Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes In A Broken Dollhouse" - [Grace I]

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Grace I]

The scent of death faded, almost in mockery of the deadened landscape, dotted with myriad new gravestones, blank markers of mass graves with initials carved where corpses could be identified. It was nigh impossible to tell what was really over; the crisis, or the lives of the survivors. 

Wheelbarrows creaked like the floorboards of empty households, sheltering memories of families now gone, hooked by the end of a scythe reaping lifetimes away from undeserving victims of fate. No Mother’s embrace could hide the dead children away from the memory of their killer. Grace could hear moans underground, pitched in a choir of distraught babes, embraced by a maker they thought cruel. 

Grace wondered if she felt the same. Amidst overgrown ashen swish and white whip, feeling the phantom of Saburov’s hand on her shoulder, urging her to accomplish what needed to be done. For the sake of the town. 

She questioned what town could be left, with so much of it buried.

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Anna Angel I]

Anna Angel watched the scenery outside her window. Scenery seemed more accurate than “world”, a still snapshot of a landscape inhabited by figures out of focus. Her window was a painting, the sill a picture frame. Life only went on between her tall walls and haphazard furniture spread to occupy room and give her shapes to remember. 

Sometimes she wondered why she didn't feel vindicated by the Outbreak.

For all her tenure in the wretched town, she'd stubbornly held fast to the paradigm that existence was out to destroy her, eroding her skin to sink into the sinful core of her very self. A plague ravaging her hideaway seemed only fair, as far as divine punishment went, heedless of what the Changeling might say in regards to a life's worth. Anna wasn't worth even sacrificing. 

The thought fell flat, like one of the myriad blank canvases leaning against her walls, accumulating dust until it tipped the weight into a plunge. Thunk. Regardless of who deserves to live or die, here she stood. There was no victory in being proven right in thinking the world was cruel and unjust, only the certainty that she was as well. 

Anna Angel felt as though she was one with reality: transparent, fragile and oh so overestimated. Life moved past her with nary a whisper, and she looked into the world. Anna saw nothing. 

Translation - Play: "Death of the Roses" [Khan and Andrey Dialogue/Conceptual 'Analysis' of the Polyhedron]

From a play I was writing about the Lilich sisters, the Mistresses and the Polyhedron

Andrey followed Caspar into his father’s study, his head tilted to look at the boy directly. “Don’t be like that, boy. You’re still young but there has to be somebody that interests you. Life is about more than just studying all day, or whatever it is you do. The best thing about being human is other human beings.”

Caspar grimaced. “Every time you visit I remember why my mother likes you and my father can’t stand your company.” He spoke with complete disregard to how Andrey smirked at his words.

“Ah, but I left a strong enough impression for them both to speak of me. Did Miss Maria comment about me, by any chance?” 

The young Kain hesitated, lips thinning. “Yes… But I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

They stopped before Victor’s desk, prompting him to look up to regard them both with an even stare.

“Father. Mr Stamatin wanted to speak with you.” The glacial formality of his tone and stiffness of his posture seemed unsuited to the occasion. Andrey elbowed the boy, spiting the seriousness he bore around himself. “How many times have I told you to call me Andrey, pipsqueak.”

Victor completely disregarded the clash of personalities happening before him with the ease of a man married to what would arguably be the biggest personality in town. “Thank you for bringing him here, son.” A subtle dismissal.

Caspar started to retreat before Andrey settled his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The boy can stay, he’s big enough to listen to us talk shop.” He disregarded the boy’s wide eyes and stiffened shoulder.

“Very well, then. What brings you to the Crucible, Andrey?” It was hard to discern if he spoke with apathy or resignation.

Andrey cracked his neck before speaking, making his present company wince. “I thought I ought to warn one of you, and I’m aware your brothers are more deeply invested in this, but decided to check in with yourself.” The way he explained himself seemed to be to nobody’s benefit, perhaps just to extend the exchange. “The Polyhedron is almost complete and ready to be erected.”

Victor spoke evenly, but his eyes reflected reticence. “It’s hard not to be invested in a project the scale of the Polyhedron, but proceed.”

