What the Future Holds

"I think my name is Dahlia..." The girl trailed off, staring out the window near the bed. "And I don't think I have a home."

So many thoughts were rushing through her head.

Where could she go?

What was she going to do?

She couldn't count on these people to take care of her forever...

"When will I be well enough to leave?" She questioned.

Growing Concern

Raelene raised her eyebrows. Was it really that bad? She had seen the wound on the girl's head, but it hadn't seemed like any more than a scrape and a bump. She'd dealt with newcomers with lost memories before, but this girl's injuries weren't near as bad as some of their's... But who was she to question? There was a lot she didn't understand, especially about the people Kivuli dug up.

She gently lifted up the shirt they'd changed the girl into last night, loosening the bandages around the girl's waist to inspect the stab wound. No blood, good. It seemed to have clotted well under the stitches, and with luck, it wouldn't get infected... She dabbed her fingers into her mortar, smearing the cold yellowish paste over the opening. "Sawrry if that stings," she said. "I promise it'll help, though."

She continued to busy herself with little tasks, swiping a rag over the floor again, taking a bucket of bloody bandages out to the porch. A few of the other employees hurriedly jumped to looking busy as she stepped outside, and she furrowed her brow. They were catching on. She hoped Nocona would be back soon; he could always scatter the nosy ones like flies.

Poor girl. Raelene could only hope she was ready for this madness.

She stepped back inside, pouring herself a handful of water, which she downed as she took a seat on the chair next to the pile of hay. "So, do you remember your name?" she asked carefully. "Or anything we could use to help get you home?"

A Story

Dahlia closed her eyes tightly and tried to think.

"I... I don't know." She shook her head and remembered the other night when she had previously failed to recall her past.

"It honestly feels like there is nothing there to remember. Everything starts with... Kivuli."

Connections

Raelene chuckled lightly.

"Geographically speakin', you're about a mile from the edge of London. To be more spa'ciffic, though," she added, turning to refill the girl's water glass from a jug by the bed. "You're at the camp of The Stars of the Devil. You might'a seen our posters up around town." She took a scrap of cloth and quickly wiped off the floor, hanging the dirty rag off the open window. "And in our ringmaster, Kivuli's, wagon. Pretty rare honor, there." The young lady gave a playful look with raised eyebrows, a wry smile on her lips. "He was the one what brought you over. Found you'd been attacked in the city and all. But don't you worry about nothin'. He don't want you to owe him. He's just a good man like that." She said the last statement softer than the others, her eyes becoming somewhat wistful as she looked out the window. It seemed an unconscious action as she rested her hand on her stomach, before quickly removing it and resuming her work.

She leaned over Dahlia, asking quickly, "Can I see the cut? Now that you're awake, I'd like to reapply the painkillers..." She reached for her mortar and pestle, which had been absentmindedly set in on the bedside table in the hubbub the night before. She began grinding ingredients, and said quietly,

"So, what's your story? You might as well work out the kinks before the rest of the circus catches wind of you and starts askin'." She winked and smiled in a way that made it very difficult to tell how serious she was.

A new source of information

Dahlia allowed herself to be helped back into the bed.

She eased onto her back and winced as the movement pulled the stiches in her side ever so slightly.

She could hear the girl moving about the room when she thought to ask, "Where am I? Who brought me here? How could I even begin to repay him..."

Raelene

The woman, who could actually hardly be called such, being noticeably younger than Dahlia, quickly reached out, catching the girl's arm before she was beyond her reach. Her hands were quite rough, and though her grip was strong, there was no malice or anger in it. There was only support and a desire to help.

"No no, it's okay Miss," she said softly through her accent. "I can clean it up. You need to keep lying down for now. We don't want that cut in your side to open back up..." Her voice trailed off as she rose to help the girl stand, offering to guide her back to the bed.

She was quite tall for a lady, especially since she could not have been older than seventeen. She looked like a willow tree; long and thin with a long fringe of wispy hair hanging in her face. She was very tan, and that silky mane of her's was almost the same color as her skin, with only tiny sections bleached by the sun. Her eyes were strikingly bright even through it, like a cat's in the moonlight. And so green, like wine bottles or sea glass or black magic. They were softened with empathy, though, and her silent pleading echoed from them like a distant drumbeat.

Instinct

Again, all she felt was pain.

Her head ached, her side burned, and she felt nauseous.

She felt bile rising in her throat, thick and acidic.

She rolled on her side and retched on the floor. The nausea was quickly replaced by guilt and fear.

There was a mess in a room that was not her home, and she had caused it.

Would they be upset with her? Would they scold her? Throw her out?

She tried to sit up, tried to bolt towards the door, but only succeeded in tumbling to the ground, thankfully missing the puddle of sick on the floor.

Her limbs were shaking so severely that she could barely support her own weight as she pushed her torso off of the hay littered wood.

She saw a woman sitting in the chair on the other side of the room who seemed to be startled into waking by the loud "thunk" Dahlia's body made when it hit the floor.

