Log:In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

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In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning
Characters  •   Loki (as Low-Key)  •  Urania (as Twila Estelle)  •
Location  •  North Star Troupe Trailers
Date  •  2019-03-28
Summary  •  Urania catches Loki up on current news.

It's late, late enough at night that all but the last stragglers from the cooch tent have left the grounds, and even most of the nocturnals are starting to wind down as dawn encroaches. Urania, after too much coffee, has a case of the jitters that even the night's dancing hasn't dented. Realistically, it's more like the news of the hour -- times two. Something's had her off for the whole of the day and evening, and nervous energy is at an all time high for the diminutive muse. She is pacing in her trailer, soft light spilling out from within.

The majority of her stray cultists have wound down to sleep, or sleep it off, with only Lou taking the night shift at the mouth of the circled tents and trailers to keep an eye on any strangers that might try to pick their way in well past closing. Even he's half on his way to snoring in his chair, bat propped against his leg as one of the cats drowses on his lap.

It'll be the most shrill, if melodic of bird whistles that leaves the lips of the Trickster wandering by a sleeping guard, "Dear, dear, dear, and here I was hoping this tea was for me," he siiiighs as if fatally put upon to do the Right Thing. The caffeinated beverage still steams as it's handed off in the tin thermos. A pat to Lou's shoulder and he continues on his merry way whilst swinging his cane about a few times. Seeing the light is one thing, but knowing that it brings with it an energy that needs outlet he puts on his best smile and barges in.

"You seem to be wearing circles into the floor, and making the moths dizzy," assuming they could see her constantly circling light show which is likely, the mote of dancing creatures outside now joined by the flits of wind and entropy that follow him. "Is everything alright?" he asks curiously before removing his hat with matching azure band with his coat and setting both on hooks just inside as if he was invited in. Then on to the couch, or chair, whichever is comfiest! Because it's his for the time being.

Lou snorts awake only to half-catch, half-juggle the thermos like he's trying to bounce his wits back into place. The bat gets kicked over and rolls out into the main walkway just in time for a passing acrobat to vault it by rote with a chime of bells sewn onto her hat, and Lou just stares. Stares at the acrobat, and stares after the Master of the Games with a slow shake of his head. "Uh, thanks," he manages, not entirely certain what just happened until the acrobat is strolling up to him, holding the bat like it might be made of snakes.

He's already halfway through a stammered explanation when the trailer comes into view, along with the woman in it. Those little pinpricks of light on her skin seem to buzz like so many hornets again as she peers out, perhaps to see what fuss there was -- as if it's ever anything or anyone else -- to get Lou sputtering.

And then She is sputtering, and that is never a good sign.

Once he is in the chair, she, dressed in a simple sky blue sheath dappled with faded silvery painted stars, lands on his knee, arms winding about his neck, forehead pressing up to his as she invades his personal space as readily as he stole her very favorite chair of the day, because somehow, he always knows which it is.

"Don't panic."

She is clearly doing enough panicking for both of them, but those words coming from the muse are never a grand sign.

Quietly, ever so quietly, she says, staring owlishly into his eyes, orb to orb to orb to orb: "My father has joined the carnival."

Low-Key is yawning already when he settles into the chair, his suit of that deep deep blue shifts some and he reaches up just in time to unbutton his coat so she can sit comfortably and he can as well. The perch of the knee is becoming a routine he rather likes and shows his appreciation through bouncing once or twice fondly before settling. The goings on behind him were of no concern, everything behind him is of no concern really, it's already done and cannot be undone, or at least so he keeps telling everyone.

A hand settles up on her hip and he blinks slowly with a smirk, "Who's panicking?" as if to hold the mirror for her to see plainly there's only one person panicking. Even after the news is delivered there is only the slightest of head tilts, silence for a long while and his glowing eyes shift in color only ever brighter. Was that...mischief? Fuck he thinks this is hilarious doesn't he. Yup!