“I’ll take that as a taciturn adherence to my brother’s ambition.” The architect’s tone indicated he took pride in that fact, even as he deferred credit to Peter. “Now, before I continue, I’d like confirmation on how much you’re willing to invest in this.”

“A lot, according to our expenses.” Victor spoke flatly, just enough subtlety not to seem rude.

Andrey’s expression remained pleasant. “Yes, of course, and Peter and I are grateful, but my question possesses a more… Metaphysical meaning.” 

“Metaphysical.” Victor echoed.

“Metaphysical.” Andrey repeated, perhaps only to be vague.

The men stared at each other at an impasse, Andrey with a slightly smug smile. Caspar turned to him after avoiding his gaze since he arrived, a sort of childish spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What metaphysical price could a construction have?”

The architect broke eye contact with Victor to clap a hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “Good boy, great question. Let’s say that a building in this scale had immense potential for mutation. Its mere existence is a crime against nature, which brings me great pride and completes my curriculum of illicit activities in this life, for now.”

“Your point being?” Victor asked, rubbing his forehead with a sigh.

Andrey tilted his head down, making Caspar feel patronized. “What does the younger master Kain think?”

The boy seemed pensive. “Everything that rises, falls. If the tower won’t, it isn’t going to follow the laws of physics.”

“Precisely!” His voice was excited, not a hint of indulgence to be found.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “This is absurd, Andrey. Honestly, I thought you were working within the parameters of the realm of possibility.”

“An anecdote from the life of a charlatan, Victor: if the rules don’t favor you, change the game.” He was fully serious.

“What you’re doing isn’t a change of game, it’s cheating the laws of physics.”

“And I tell you, as an architect, that it’s entirely within our capacities. The circumstances around here seem to favor the strange and absurd.” There was a joy in Andrey’s aura that was rarely witnessed in the Kain home.

Victor spoke slowly, as if dreading what he would unleash. “I suppose you would know a bit more about the strange and absurd than me.” A sigh. “Very well, proceed with my tolerance, but don’t exaggerate.”

Andrey chuckled. “I think you maybe should’ve said that before my brother invented an inverted tower that cannot collapse.”

“As if I didn’t know.” Victor seemed to age as the conversation went on. “Make yourself at home, I need to speak to my brothers about this matter.” He waited for no reply as he took a sheaf of notes from his desk and walked out of the room with even strides.

Caspar relaxed noticeably and took his father’s seat, leaning back on the chair and crossing his legs, feet resting on the polished surface of the desk, fishing a travel-sized book from his pocket and opening it with the smooth motion of someone who took such a posture frequently. Andrey thumbed through the stacks of paperwork on the desk lazily, humming.

“When my father said to make yourself at home, I hardly think he meant ‘Of course, Andrey, please suit yourself to my personal documents with no regard to the privacy of the family’.” The boy spoke as if it were an absentminded thought but with an authoritative tone.

Andrey chuckled. “I’d take your criticism more seriously if you weren’t sitting pretty in his chair without lifting a finger to impede me, boy.”

“I don’t involve myself in the affairs of adults.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand if you want to be a contemporary Peter Pan or if you simply can’t wait for the moment you obtain the authority of seniority over others.” Andrey spoke as if he himself didn’t believe what he said, and it was only for the sake of responding.

They looked at each other for a moment, sizing the other up. “The Polyhedron will be ruled by the rules of which game, in the end?”

“We’re not sure yet. Peter says the tower will sustain itself like a flower, following biological precepts and forming its own lifelong fibers. He was always more creative than me, after all, he was the one who devised the Rose.” Andrey looked out the window, a grounded wistfulness tainting him.

Caspar narrowed his eyes at the avoidance. “And what do you think? You’re the architect who put the idea into practice.”

Andrey waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t know, but if pressed I’d say it’s a process a bit less organic. No, perhaps it could be organic, but certainly not natural. Let’s say I’m of the opinion that a sort of alchemy is possible in this specific case. The ascension of an object to a standard unreachable in nature itself, but at a cost.”