Dahlia's eyes widened as she attempted to scoot away.

Reclamation

Her head came dangerously close to the headboard before Kivuli jumped up to catch it. Belakane made a disgusted hiss from the corner she had been tossed to and dismissed herself through the open door, content to be ignored for the time being.

Kivuli gently set her head onto his pillow, sitting on the edge of the bedframe. He shuddered slightly as he pulled his hand out of her hair, realizing his fingers were covered in the crusty redness of her blood. He wiped his hand on his pants, trying not to think about how it had felt. He did not hate blood, but he hated the way it coagulated and stank as it aged. And the way it stuck and clung to things. Especially fingers. It was as if human hands had been made to handle and hold blood.

His concern for the girl was growing, though. He had figured she was likely to fall unconscious again, but  now knowing her head had been hit... Had her skull been damaged? Human heads were so fragile. And that had probably led to even more blood loss... He pulled his jacket off her, bending over to examine the wound in her side. The makeshift bandages had slid around quite a bit during the walk, smearing blood all across the opening. He had to try not to inhale as he leaned in to look again.

He was struck by how small the opening seemed, but also by how red it was. It looked fairly deep, or at least that's what he could assume. But it didn't look like any of her intestines were trying to escape through the opening.... Which was good, right? And it didn't seem to be bleeding anymore, which either meant the wound was clotting, or that her heart wasn't beating. He pressed his head into her bosom, and sighed with relief to hear the dull beat within. It was faint, but there. Now if only Nocona would hurry...

Belakane scampering back in and hissing at the doorway signalled the old man's return. Kivuli rose to meet him, but was rushed past and pushed aside by the Comanche and Raelene, who was still dressed in her lightening-bright rehearsal garb. She muttered to Nocona quickly and hurriedly in a language Kivuli could not understand, pulling a number of vials and tubes and what looked like string out of a folding wooden box she had brought in with her. He watched her smear something on the would itself, sprinkle something in the girl's open mouth, use some liquid to wash it down her throat... Nocona grabbed a candle from the bedside and Raelene began grinding something in a mortar, still chattering away in that strange tongue with such great urgency. She pulled Kivuli's jacket all the way off now, and made a surprised face, turning to him with a reddened purple petal in her fingers.

"Wha'are these?" she asked, her tone accustory.

"S-She," he hated how he stammered. "She was carrying a bouquet of flowers... When she was attacked."

Raelene rolled her green eyes, flicking the petal away and returning to her mortar, now mixing in a liquid and dipping a section of the string into the mixture.

Nocona turned to him, his normal expression softened into concern. "You look pale, Kivuli," he said. "Why don't you take a break? You can't do much here right now anyway. Get changed, rest a bit-"

"These were my, um, last clothes," Kivuli muttered, embarrassed, looking down at the red stains on his stomach, that ran down his legs.

Nocona sighed, and Kivuli could not tell if it was to disguise his pity or his condescension. "Leave them hanging outside. Take the pelt and the cat. Go for a run or something, alright?" And with that, he turned back to Dahlia, reaching over to help Raelene with something.

Kivuli reached under the pile of hay to pull Belakane out from her hiding place, and grabbed the massive antelope pelt off its hangar, stepping as quickly and quietly as he could outside. He set Belakane down, letting her dash away as he slid out of his clothes, tossing them up to the edge of his roof. He wrapped the pelt around him, letting the skin's head rest on his, it's forelegs wrap around his arms, its back legs hang with his own. He sighed, letting himself relax as he walked towards the field Belakane had taken off to. He felt his human skin merging with the pelt as he turned thoughts to silent. All his thoughts except for her. For Dahlia. He hoped so much for her. She had been so scared, and he wanted to help her... But he was useless and couldn't. Nocona had practically said so. And so maybe, if he hoped hard enough, he could help her some way even them and their medicine and skill could not. He remembered her bloody, but silken hair. Her pale, smooth skin. Her big, pleading, wine-colored eyes. And he hoped. He hoped until he could no more.

His two footsteps became four. His neck thickened. His face lengthened, his soft man-hair melted into two arching horns. His breath became richer, fuller, calmer. His glass eyes opened, in the skull they had been meant for at last. His man-skin had disappeared into the pelt, his true skin. He was as he was born, as he was meant to be.

He was the antelope.

His human brain at last silent, he started to run. He ran, he leaped, he danced. And he was free. At least for now.

Sweet Oblivion

Dahlia had barely registered two male voices conversing worriedly above her.
She moaned and put her left arm over her face. Her head was pounding and it felt like someone was stabbing her behind the eyes.

Her rescuer's cat was making horrid noises that were certainly not helping the situation.

Even with no memories, she could tell she was not a cat person.

She tried to sit up and ask the man, "Kivuli" if she heard properly, for a glass of water.

She felt the blood rush from her head and she passed out into unconsciousness.

A Million Little Things

Her hands were very cold.