"Oh...oh dear, I'm sorry, darling, yes that does seem as if it would be distressing in this instance, but isn't he also father of half everyone else? I mean really - how much of a frightening father figure could he have been?"

Her hands flicker away from their twine at the back of his neck to frame his cheeks in a fan of fingertips as she looks at him incredulously. Urania absolutely saw that spark of mirth and mischief, and it only gets her eyes widening further. One fingertip from either side settles over his lips as she shhh-noises at him, flaring with further panic.

She didn't say no one should panic. Clearly, she plans on using up all the panic the room is rated to manage herself. Selfish cow.

"That is entirely the point and the problem and have you seen Lily I haven't seen Lily anywhere that girl should be wearing a bell-" all falls out of her mouth too quickly in a single breath, tangled up in a way that makes it seem like a single word. She is entirely serious, and no matter how absurd the flustered paranoia, it's somehow tragically realistic at the same time. That's how it works. That's why it's clearly terrible in every possible way.

"Lou! Find Lily!" gets yelled out the front of the trailer before she's back to peering and hushed tones.

"And that isn't all of it. There's real trouble, too."

For a moment he is serene, cherubic even, there is no doubt at all that he is the Most Innocent. Especially when she's got his cheeks all captured like that until she's shushing him. Insted of simply taking it, he happily kisses her fingertip and then bites it! Not a terrible take-your-finger-as-trophy kind of bite, but like a mischievous little warning that might also be misconstrued as flirtation.

Then there's a bit of a cluing in and he makes a face, "He better not have put a goose in her," he says rather grumpily having heard a few stories about her father and all. She's serious but he's still trying to wrap his head around the absurdity that they all deal with family drama still - he still hasn't seen his darling son yet afterall.

"Okay so Lou's finding our Lily, that leaves you all huffling and puffling like a bullfrog, darling. What is this real trouble?" Because the god of tricksters and lies is totally here for this.

"...and what exactly happens when I'm Lily and-" Her nose wrinkles peevishly. She almost pouts, though it's hard to huff when there's a flush of pink rising up the sides of her neck. "I suppose I just can't Lily any more until he's gone again." She leans in closer, propping her chin atop his shoulder, and pressing a light kiss to the side of his neck. "A goose would be the least of our worries. A goose could be useful. A squalling demigod brat, on the other ha-" As would be the demi...goose. She flinches, then goes slightly more still.

"There was an advertisement on the radio some of the crew heard. An invitation, of sorts," she says more soberly, but in the quiet sort of voice reserved for real trouble. No melodrama. "The radio... spoke to them."

"As in, it called itself Radio, and it pitched them a deal to leave Management and come join it in an 'Association of American Avatars' -- which... I have no notion about, other than it stands against Management, aims to see the lot of us gone one way or another, by absorbing the lot of us or wiping us out."

"I saw danger, and sent Kamilla with them. That's the news she brought back."

"You realize this could all be easily rectified by taking her off the market," he croons with a little purr, "He is a lecherous soul, but even he knows better than to lay with a daughter, it just takes calling him Father with her features once I'd imagine," he shrugs and then reaches up to twine his fingers in her hair, loosing some star light like he's wringing it free of water drops, sending them scattering in a chaotic pattern around them for a moment as he shivers under the touch of her nose.

An eyebrow arches at the thought of something calling itself Radio, then he's chuckling, "I suppose next we'll hear from an Avatar called Lamp?" he suggests with some teasing before shaking his head. "Leaving Management doesn't seem wise, but it isn't off the table of posibilities right?" he asks curiously, fairly certain in his loyalties and hers being rather based in themselves. Then he's wrinkling his nose and shaking his head, "Well that's not at all what I was thinking, I only like being absorbed one way," he smirks and winks with a bit of flirt again. A sigh comes, and he tries to sooth her with a few strokes of hair, a squeeze of thigh, "Darling. One way or another change is on the winds, I will see what can be found out," he promises as if that dismisses the whole topic.