The book in Caspar’s grasp was closed audibly, and when he spoke, it was with intrigue. “Alchemy? Chemistry, you mean. The Polyhedron will suffer a transformation mediated by a sort of energy exchange?”

“Someone’s been studying.” The man said in lieu of an answer.

Caspar mirrored the prior dismissive hand gesture. “I’m surprised you have any interest in chemistry as an area of research.”

“How do you think I discovered the best ways to produce alcohol at home, squirt?” 

Caspar’s eye twitched. “You’re a questionable individual.” He firmly set his book down on the desk. “What could the Polyhedron possibly lack to become an edifice, then?”

Andrey rubbed his chin in consideration. “It lacks nothing, necessarily, only time. Let’s say we want to catalyze a process that is already in motion.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t a natural process.” Caspar countered, slightly bewildered.

“Not yet, but given enough time everything becomes possible, and therefore impossible. Your uncles wanted the tower to be constructed in our time by our hands, and I admit I’m interested in seeing it in our lifetime. Lucky for us, my brother and I were born in the right place at the right time.” Not a trace of smugness could be found in his demeanor, only sincerity. 

Caspar tilted his head. “And what’s the catalyst?”

Andrey sat down on the desk and crossed his arms, settling in for a long conversation. “We’re not sure.”

“Your reticence points to the contrary.” The boy got up from his seat, eyes narrowed.

“Do you read the dictionary for fun, punk?”

Silence. Caspar crossed his arms and stared into Andrey’s eyes. The architect threw his hands up exasperatedly. “Bah! You’re persistent like your mother, and your dad’s dead eyed stare doesn’t help the matter.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I find it helps a lot.” Caspar spoke with a straight face, but he exuded smugness.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, you have her sharp tongue and his obtuse determination. Unbearable, a union straight from Hell.” Andrey was clearly more peeved than actually unsettled.

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “Yes, and you’re intimately familiarized with Hell, seeing as you came directly from there.”

The man paused before guffawing good-naturedly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Speaking to you is always a pleasant surprise, kid.”

“Pleasant enough to incentivize you to tell me what the catalyst is?” He didn’t even try to mask the cloying in his tone.

“You know, if there’s one thing we have in common it’s that when I was your age I was a lot like you, despite the precocious sense of humor. You’re clearly not going to give up, so I’ll tell you our hypothesis, but this stays between us and you’re not going to make any smart comments.”

He waited for Caspar to nod before continuing. “You’re asking the wrong question, we’d been doing so for a good while. It’s not about what the catalyst, but who. Peter agrees that the Rose requires human care, but we think such an edifice can only be cultivated by the hands of someone truly exceptional.”

Andrey thumbed the straps of his suspenders as he spoke warmly. “We had a colleague, Farkhad. a phenomenal architect. You might’ve heard that he was the one responsible for a decent part of the most impressive constructions around here. The Cathedral and the Stillwater were works made by his skilled hands.”

“I never understood the Cathedral. It’s not as if it’s a monument to a specific deity.”

“Of course not, boy. Time is a transcendental power in itself. If it suits you, you can even make a statuette dedicated to Kronos and erect an altar there.” Andrey was transparently making light of Caspar.

The boy disregarded the jab with an eyeroll. “Isn’t it a bit contradictory? A space dedicated to time?”

“Ask your uncles, they’re the ones who requested it be built. They wanted a space where time doesn’t pass within, but that alters its passage without.” He closed his eyes as if he could feel the flow of time on his face.

“And the Stillwater?” Caspar tapped his foot impatiently.

Andrey cracked one eyelid open with mirth. “Ah, that’s a bit more complex.”

“Is it?” A genuine query. “Isn’t it just a hostel? I know it can function as an observatory.” The comment would almost come off as haughty, were it not blunt.

“The Stillwater could be considered a Polyhedron prototype-” 

Caspar piped up, almost excited by the prospect of having something to add. “But weren’t the staircases to nowhere also prototypes? I heard my uncles talking about it.”