He took the key lightly from her, as if worried too heavy of a touch would cause her to crumple. His brows were furrowed with concern as he looked at her, realizing that even the small task of retrieving the key had sapped her strength. Humans were so delicate, like those dolls they loved. Pretty to look at, but quick to break...

Shifting her weight to one arm, he shoved the key into the rough opening of the hole, twisting it sharply. There was a screechy hiss as he did, which seemed to be coming from inside the wagon. The door gave a dull click, and he pushed it open with his foot as he rested her back onto his other arm. He could hear her claws skittering on the wooden floor as he walked in, no doubt to retreat to her hiding spot....

"Don't mind Belakane," he told Dahlia gently. "I'll grab her in a second. She gets nervous around strangers."

It was only a step or so to his bed, where he lay her down, careful of her wounded side. He left his coat over her, since he did not seem to have much in the way of coverings, and was lowering his eyes to reach underneath the bed when a deep voice from outside said,

"Kivuli?"

He snapped his head up to meet the black eyes of his friend.

He sighed, relieved, and lifted himself to his feet. "Nocona, you just about scared the life out of me."

"As you did I," the man said quickly. Another accented voice, this time with the raw sharpness of America. The new man took a step into the light, revealing the rough, wrinkled face of a middle-aged, dark-skinned man. His coarse hair was cut short and choppily, and bands of silver were appearing behind his ears and around his temples. He looked like it had once been a kind face, but a hard life had beaten any traces of smiles from his thin lips. "Who is-" he motioned towards Dahlia, and his short sleeves revealed huge scars in his muscular forearms, as if they had been slashed by a knife. His eyes widened as he saw Kivuli's coat and clothes and their bloodied state.

"She needs our help," Kivuli replied snappily, suddenly taking an autoritative tone. "She was attacked in the city. Could you run and get Raelene? She needs the painkillers."

The man named Nocona nodded, giving Dahlia a quick, worried look as he rushed out the door. Kivuli grabbed his shoulder before he could.

"And try to keep things just between us and Raelene for now," he said in a hushed, grave tone. "With the girl in this state, I don't want a certain some to catch wind of her."

Nocona nodded, before taking off among the other wagons.

Kivuli, sighing, returned to the bedside, slipping his arm underneath the metal frame. There was a protesting yowl as he pulled a huge, blackish cat out from underneath the bed. It's long legs flopped uncomfortably, revealing huge sickle-shaped claws, as he bundled it in his arms and collapsed into a spindly wooden chair next to the pile of hay shoved in the corner of the wagon.

He rested his face in the cat's fur (which it again protested,) sighing heavily. "It's going to be alright, Dahlia. Nocona and Raelene will fix you right up. And if you need any water or anything, just let me know...." He held the cat up as much as he could, adding, "This is Belakane, by the way. She lives with me. She isn't much of a people-cat, though..." He playfully puffed a breath of air onto one of her strange, long ear tufts, causing the cat to raise her back fur and swing her taloned paw at his face. He chuckled lightly, grabbing it and pushing it away.

Secrets and Lies

Dahlia didn't miss the obvious deflection and it made her uncomfortable. Didn't people normally exchange names when they met? She couldn't remember.

After a brief hesitation, she shifted a bit and started feeling around for the pocket in question. Fortunately, the collar of his coat was tucked under her arms and did not inhibit her mobility.

As she fished around for the keys she encountered a few odd items. She couldn't identify them all, but it felt to her like a few coins, a carved, wooden, something..., dried plant matter, and finally a heavy ring of brass keys.

She tugged them free of the pocket and attempted to lift the keys to her face to identify the correct one.

Even that slight effort left her feeling weak.

She quickly passed the keyring to her rescuer's right hand and clutched at his shirt collar.

He hadn't moved, but she was suddenly dizzy and felt like she might be falling.

Coming Home

He could see the lights from the camp now, just a few hundred feet away now. He could make out the flickering shadows of figures from the scattered light from the central fire. He felt himself becoming nervous. Many of his herdmates could be... Overzealous with the newcomers. He had lost many new members to fear (and bloodier methods) thanks to them. If he could smuggle her in without them seeing, that would be ideal....

He snapped back to reality as he remembered her question. "Umm..." he stammered. He didn't know why he was nervous to tell her, but there was this strange weight on his tongue as he tried to say the word. "It's.... Hey, try to be quiet and hold close to me," he muttered quickly. "I need to get you to my wagon so we can treat that wound...."

He quickly moved out of the edges of the fire's light, trekking quickly to a fairly large, wooden gypsy wagon parked away from the rest of the camp. Though the lights hanging from the corners of its roof were dim and nearly burned out, there was enough to betray bold, geometric painting on the sides and strange, angular masks, which appeared to be horned, hung by the window.

"Um," he started to ask with hesitation. "If you can move, my key is in my coat pocket. I think the left one. And I can't really get it with you like this- Can you reach it?" His eyes widened as he asked, and as they got bigger, it became more and more evident that they were not normal at all. Too shiny, too transparent, too blank....

