Log:A Dance to Nowhere
It's one of those evenings early on in their collective arrival in town that Urania has a need to wander, somewhat incognito. Usually, that means wandering out toward open space, and taking on her male face for her own protection. Instead, this time, she favors company. She's taken on her Lily face, perhaps because Lily would be the most apt trouble-maker in her circle to publicly keep company with the Trickster. "This place is the sort of quiet I don't entirely trust," the oracle says, swaying along at his side through the main midway. It's a break between shows, and the line for private readings tonight was short.
Low-Key can see Lily, or Just Lily coming a mile away, it's like he's got this preternatural sense for trouble or something. So when she came swaying along, he simply sauntered with her. Today's suit is a brilliantly vibrant red color! "Too much quiet just means someone is planning something," he notes with his own superstitious mind in the fore. "But that does not mean we cannot make our own music," he preens at her, "does it?" he asks rather succinctly, and already there is a shift in the speakers nearby, screeching momentarily before coming on with something dancey and from the 30's.
It's always easy to tell Just Lily from the real Lily Justin -- in part because Just Lily seems at least moderately sober, and her grace isn't the sort born of the lack of inhibitions brought about by whiskey. She still reeks of trouble, if not booze, and as such, she's a charming accessory as she takes his arm, and dips in a playful curtsey before twirling off, and back, fingertips pressed to his forearm as a pivot point. "The whole town has a case of 'up to something' face," she says as her whirl draws her in close. "You fit right in," she says, the words ringing of high praise. So does she, at least for the moment. "Have you gone into town? Or heard from anyone who has?" Still curious as a cat.
Some distance away there can be heard the rather ambling prattle of a particular Bally, selling the games as rigged as they are as fair trade of skill for reward. Low-Key is chuckling a bit as she carrouses around using his arm as a pivot. "Says the mirror," he says slyly at her when she accuses him of having that up to something face, but when isn't he actually up to something. The tip tap of his cane in the other hand stops momentarily as he twirls the stick to have it vanish into his palm again. All the better to engage her in proper dance, humming a tune to waltz to as he drags her through the motions. "I haven't yet, but I certainly plan to, would you like to see if anyone else will join us?"
"Mirror, psh," the oracle dismisses with a light and airy laugh, though coming from Lily's face, it comes out sly and mischievous as can be. "Night and day, and yet-" He brings it out in her, and there's no denying it. The question gives her pause -- in words, if not in the deft steps that circle around him in a dance that makes a fine enough show to attract attention, and ideally, fellow dancers. "How is Antonio doing?" she asks, brows arching in unison. "He was telling me all about the dime novels he collects. Did he go to that shop in California where I told him he could find that missing edition? I hope he did, there won't be another until we get to Toledo, and we may not even go to Toledo."
Low-Key shrugs slightly and then smirks as she waves him off so easily. Mischief will abound no doubt, he's already eyeing a particular couple clinging to one another. It only takes a little wink at the girl to make her suddenly very distracted. Enough that they'll walk right into that dumpster. But he's still twirling with her, spinning her about in lazy circles that will eventually make an older couple decide to do the same. He smiles sweetly back to her and nods, "I believe that he is your undying fan for that, yes, he hasn't shut up about it around camp," he chuckles and then spins her rather elegantly. "Toledo?" he asks and then wrinkles his nose, "It sounds like a shithole," he sighs before allowing himself to dip her and waggle his brows with suddenly serpentine eyes.
The ripple and swirl of motion stirs and inspires others, even if the younger couple lands awkwardly in a heap of ticket stubs and greasy food wrappers, the elder pair draws more than a few warm smiles from others lingering around the midway at this hour of night. It's like an eddy moving along with the tidal flow of the crowd, as a few more hands are clasped, others still held up to hearts, a few slinking back and around to pinch a backside here or there. "Most places are shitholes," the muse replies with a broad smile. Her lipstick is almost as garish and bright a red as the flower in her hair. Somewhere between the two, they match his suit, as if she'd planned it. "We improve their lot by brightening the metaphorical decor." She tilts her head subtly toward the dancing couple as she dips back, her eyes flicking in their direction. "Light, love, laughter, whimsy, dreams -- these things are all places like this have, after a fashion, not that they treasure a jot of it like they should."
"Not for our sake, either. It's beautiful here, naturally. Mountains and trees and la-la-la, things they all grew up with and don't even see any longer, it's been that way for all their lives. They may love it and may miss it when they're gone, but stopping to smell the roses is all they can afford, and the opportunities are plentiful, and yet, they don't."
In truth the merriment, the thoughts of home and hearth fire are the ones that stoke and feed him, so he is happy to provide a little inspiration. A laugh comes when she infers that most places are all the same to which he can't hardly disagree. There's a toothsome smile that comes, the sharpness of it almost predatory. That is until she's speaking further and he has to actually incline his head and listen. Even as he twirls her about once more, drawing her back in tightly for a moment. He does so love to watch her squirm and blush when he gets too close. "But you know them, they won't give up those lively pursuits," he chides and teases right back. He will eventually stop once he's gotten several more folks dancing about in a suitable style and pattern to feed his needs.
"They will remember us," she murmurs as he whirls her in close and tight, her eyes shifting from him to the crowd that has fallen into step with the tinny music rattling through the crisp night air. "They will pull their grandchildren onto their knees by the same hearth they listened to stories from their grandparents beside, and tell stories of us."
"Tell stories of the night the carnival came to town, and in spite of the dark, in spite of the hunger, in spite of having nothing at all, something in the very air seemed to beckon them to dance," she says as though she might be a million miles away, narrating the spectacle from on high, a distance made of both space and time. "They will talk about how, for that precious little while, they forgot the privation, forgot about the bankers coming for the house, forgot all about everything but the scent of their partner's hair and the way the music was carried on the wind, and the strange man and woman painted red that played Pied Piper in tandem to dance away their cares."
"We will be legends," the muse whispers against the side of his neck as she draws ever nearer. "Not by our names, but in memory all the same. If there is one thing someone never forgets, it is that moment they were able to forget the things that weigh them down like millstones, the things that make going about the simplest acts of day to day living-" She shudders in spite of herself at the very thought. "-a heavy burden. They will always remember what made them forget it all long enough to dance, free as children running in a field, without a single care."
"That is certainly the point, yes," he agrees, wanting very much to be remembered.