“A project so big as to shelter a human soul must have at least a hundred blueprints, fifty mockups, twenty prototypes and two iterations. The Stillwater was Farkhad’s.” Andrey’s claim weighed like absolute truth, as if those were tenets he lived by. Caspar supposed at least he followed some code of conduct, albeit only as an architect and not a moral person.

The boy hummed. “I don’t see the resemblance. The Stillwater is short and round, not a single edge. The Polyhedron is made up of at least 70% sharp edges and it towers over clouds, in the right weather conditions.”

Andrey seemed nonplussed by the skepticism. “Yes, and see the ingenuity of its concept. Farkhad thought that a building with the objective of hosting a human soul and nurturing its growth and ascension should be flat, to serve as a foundation and anchor the individual. The task of ascending would consequently be left to the inhabitant themself.”

Caspar’s expression cracked, perturbed. “But isn’t that the place where nobody can stand to stay for a long period of time?”

“Yes, which is why the idea was discarded.” The architect didn’t seem concerned about the fact. “The new guest shows a remarkable resistance to its adverse effects, I hope she stays. Miss Eva Yan is lovely company.” Caspar frowned at his smirk. “But don’t disconsider the importance of the house, its influence demonstrates that there’s merit in the idea that the spaces we inhabit have a profound effect on us.”

“Does this include our estate?” The boy looked around meaningfully.

Andrey spoke with mirth. “Worried?”

“Not at all.” His voice wavered, but his stance was firmly prideful. “The house is ours, it’s under our rules.” 

“I don’t doubt the young master can command his place of residence, but you underestimate the influence of the walls that surround us.” He grinned and leaned forward. “What makes you think the way you behave now isn’t entirely the influence of your environment?”

Caspar shivered visibly, the silence amplifying the weight of the words. “...You’re just trying to disturb me.”

“And I’m accomplishing it.” Andrey seemed delighted by the fact. “But that’s your opinion, maybe I’m trying to teach you something here.”

“I’d believe that more if you had expressed any interest in my education prior to this moment.” Caspar replied, retreating into the comfortable pace of idle banter.

can you come dance with me dude. are you man enough to fucking come dance with me. are you too much of a coward to hold my hand.

slow-danceable OST of my mind

Abandoned: "The Rule of Threes" - [Changeling PoV]

Heads up, this is a very old work that I wrote on a whim. It does touch on the implied romantic feelings between underage character, which I would not consider an issue At All, but I thought I might mention it. I don't really care much for this piece of writing, I wrote it on the side as I was making my own longfic, but maybe someone would enjoy it.

Clara had come to learn, in all her short time in the Town on Gorkhon, that there were few concepts so prevalent as what she came to dub the “Law of Threes”; if there was something or someone of note, it would always come in triads and trinities. Three families, with their three Mistresses, three members, three brothers, or some other trio (she almost convinced herself that her prior adoption by the Saburovs was a desperate attempt at bringing a third person to their family, a fruitless effort at cosmic legitimacy); the town was split in three parts, three neighborhoods to house the families and their nuclei of supporters, with distinctly different atmospheres and layouts, planned by three architects, although one of them died a long time ago, supposedly at the hands of the Stamatins, if Saburov was to be believed; even innocuous things like the three blonde women that each lived in a very different part of town seemed distinctly mystical to Clara (she almost came to think of them as the Dames to rival the Mistresses, distinctly less powerful yet somehow notable in presence; Eva seemed a tad frightened by the concept, while Yulia found her observations amusing, and Anna thought Clara insane, which was rich coming from her.)

One could imagine this was a product of a particularly cooperative drive amidst the townsfolk in the past and that these structures, coincidental or not, would soon go out of function. And yet. Three future Mistresses, three community leaders amongst the younger crowd with three very different approaches to power. The Kin had three leaders, although Burakh was sure to upset that balance, the Kains were still mourning a third of their patriarchs, the Olgimskys had three members with wildly opposing values. It came to her attention that she was a third of a whole herself, alongside the Bachelor and the Haruspex. So, she concluded it was part of the Town's nature, a Law upheld above all else. All things, when on the Gorkhon, will come in threes. 