A Rose by Any Other Name...

Dahlia was only vaguely aware that the terrain had changed by the variance in her rescuer's stride.

She had been pleasantly distracted by the man's story. His voice registered as different from the norm, at least to her disturbingly blank mind.

It was quite appealing.

She nuzzled further into his chest, trying to hide her face from the biting night wind.

He even smelled exotic.

The sound of her name shook her out of her stupor and reminded her of something.

"You never told me your name." She gently chastised, her voice muffled by the curtain of hair that had fallen across her face.

Gates to Another World

The story was like nothing anyone else could tell her. It was not so much a story, but a panoramic view of another world. He described the earth and the grass and the sky as if they were the Grecian gods, always at odds and bickering but maintaining a perfect world somehow. He spoke of the weather like animals and animals as if they were rainstorms or waves on the ocean, to where they became forces of nature rather than mere beasts. His words, smoothly sliding from between his full lips like a warm river of a painter's brushstrokes, melted away the dingy grays of London and bathed everything around their two figures in rays of imagined sunlight. His words were so rich, and so fantastic but at once so tangible, that their mere presence could almost distract the mind from pain or even from thought. And the curious thing was, there was nothing magical about them. It was merely in the way he spoke, the way he crafted words together, and perhaps in the exotic accent he could not rid his voice of.

 He was so awash in the memories he related to the frail girl in his arms, he hadn't even noticed that they had passed from the cramped back alleys of London out onto the wider dirt roads on the edge of town. The enchanting stream of words was interrupted as he sighed happily.

"We're very close now, Dahlia," he said with obvious relief. "Just stay with me a bit longer." He looked at her with concern, as he suddenly recalled how long it had been since he had last really checked on her.

You Can't Miss What You Never Had

Dahlia felt him stiffen.

She had done something wrong.

She heard his question and nodded weakly. It still hurt to move.

Maybe the duration of the story would give her enough time to figure what was going on.

She remembered this man's voice. She remembered pain. She remembered a different man, restraining her, hurting her, but that was it.

There was nothing else.

It didn't feel like she had forgotten.

It felt like there wasn't anything there to begin with.

The Sensitive Soul

The man's back noticeably stiffened as her tears began to flow. Oh by the Light. He hated this, this thing humans did. It just proved how their minds were not meant to handle the emotions they created for themselves. He held her closer, and began to rock her very slightly, side to side and in time with his steps. He tried not to grimace as the cold, clammy petals of the flowers she clutched flopped against his forearm.

"Sssh, sssh," he murmured, pressing the bridge of his nose against the curve of her skull. "Don't strain yourself, my la- Dahlia," he hurriedly corrected himself. "I didn't mean anything. Just keep calm, and stay with me...."

His voice trailed off as he lifted his head to look down the road. Why had they decided to camp so far from the city? Why had he decided to walk so far in? But, if he hadn't, this girl would be dead for sure... Or worse.

He was still perplexed by her, though. He was quite sure she had been dead when he had first rushed to her, despite his hopes otherwise. And with the size of the wound and the amount of blood that had drained from her, her survival was nothing short of a miracle. And he could not bring himself to doubt that it wasn't. He could have sworn, just as his legs had carried him to her, that he had felt a chilled rush of divinity pulse in the air.... But he could not feel it in her now. Of course, that may have been because the only thing he could feel was her bloodied ribs scraping against his as she cried.

"Please, lady Dahlia," he begged without pleading. "We're close now," he lied. "Would you like to hear a story?"

A Non-existant Past

"..."

It wasn't an unusual request. In fact, it was logically the first question that one would ask upon meeting someone new. It wasn't the words themselves that gave her such a feeling of emptiness and discomfort, it was the answer.

"Dahlia"

It didn't feel quite right, but it was the only thing in her mind.

She tried digging a little deeper, to see if there was anything else that could be her name when a rush of memories swept over her and she realized what had happened that night.

She buried her face into her rescuer's chest and began sobbing.

A small bundle of flowers clutched tightly to her chest.

A More Gentleman-like Manner

He was so happy that he was almost numb to the relief of seeing her come to. The pressure on her side loosened slightly as he said in a low voice that could not hide its exotic accent-

"It's okay, my lady. I am here to help you."

Realizing he was faltering, he pushed soaked cloth back harder against her skin. Out of habit and fear, he checked the alley again for any sign of the constable. She was awake now, at least, so if things came to that she could vouch for him... Hopefully. Hopefully she didn't think it had been him....

He snapped himself out of his concerns. How dare he. There were much more important things to worry about now than his stupid criminal record. Humans didn't understand anyway. Keeping the pressure on her side as best he could, he tugged off the long overcoat he wore, using his teeth to tear off a long strip from the bottom hem. He wrapped this around the makeshift bandage as best he could, saying calmly despite his frantic state of mind-

"I'm going to take you to some people that can help you, okay? You've lost a lot of blood, but try to stay awake. Just hold onto me. I'm going to take care of you."

