake boobs and all. No such tell-tale bump here.

Jeremy's gaze flicks to hands, chest, hips, then back to Bagoas's face, thinking of other Vegas friends. The drumstick hangs in one hand, semi-forgotten in the little challenge the kid's given him.

"Transgender?" he half-asks, half-jokes at last.

And Bagoas follows suit, delicately smoothing the back of his coat along the backs of his thighs that it may provide as something for him to sit on that isn't the bare ground. He watches, big brown eyes following in the wake of the blue gaze.

Here he reveals a slim wrist; here the hint of delicate collar bone and neck - but he sees the man look and understand. It should be obvious enough, and here is someone who at least seems to know what so many others have failed to grasp.

And then he falls just short. Bagoas grins, reaching over to press hand to knee in brief reassurance. "No. But you are not far off the mark. I am Bagoas of Susa, son of Artembares, son of Araxis." He inclines his head, lowers his eyes to the ground between them before lifting easily.

"A eunuch, and former servant of kings; at your service."

fuck yeah hurdy-gurdies

don't I know it XD

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