Armed with this knowledge unknown or unacknowledged by most, Clara resolved to do as she did best: use it to cause mischief and further her goals. She wanted to have fun. 

Clara almost kept her conclusions to herself, but she wasn't surprised when one day Capella approached the bench she napped on with unhurried footsteps. The Changeling's nap had been somewhat fruitless, visions misting over her rest and leaving her drained, but it did leave her with a premonition of a visit by another clairvoyant. Clara lifted her feet for Capella to sit but lowered them again, putting her ragged boots over her lap. Capella seemed unconcerned about the dirt smudging her skirt. “You're restless.”

“And whose fault is that?” Clara spoke lightly, yawn breaking any tension in the phrase. “I’ve made a rather interesting discovery about the nature of society in the town, quite groundbreaking in theory. I can almost feel myself becoming the Bachelor with how scientific my research is.”

Capella raised an eyebrow elegantly, smiling indulgently down at Clara with her ginger hair fluttering in the wind. Clara almost felt ashamed about how much of an urchin she looked like in comparison to Victoria. “Do go on. I felt something stirring around here, I'm not surprised it was your mind.” Mistresses were quite nosy, weren't they? “I suppose so, although if you find it bothersome you might see fit to ask me not to meddle, Clara.” 

“You contradict yourself by reading my thoughts, Capella dearest. Did your mother not teach you any manners?” Capella's eyes widened for a moment, probably due to the callousness with which Clara spoke of her dear mother. Sometimes she forgot how her directness seemed to others: offensive, provocative, disrespectful. She'd never met Victoria Sr., she felt like she was more a legend than a person, to be spoken of with no need for much delicacy. Capella shook her head and hummed. 

“You're right, that was disrespectful of my part. I'll abstain from looking into your thoughts when I can, although I'm not a paragon of control yet. Sometimes things just appear to me.” Clara knew it to be true, their abilities were unwieldy at the best of times. “Tell me, then, what have you discovered?” 

Clara clicked her tongue and sat up, practically perching on the other girl's lap with one arm around her shoulders, other hand gesturing as she spoke. “I haven't been here for too long, but I've made note of a peculiar phenomenon. See, everything around here is organized in threes.”

Capella's eyes widened slightly. “So you've noticed too. I could swear everybody knows and just doesn't speak of it, but when I asked my brother, he seemed confused!” She reached to grasp Clara's hand, unknowingly short-circuiting the smaller girl's brain. “Oh, how exciting! Maybe Maria knows, and this is just a Mistress thing. You should ask Katerina, seeing as she was the first third Mistress. Maybe it has something to do with her.” 

Clara chuckled. “I doubt it's related to that, maybe we only noticed because we're both observant.” Capella hummed in doubt. “But if every Mistress is observant, I guess your point still stands, White Mistress Olgimskaya Junior.” Her laugh sounded like a small silver bell, clear and pleasant, the exact opposite of the Cathedral's oppressive strike at that moment. 

“It's been lovely, Clara, but I must go. I'm quite busy today. If you ever wish to chat or have tea, you're always welcome at the Lump.” Capella gently pushed Clara's legs from her lap and daintily extracted herself from the arm that held her. She smiled at the Changeling as she turned away, and Clara was left somewhat forlorn. 

If locals could sometimes notice the Law, Clara decided she was fit to ask her own compatriots if they noticed it too, starting with the Haruspex. She followed him into his lair one day, carrying a stack of finely plucked twyre on her arms, scarf over her nose after her third sneeze. Offering to help him was a sacrifice necessary to gain his trust, even if the odor of the weeds was overwhelming. 

As the man set down a messenger bag on the table and removed his, in her opinion, absolutely hideous smock, he spoke. “Now, what do you want? I'm familiar enough with your behavior to know you're not helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I'll have you know I'm very kind! I'm a saint, a healer, kindness is in my nature, just as it is in yours.” She dropped the twyre unceremoniously and sat on a nearby crate, heels rhythmically tapping the wood. “But it is true my intentions aren't the purest. See, I've made an observation and I'd like to know what you think of it.” He looked over his shoulder at her with a raised brow, hands still sorting the contents of his bag. “It's come to my attention that the town has a recurring motif of threes. Three Mistresses, three families, three healers, three sections. Have you noticed?”