Covering her exposed body with what remained of his coat, he slid his arms underneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her tiny frame and resting her against his chest. He tried to balance her as he began hurridly walking, keeping her oozing wound pressed against his body. He felt the wet redness soaking into his vest and undershirt, but he didn't care. Nocona could get him new ones. She was nothing at all in his arms. He could hardly believe her body could hold so much blood, and then have survived losing so much....

He tried to quicken his pace, realizing that there probably wasn't much time. Knowing he had to keep her conscious, he glanced his blank eyes onto her and slowly asked, "What is your name, my lady?"

The Life Cycle of a Caterpillar

Void.

Nothingness.

Suddenly, two glimmers of light, diametrically opposed.

One fleeting, with hope and warmth that she had never experienced in all her days.

The other stronger, almost familiar. A cool wind and petrichor.

The second of the two was the one that enveloped her, that drew her back to that winter night and the scene of the attack.

The first thing that registered was a throbbing pain in her skull, followed quickly by the dull ache permeating throughout her waist and pelvis.

She heard a low, frantic murmur pleading with her to say something, anything.

A pained groan was the only thing that escaped her lips.

As the fog left her eyes she finally saw the unusually tall man leaning over her.

A tiny flash of panic struck her and she tried to move away, but the intense pain that wracked her body and a strong hand on her shoulder quickly squelched that attempt.

Her hand landed in the pool of blood surrounding them both and her fingertips brushed a few silken petals. She tried to glance over, to figure out what she touched, but even that small movement caused sparks of pain behind her eyes.

She calmed slightly and focused on his face. It was hovering a few inches above her own. Startlingly blue eyes looked over her face as his hands returned to the wound at her side.

She closed her eyes tightly and worried that she may be loosing her mind. She could have sworn she saw strange markings fading from from his face and when she looked again, they were gone.

She frantically tried to collect the scattered fragments of thought that flitted through her mind.

"Wh-who?" she mumbled through the blood seeping at the corners of her mouth.

Civil Blood

His bloody hands slid beneath her coat, grasping at her chest, pressing into her sternum. He pressed himself further into her, his thighs heavy as they weighed her down. He buried his head into the crook of her neck, not caring as it shoved her face roughly into the stone ground. His hands remained clamped over her heart, feeling every beat, ever breath, beneath the cage of bone within.

They slowed faster than he expected. He felt the blood pouring from her side, soaking the leg of his pants in the sticky warmth. He let himself slide further into her, letting himself derive what he needed from her even as she expired. He took his hands off her chest, leaving trails of her rich blood across her white skin as  he wrapped his arms around her bare waist. His heart, beating well beyond its normal rate, could only feel offset by the stillness within her's.

The stillness, that was what he truly desired. He felt the muffled silence of the night settle around him, around her, as his body pressed what was left of her breath from her's. He lifted his head slightly to look upon her face. Even bloody, she was still remarkably pretty. Probably one of the prettiest girls he'd collected, at least from this part of town. His hand brushed across her cheekbones as he went to press her eyelids shut. He knew he would enjoy his time with her before she started to decay...

He began to pull himself off of her chest. Jeezus, he had gotten too carried away. He had to get her home, had to stop up that wound so the police couldn't track the blood trail, had to burn these pants-

Kchunk.


Stabbing pain shot down his neck straight into his spine. The blow flattened him onto her, but he was immediately seized by the back of his jacket and forcefully thrown off. He gasped as the foot bashed against his ribs, and the cane that had struck his neck came at his exposed side now. A guttural scream ripped from his lungs, only to be cut short as another kick impacted them. He scrambled on hands and knees to get away from his assailant, the blow from the cane across his back only propelling him faster. As he staggered as fast as he could back to his feet to run, he saw a man with markings like a skull branded across his face standing over the girl and holding the cane stained with his blood. Their eyes met, and Alexander felt like his soul itself burst into flames.

"GET OUT!" the man bellowed.

Alexander was already gone.

The man shoved his hair out of his eyes, landing hard on his knees as he rushed to help the girl. What had that boy done to her? How could humanity be so sick? He grabbed her jacket, using it to apply pressure to the gash in her side, but there was so much blood on the ground he doubted it would do much. He tried anyway, though.

"Miss?" he asked, lifting her face off the ground. "Miss, can you hear me?"

He cast an uneasy glance down the alley, hoping the noise hadn't attracted the police. This wouldn't look good to them with anyone, much less a man with as much of a reputation as he had...

"Miss, please. Say something to me, my lady."

She did not look good. But he swore he could feel something inside of her, some wisp of life he was trying so hard to catch before it disappeared...

"Please, my lady, please...." he begged, holding her side as if he was trying to force the blood back in.

Life, Death, and...

The dark street was empty. At least, it appeared to be at a casual glance. It wasn't until its lone inhabitant shuddered from the cold and began walking again that anyone would have noticed her.