He certainly isn't wrong about the simple truth that it is something that must be considered, no matter their feelings about Management one way or the other. It's something else, perhaps beyond that -- well summed up in his mention of 'Lamp', in fact -- that has her unease less readily dismissed.

"That's just it," she murmurs, her expression darkening even as the stars scatter out of her hair to whirl like fireflies in the dark of the trailer. "It's all quite unnatural. It sounds like a push to force syncretization with the modern world, but the process, it always changes us, even when it comes as part of the natural evolution of the world. Sometimes for the better, sometimes we're stronger, after -- and yet, other times, it diminishes us, reshapes us into something so alien it feels like being... broken." He's surely heard her petty rantings and peevish frustrations about the re-envisioning she received thanks to the Christian mystics and poets, and something in the way she speaks now lets on more of the truth of how cutting those changes truly were.

"An artificial process feels... so outside of natural, of the natural order that we are all part and parcel of even allowing for all of our gifts and strangeness. In ways that-" Her head darts up, and her fingertips thread back through his hair in turn as she looks into his eyes steadily. That lost, confused look she so often wears is, for once, utterly absent. She's clear as a moonless night. "Might leave us so very changed we are not even ourselves any longer. I can't say that is what I call survival."

Low-Key has to think about that for a long moment or four, the mere idea of becoming something other than himself was skin crawling at the slightest. Gods know he's been on the edge of non-existance before, but there's always someone who wants to pretend they're the chosen of a Trickster and so he continues to thrive still. Evolving is one thing, adapting another, and changing entirely still completely different than the first two. His face sours some and he stares at her with just a hint of glower for her logic. He hates when she uses that.

"So assuming this process, this conglomerating of the powers is an attack on us and our very way of life, that means we are at war whether we know it's a battle or not. Perhaps it is a good thing your father arrived, assuming he doesn't join into the idea of being the new hotness all over again," he says with a hint of grimace. At which point he simply kisses her, long and hard and for no reason other than he wants to think about something else for a few seconds.

A single fingertip weakly 'stabs' at his shoulder as she murmurs, "That is it precisely. War has been decided upon, and we have no choice but to take part, in some way." That it itself has her prickling on a deeper level than even the one she so clearly displays. "We can be swallowed up into the ranks of the ones that simply decided there's a need for this, or-" She sucks in a slow breath. "It said there is no way we will survive, no matter what the outcome. We can join them and struggle along for a time, but our doom was certain."

If that was so truly the case, wouldn't she have seen it? It would stand to reason, and yet: "Something about the way this all moves is just on the periphery of what I can see, but it's dangerous." She's too serious, and not merely paranoid or fretting needlessly. "It's as though it is so outside the norms of how things should be that it hides, beyond the order of the world."

Her eyes close heavily, and she breathes out slow, resting her brow to his. "I'm sorry to bring this kind of news. I wish it was better. Some of the others were going to see if this was the business Management had in town, but I don't imagine so. This feels... as though it was meant to move outside her perception."

She takes to the kiss suddenly, forgetting all else for long seconds. She breathes in the scent of him, as though falling those few scant inches forward over and again until no space divides them at all.

Low-Key grunts softly and reaches up to steal that finger and bring it to his lips to nibble on it as well, distractions are good and should be used at liberty right?! His head cants to the side curiously for a long moment before finally nodding slowly. "I forget not all of us are accustomed to constant tides of war, this is simply another ebb and flow in the ocean," he says calmly and without a hint of remorse. "Or we can fight," he nods easily as if that idea has already been decided, for nothing else than remaining himself likely. Selfish twit.

"It moves in ways we are not used to, and it remains shadowed because it affects us more personally than we are used to," he posits without much hesitation. The bonk of foreheads brings his arm around her easily and he nods, "We should speak to Management and soon, as well as the others, it would never do to see us left behind," he chuckles a bit ruefully.