His movements stilled for a moment, and he seemed to process the information before speaking slowly. “I mean, sure, I've noticed, but it doesn't mean anything. It's at most a coincidence, I'd say.” She scoffed. He lacked any sort of creativity, honestly. Did the world not dazzle him with its intricate mysteries? He was of such a simple mind. “Besides, it's always been this way, but it's such a tenuous and vague concept. I had three close friends, there are three layers to the body, it feels more like a pattern we assign to things with no bigger implications.” 

“Fair enough.” She slid down her perch and dusted her skirt, ignoring how he frowned at the torn garment. “I must be going, then. This has been enlightening, Haruspex.” She heard him mutter his own name dejectedly. Clara waved and began ascending up the staircase, brought to a halt by a blond boy at the top.

Sticky adjusted the weight of a backpack on his shoulder, looking her up and down before casually speaking. “The kids know about the three thing. Not in a mystical supernatural sort of way, more of a game made out of an observation.” She hummed, tilting her head to prompt him to continue. “There's this tradition, I guess you could call it, where kids and teenagers noticed that once you get to the point of liking people, the first is almost always one of three.”

“Wait, what? As in, when kids get their first love, it's always the same?” That was compelling. Color her piqued. “Who?”

“Not love, necessarily? It's more of a crush, an attraction. I think you could guess who, even if the list sometimes changes, but it's pretty much always Khan, Capella or Notkin.” It made sense, they were the oldest of the current children, the leaders of many impressionable kids, attractive visually and personally, in theory. 

Sticky seemed to grow nervous as Clara thought about it, fidgeting in place. She looked at him intensely, smile in place that clearly conveyed she wanted him to elaborate on something; he was smart enough to catch on and scoffed. “Why do you need to know mine? It's not relevant.” The Changeling leaned forward, noting how she was taller than him, but he would probably outgrow her soon enough. What a silly giddiness she felt as she thought that her life would go on after her first weeks of awareness; what a gift to be alive. “...It was Capella! God, stop looking at me like that!” He stomped down the stairs, huffing when greeted by Artemy. 

He'd lied, of course. It would be embarrassing for a boy as headstrong and rationally minded as him to admit his true feelings, especially since they were probably still in place, even if dimmed under the light of maturity. Capella makes sense as an easy object of anyone's affections; she was pretty and kind, trusting, patient, graceful and radiant, her manners were impeccable but her mind was sharp, and as a Mistress, she had an air of mysticism and excitement about her; Capella was very clearly a superior choice to anyone who thought it through rationally. 

Sticky knew that, and he also knew it would be somewhat shameful to admit he liked Notkin better despite it, but it was clear as day to Clara, a thread she could pull on until his feelings unraveled before her very eyes. It was adorable to witness Sticky in such a way after all his efforts at being taken seriously and acting mature. A whisper in her own voice told her she was biased, but she paid it no mind as she exited the dark abandoned factory to be greeted by sunlight. 

She sighed into the clear air, humming to herself as she thought of how this little investigation was progressing. Locals could notice these things, many of them with a variety of opinions or observations pertaining to it; the Law was known and observed, even indulged in by the younger crowd, yet one question remained: do the subjects of speculation notice the phenomenon pertaining to them? She'd have to ask the three involved, get a good sample of responses to understand this further. Scientific research was beginning to become fun and exciting. 

Capella was easy to reach, even without attempting to contact her mystically or some such, especially given the open invitation she’d given. Clara found herself in the Lump on a golden afternoon, crisp wind filtering into Capella's room and fluttering her curtains. Clara caught a stray piece of paper flying towards her as she entered, sheet music from where the other girl was playing the piano elegantly, hair caressed by the breeze and voice humming along with the ivory keys. The Changeling placed the sheet back where it belonged and promptly spoke, careless of the soothing song her voice cut. “Were you aware of how a third or so of the younger population has at one point been enamored with you?”