She was pale, but her light skin was hidden under long, raven locks. She was bundled in a black coat that was far too thin for the weather, but, one could see by her generally shabby appearance, she simply could not afford anything better.

She continued along the shadowy path clutching a small bouquet of dahlias. They were quite different from the other flowers in the stand. The edges of the petals curved backwards instead of forward. 'Some cutting off of a barely living root' the salesman said. 'Les Etoiles de Diable' he called them. The french sounding flowers were not selling so well in the poorer district of England, and the flower seller was more than happy to sell them to the girl at a price she could afford.

The girl had shyly slid her pennies across the counter and started back towards the apartment she shared with her mother.

The flowers were a gift for her. The woman showed no love for her only daughter, yet the girl still felt an obligation to try to please her mother if the opportunity presented itself.

She was lost in the thought that this time she might actually succeed in coaxing a smile from her mother when a pair of arms grabbed her and pulled her into a pitch black alleyway.

The scream that formed in her throat was lost when her head impacted against the cobblestone street. Before she could muster another, a gloved hand closed around her neck like an iron vice.

Though the pain stunned her, she still struggled to get away. Hot tears slid down her face and she redoubled her efforts when her attacker's free hand tugged the tails of her jacket away and slid under her skirt.

Her mind was too clouded with fear and desperation to hear the man above her angrily demand that she stop trying to escape.

In one last attempt she lashed out with her legs and clawed desperately at the hand that was assuring her silence.

She only stopped when a flash of silver glinted in the moonlight and the sharp edge of a knife plunged into her side.

There was an unusual cold that settled into her skin. It had little to do with the man busying himself with unbuttoning her coat, and everything to do with her blood draining from her body to pool underneath them.

Her once pale face was now a ghostly white mask of pure fear. Her breaths were now shallow gasps and her once lovely, dark eyes that glittered with life now clouded with death.

Dahlia Character Sheet

Character's Name - Dahlia


     -Nickname- None


Gender - Female


Sexual Orientation - Heterosexual

Age - 20 at time of death. Having been blessed by a guardian spirit at birth, she was somewhat "reborn" after being murdered, but the prevailing bubbly, outgoing part of her personality died and was replaced with the withdrawn, fearful, and untrusting parts of her sub-personality.

Marital/Relationship Status - Single, never married.

Education Level - Low to moderate. She can read and write some, and she is good with money, but she is not particularly educated on history or literature.

Appearance -

     Height - 5'5"

     Weight - 97 lbs

     Figure/Build - Slender. She has the capability to be curvy, but she has been underfed for quite some time and is suffering because of it. Her hips and ribs are very noticeable, but her too-large clothing hides it.

     Hair - Long and black. It falls to about her mid-back and curls naturally at the ends. She usually styles it to enhance these curls and typically wears the top layer in ponytails, with the rest down.

     Eyes - A dark reddish-purple. Could be described as "wine colored". Her body originally possessed the rich brown eyes of her father, but when she was murdered and "reborn", they changed.

     Skin - Both of her parents were light-skinned Europeans, but enduring a childhood hidden away from the outside and an adolescence locked in workhouses, the lack of sun exaggerated her light complexion. Now that she is no longer truly human, her skin does not function normally and she is as pale as the night she died.

     Tattoos/Piercings - None

     Scars - A particularly jagged one on her left side from when she was stabbed

     Preferred Clothing - Flattering clothes that still protect her modesty. Though her occupation puts her in low necklines and brightly patterned skirts to attract patrons to her booth, she tries to wear shawls or short jackets over her circus uniform whenever she can.

     Significant Jewelry - none

     Addictions - none

     Allergies - None, but being shut away from the world for most of her childhood leaves her susceptible to many illnesses

     Physical ailments/illnesses/deformities - She has been on very hard times and is underfed. Nothing critical yet, but she is getting there.

What they sound like - Soft and low

Family background & ethnicity - Her father was a wealthy owner of a diamond mine and her mother was his mistress. Both white Europeans, though Dahlia inherited her father's dark hair and eyes over her mother's light ones. He was a married man when he hired Dahlia's mother to accompany him on his five-year trip to Africa to check on his existing mines and look into purchasing a few more. It was during this time that Dahlia was conceived. Her father was extremely unhappy at the prospect of an illegitimate child and his mistress being out of commission for any length of time. Around the date she was due, a drought was plauging the villiage. The villiagers were parying to any guardian spirit that would listen to please bring life back to the area. The labor was difficult, and when Dahlia was born, she wasn't breathing. The midwife was at a loss and as she was turning to tell the mother the sad news, a great wind swept through the villiage bringing with it life giving rain. A chill settled in the air and the nurse felt the baby shudder and let out a low wail. Dahlia was then handed over to a wet nurse and nannies who raised her in seclusion until her parent's return trip to England, where her father quickly abandoned her and her mother and has not been heard from since. Her mother, who made her living with her body, was distressed by the thought of caring for a toddler while trying to "peddle her wares" and treated her child as a burden and with cold disdain.