The slink forward of her body, the press of her up against him brings a low almost feral growl that echoes in his throat like the hollow rattle of a great beast. Indeed there is one lurking in there, but he seems far more focused on toying with her and keeping her distracted for now.

"I'm one of the very few of my kin," the muse murmurs as she regards him through half-lidded eyes, "that has little experience of war, save for the view from far away, on high. The 'god's eye view', as it were," she notes with a tiny smirk. "They call it that, not that it's the view most of us ever have of such things, but the long view, from the stars? I was telling Lorraine just the other day how almost everything looks clean from there, the horror isn't... "

Her chin tilts down, and the youthfulness of her features seems honest for once. "So close. Personal, as you say. I have seen war, over and again, but I've never been a part of one." Her fingertips settle lightly at his shoulders, running over the lines of his suit as if contemplating his role as warrior in deeper earnest than she may have before now. "There is a war coming," she whispers. "Not for us. Not ours. Not of our making. Of something ugly, and poisonous. I've already fetched one of my lost children from it," she says, speaking of saving someone from a war that hasn't even yet begun as though it was a commonplace occurrence in her existence.

"I won't let us fall behind any more than you will," she whispers, suddenly chasing his lips with her own between her words. "Even if they have to shoot us off into the stars to dash along ahead of them all." Her fingertips begin to lightly pick at the buttons of his shirt, tidy and efficient as they deftly part the clean, starched linen.

The tilt of his head is incredulous to her words for a moment, "Certainly they had their share of starting them, demanding them, or harvesting from them, but did many of your kin participate in them? My brother, my nephews, my kin, they've all gone and hunted monsters, battled in the fields with jotuns," he knows the irony in that last bit with a keen smirk. There is a wizened glint in the trickster's eyes and he lets his hand fall from her waves of hair to her cheek to lift her gaze back up to meet his, "We will meet this thing bravely, and with cunning or not at all," he promises.

"We will keep who we can, but we may need to step up our...game," he puns with a smile. "I've been meaning to look bigger, wrap my fingers around the hearth defending patriots and twist them to my cause," he admits. But her fingers distract and he shrugs his shoulders out of that deep blue suit jacket to let it drape on the back of the chair before she's diving in to pluck at the buttons and he settles his hands back onto her hips before leaning up to steal a sweeter kiss.

"What has come before, will come again, will happen again, lovely. We will survive so long as we stick together."

"Damn near every one of them has a bloody history," Urania confirms with a slow and certain nod. "I'm one of the few that's stayed away from it, with my sisters." Muses aren't known to be the bloodiest lot. Passionate, to be certain, but bloody? Not so much. As he lifts her face, she meets his eyes as steadily as she is able. There is a measure of fear, there, yes, but hope, too. They shine in the dim light, sparkling with echoes of her luminous freckles like the stars themselves. "I will tell you all it is I see," she promises in a solemn whisper. The heat in her cheeks, making her voice all the more breathy as she continues, diminishes none of the gravity of her words. "I have not known you long, in the way time is known to me," she insists, "but I would not go ahead without you, nor let myself fall behind if you go on ahead."

It is a strange promise for their kind, and she seems to know it. It doesn't trouble her, as she notes, "More and more, men look to the stars. They cast their eyes upward and wonder not as much whether I can be found there, but what it is they will find there, and I confess to my own curiosity, there," she says, a hint of impish curiosity rousing a spark that brightens her visibly.

"We can visit the rocket man. You've never met him. He shoots things at the sky, now," she murmurs, but she isn't thinking of war. Some, clearly, are both lover and fighter, but she is not such a multi-tasker. She knows her role, and once she manages to unpick the buttons of his shirt, her hands press flat and warm against his skin, feeling the seemingly human heartbeat traveling through and between them. "Teach me?" she asks, speaking of war, even if the kiss to follow is more true to her nature.