Victoria smiled. “Perhaps. Of course, it's not my business, per se, but I am well aware of the fact. It's become tradition at this point. It's amusing, if anything.” As expected of one as well informed as her. Clara thought of her next question with no intention of speaking it aloud. “Ah, but you must be wondering if the rule applies to me as well. I've pondered it myself, but I just can't seem to convince myself I truly find myself attracted to either of them. I think it has to do with how I perceive girls and boys differently, although I can understand how Notkin and Caspar can be seen as attractive in a distant, clinical way.”

“So then who was your first?” Clara asked, sitting on the window sill, scarf fluttering. “If you can come to that conclusion it must've been prompted by someone.”

Capella stopped playing the piano, closing the lid gently and looking at her companion. Clara felt pierced by her light eyes. “Grace, a long time ago. More recently, Maria. Although I urge you not to tell Khan about it, I'm not sure he'd take the information well.” She crossed her legs and sighed. “Regardless, I have no intention of following through on any designs. I have responsibilities above my own whims, and I have enough love to spare without a paramour in the mix.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, skin pink. “Although circumstances might change. The future is uncertain.” 

Clara felt her ears ringing with unspoken potential in the quiet room. She laughed to distract from her fluttering heart, shameful and imprecise. “If even the future White Mistress can't discern the future, God bless the poor souls of the world outside.”

The Changeling stayed a while to opine on Capella's songs, some original, some even having accompanying lyrics. She left the Lump with her hands warm and her voice humming new songs. Next mark: Khan. 

The Polyhedron loomed, as it always did, and Clara almost had second thoughts about climbing the hundreds of stairs until a Doghead standing watch spoke up. “Scared?” Maera spoke with amusement more than mockery, but Clara still bristled slightly. 

“Of course not! I just wonder how cold it must be so high up. I intend to find out.” her legs carried her up, her ascent slow and contemplative. Kids played on the platforms all along the structure, making up realities of their own make; someday they'd be put down onto the ground for the last time, and then it'd grow ever more difficult to make their dreams come to reality. Clara imagined Khan would resent the powerlessness of adulthood in the future, but perhaps the gains would make up for the losses. 

At the top of the Tower stood Khan, profile backlit by the coming sunset, posture regal and distant; Clara thought she wasn't imagining the small group of kids huddled nearby was whispering while watching him. She had her answer, but it'd be nice to get it from his mouth, so she stood next to him, head tilted to look into his eyes from her lower vantage point. He was short, but she was shorter; it was somewhat irritating. “You have admirers.” She simply stated. 

Caspar Kain sighed, eyes drifting to her with coldness. His hand retreated from his pocket and he idly swung a stopwatch as he spoke, tone even. “I'm well aware. Why do you care?”

“It's common for it to be one of you three. Do you know why that is?” She was curious what his observations would be, being that he was someone who liked knowing and dissecting things. “Are there rules to it?”

He turned to her, and consequently to where the group was watching him; Clara heard snickering and running footsteps behind her. “It's likely due to our notoriety, children often grow attached to figures of authority. Besides that, us three are very different, so we have what could crudely be called broad appeal. It helps that we're all… genetically fortunate.” He coughed into his fist, averting his eyes momentarily before composing himself. “It's nothing mystical or magical, if that's why you're interested. People like sorting things into groups of three, it has to do with social psychology and analytical tendencies, nothing about it is supernatural.” He seemed peeved by the idea, and the way he said it pointed to this being a relatively old argument of his. Clara imagined he and Capella disagreed quite a bit on such things. 

“You say that, yet you live in a Tower that Cannot Be. You lack imagination, Khan, sorry to say.” She was not sorry in the least, and by his raised eyebrow she knew he could tell. “But I concede that it may not be anything especially magical beyond the quirks of the Town.”