Residence - She travels with the circus and sleeps in the corner of one of the circus's few living quarter wagons at night.

Occupation - Trinket and sundry seller for the circus

Possessions - There is not much room in the wagons for unnecessary items, so just a few items of clothing.

Hobbies - She never had a chance to get into any hobbies what with the grueling schedules of the workhouses and all.

Politics/Beliefs - That there has to be\is something out there that watches over and protects people, and that everything has a purpose.

Personality -

     Likes - Flowers, music boxes, Kivuli's stories of Africa

     Dislikes - People and most of her coworkers

     Phobias - an irrational fear of malice by others

     Favorite color - blue

     Taste in music - anything played by a music box

Relationships with others - Strained and awkward. She has difficulty getting close to anyone or opening herself up to them. Even though she only remembers her past in brief snatches, she has an overwhelming fear that others are out to get her and a feeling that she will never be good enough to win anyone's affections.

Character Strengths - If she could ever find someone she could genuinely trust, she would be extremely loyal and giving to said person

Character Flaws - She has avoidant personality disorder

Desires - Someone in her life that truly cares about her and that she can trust never to leave her. Someone to love.

Disgusted by - Piggish men, women of ill repute, and the town's ever growing drug habits

Feels guilty about - All that Kivuli has done for her that she feels she can never repay

Can't live without - The protection and structure of the circus

Would finish, "I've never told anyone this, but..." with - "I am in love with someone..."

Kivuli Character Sheet

Character's name- Kivuli

     -Nickname- "Nawvlee"- what the African tribes he encountered would call him, meaning "big devil"

Gender- Male

Sexual orientation- Heterosexual

Age- Technically has lived as long as antelope have existed, but has lived in a human body for 27 years, and appears approximately 30.

Marital/Relationship status- Single, has had brief, uncommitted relationships (resulting to 2 human and an unknown number of antelope children) before.

Education level- Primarily philosophical and artistic over academic. Has some knowledge of African and European human culture. Can read well enough, but is hardly affluent, and can write enough to sign his name and manage mostly legible contracts now and then.


Appearance-
     -Height- 6'3"

     -Weight- approx 170 lbs.

     -Figure/Build- Would be stocky, if was not purely vegetarian in diet. Is too thin for his height, making his neck, hands and feet seem slightly too thick/large. And, since the antelope spirit inside him is slowly changing his body's structure, his neck is uncommonly long, his teeth are all too long and flat, and his body hair is dark and wiry to the touch.

     -Hair- Red-brown, and grown past his shoulders. Usually pulled back into a low ponytail to hide that his antelope mane of thicker black hair is growing back in. The black does show around his temples, though, as well as behind his ears, and extends in a line down his neck to between his shoulderblades.

    -Eyes- Light blue with a pupil of an azure shade. His eyes are actually glass- After his antelope avatar (which had distinctive blue eyes of this manner) was killed, the hunter who shot it preserved the pelt and replaced the blue eyes with glass ones. After Kivuli killed the hunter and inhabited his body, he took the glass eyes and put them in the human body (as the hunter's eyes had been blown out during the possession process). This does not impair his vision, since he is a spirit and can see through the eye sockets as if they were windows.

     -Skin- Tanned

     -Tattoos/piercings- No piercings, and though not actually tattoos, has facial markings resembling a sable antelope's and a symbol (which resembles a sun and is surrounded by rows of pattern) on his back that appear on his body when stressed out or emotional.

     -Scars- Only small ones that the hunter had before the possession. On close inspection, has a few on his eyelids from when the hunter's eyes exploded.

    -Preferred clothing- None, as he finds it constricting and uncomfortable. When alone, though, he usually wears a wrap or sash of some sort around his waist. In public, he dresses as a man of the upper middle class (usually with some sort of bold accessory from his homeland or from the circus) and onstage wears a striking striped vest and white pants, accompanied by his antelope skin, which is worn like a cape.

     -Significant jewelry- none

     -Addictions- None, as he does not understand the "human desire to poison oneself,"

     -Allergies- Allergic to many blooming plants, but his strict diet of fruits, vegetables, a little bread and water helps combat this.

     -Physical ailments/illnesses/deformities- Only the ones brought about by the antelope spirit, listed above.

What they sound like- His natural voice is little more than a low whisper, warm and smooth. When onstage or upset, though, his voice becomes louder and harsher, almost snappy. He has traces of an African accent (more south African than anything) but it is gradually mixing with the British he inherited from his body. He is not one to waste words, and is much better at listening and processing what is being said around him than contributing to a conversation.

Family background and ethnicity- Though his human body is a European man, Kivuli is African at heart. He is a guardian spirit which protects the antelope, serving as a spirit of punishment and retribution to those who take advantage of his herds. Though not having a true "family," he does share his purpose with a "sister spirit," whose name is Angavu and who embodies nurturing and sacrifice. Together, they have monitored the antelope herds for as long as they have existed. At times, the tribes in the areas they have moved through have worshipped them. The magnificent antelope avatars they inhabit were sacrifices made to them by a tribe who sought many successful hunts in the years to come. They received them.

Residence- Travels. Primarily moved through the country, tailing other larger circuses, but when one gets close to the city, he is never too shy to move in with them. He lives in a private wagon, about the size of a small bedroom, pulled by a Shire horse. The room is something of a mix between a human dwelling and a stable, holding a bed, desk, and clothes trunk, but also keeping a large space open and supplied with hay for when the ringmaster desires to go into his antelope form. Having no real possessions, his space is fairly neat, but is also not one to clean up after himself, so oftentimes clothes and documents are scattered around the space.

Occupation- Runs "Stars of the Devil," a collection of physically "different" humans and some supernatural beings, most of which he rescued from abuse at other circuses. He loves his work, not only because it furthers his quest to free himself from his human body, but because it has given him a "herd" to protect. The circus operates by trailing bigger, more famous circuses and setting up not far from their stops, and then beginning their shows shortly after the bigger circus's ends. This has, though, led to many spats with the owners of the more prestigious circuses, especially since his shows are known to be somewhat disturbing and adult in content.

Possessions- Very scarce. The only thing he truly owns is his antelope avatar's skin, and most everything else was bought for him by Nacona, a vagrant Comanche man from America, and his right-hand man and closest friend (who actually suggested the idea of forming the circus.) He does make masks resembling those of the tribes he encountered, and keeps them in his quarters, selling one or two occasionally in the show's shop. His initial lack of balance on two human legs put him in the habit of carrying a cane, with a knife concealed beneath the head for protection. But, being 6'3" and known for a nasty kick, he doesn't often get to use it.

Hobbies- On top of his habit of chasing down rumors of various freaks/supernaturals whenever he goes into town, he also carves and paints spectacular masks based off of those the tribes he would encounter in Africa. He spends many of his sleepless hours slowly whittling and coloring the patterns of these pieces, many of which pay tribute to his sister.

Politics/beliefs- Doesn't involve himself much in either, but does believe that all beings should be treated with respect, if not more. He tends to find human politics preposterous, wether in the government, businesses, or in the social status quo.

Personality- Level-headed and collected, but is very naive in many ways. He is like a new father, ready and able to protect others, but still can overlook things and make mistakes. It doesn't help that he often comes off as flirtatious, since he will innocently say things to the female members of his troupe that they then take the wrong way and consider to be some sort of affection. But, the only thing he truly loves (at least at this moment) is his little band of miscreants and his duty to help and protect them.

     -Likes- Children, wide open spaces, running/dancing, making things with his hands, being warm, the sky, the feeling of dry grass underneath his feet, being around others, performing, rain.

     -Dislikes- Cruelty, small/cramped spaces, clothing, people who take advantage of others, being alone, wasting time.

     -Phobias- Lions and other large predators.

     -Favorite color- Clay red.

     -Taste in music- Heavy drum music with a driving beat. Is also developing a taste for the circus's organ and its whimsical, circular tunes.

Relationships with others- Has a reluctant relationship with human society, and his only real family is his sister, whom he practically worships. Otherwise, his relationships vary depending on the age of the person. If they're younger, the relationship is more fatherly; if older, more friendly. But does assert himself in that he is in charge, especially if challenged. He tends to not pursue love relationships, unless he feels the need to bolster the herd's numbers. But, having now been in a mortal form for so long, his desires are beginning to change.

Character strengths- Is loyal, protective, honest, and brave. He feels a responsibility and duty to help those in need, and does (for reasons beyond his own ends.) He is healthy, both mentally and physically, and is kind and considerate of those around him.

Character flaws- Is naive to many ways of human culture, and has a tendency to not respect authority beyond his own. Can sometimes be seen as manipulative by others, since he will put his duties over emotion, but almost never does this knowingly. He has something of a reputation as a heartbreaker and a hypocrite to certain members of the circus because of this.

Desires- To return to his homeland and sister, to regain his powers as a spirit. However, his developing mortality is also giving rise to the longing to find love and a lifelong mate...

Disgusted by- People's whose existence or happiness is reliant on the suffering of others, and those who will regard those who are different from them as animals. Also the smell of cooking meat.

Feels guilty about- His two human sons, Warren and Leander. Though he felt their creation was necessary to help the herd at the time, the emotional effect on their mothers has caused him great pain and the realization that human love is a very painful thing for all parties involved.

Can't live without- His antelope pelt, as he only feels really free when he puts it on and reassumes his antelope form. It also helps him maintain his sanity, by keeping his true and human forms distinct and separate. Also is dependent on the dream of returning home one day, and his quest to make that come true.

Would finish "I've never told anyone this, but..." with- "I have never really loved just one person before."