Khan pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, moving to sit on a chair nearby. Clara perched herself on the arm of his seat, clearly too close for comfort, but she only gestured for him to go on. He hesitated for a second before relenting. “You asked about rules, but I wager you mean tendencies. Rules are enforced while tendencies are followed naturally; in which case there are some observable tendencies. Almost always it's one of us three, very frequently it'll be the one who's closest to the person, say, one of my Dogheads for me or a Soul-and-a-Half for Notkin, it's common for it to not last long, those sorts of things. Really, it's all quite pedestrian.” he spoke with an air of indifference, which would fool anyone who wasn't paying attention to the amount of thought he clearly put into this. He looked at her with irritation. “Stop looking at me like that, you're just like Capella and Maria.”

She raised her eyebrows in faux surprise, smiling lightly. “And if everyone's aware of it, are there any enforced rules?” 

He glared at her and spoke with a tone of voice too serious for the subject at hand. “Only one that you need to be aware of, in my opinion. Don't tell Notkin.” There was a story behind that for sure; Clara grew giddy at the thought of uncovering it. 

“Ah, so he's clueless. To what extent? If we suppose even you three went through it once, does he not know of his own inclinations? Does he not know he's involved?” She paused, laying her chin on his shoulder and speaking impishly. “Or does he not know he was yours?”

Clara retreated as he stiffened, standing up and stretching as the final rays of light shed their last warmth over them. She looked over her shoulder and snickered at his flushed cheeks and scandalized expression; Khan avoided her gaze and retreated into the safety of his domain, waving a hand at her in dismissal. He hadn't denied her claim, though. Only one more person to visit. 

Night falling was usually indicative that one should avoid the Warehouse district, clutch their own coin purse and be on their way home. Seeing as Clara had neither good sense, a coin purse, or a home, she strutted right into the lantern-lit alleys in the direction of the home of the Soul-and-a-Halves. The door was skewed open, so she knocked lightly and entered, greeted by the sounds of critters and the chatter of children; the cacophony would be disconcerting if she didn't find it endearing, and she whistled as she approached the back of the warehouse, turning the corner to see Notkin holding Jester with one hand and a potato in the other. 

“Now what might be going on in here?” Clara asked, voice colored with amusement as the boy separated his arms farther apart, much to the apparent dismay of his Half, who yowled and flailed uselessly, pitifully caught by the scruff. Notkin glared at the cat before very aggressively taking a bite of the potato, crunch audible even in the loud warehouse. The potato was raw. Jester stilled and Notkin let him go, the cat's tail dragging on the floor as it wandered away disappointedly. 

The boy sat down on a crate, chewing through his sentence. “What brings you here so late?” He took another bite of the root, which made Clara laugh. “Don't laugh, this is my hard-earned meal! Jester, the little imp, tried to take away what's rightfully mine.”

Clara nodded sagely, gloved hand covering her amused smile as she spoke. “Of course, the raw potato of kings! A luxury compared to what I've had to eat to stay alive before.” Their eyes met with the solidarity of street urchins, shared experience and struggle. “But that's not what I'm here for.”

Notkin gestured for her to sit before him and go on, sitting himself down behind a crude desk. “You always come around at weird times, ya know? Makes one suspicious.”

“Whatever could you mean?” He rolled his eyes at her. “It's not my fault most times are weird around this town, there's always something interesting going on.”

Notkin huffed, tossing the uneaten half of the potato to her. “Tell that to the Bachelor, he seems to think this place is boring.” He took out a knife and a crude lump of wood, seemingly to resume a whittling project of some sort. The silence was indicative of how she should be filling it.

“Khan or Capella?” If she ought not tell him, perhaps she need only ask.

Notkin chewed in thought before speaking. “Capella's kinder, Khan's smarter. She's nice, he's cool. She takes too long to make decisions but he doesn't think too far ahead. They're both pretty.” The boy kept mumbling before tilting his head. Clara bit down on the potato and almost choked when he said, with an air of finality. “Why not both?”

Clara could see the issue. “Fair enough.” When her friend only clicked his tongue impatiently, she offered “Personally, I'd choose Capella.” with a shrug. 

Concept art sketch thing for a Pathologic Dinosaur au that I am working on.

I had the idea to turn Executors into the Quetzalcoatlus bc… why not?

[The Quetzalcoatlus was about the size of a giraffe and was indeed able to fly, which is pretty cool]