Who Oliver and Khepri. Others can stop by if they'd like! What A (small, cold) party. Where: Outside his trailer. When: November 7, late night after performances. Warnings: Alcohol, TBD.
His first performance was not without its kinks, of course. He still had to work on his dismounts, after swinging like a monkey from Lamb's hooks, arms extended to supernatural lengths so he could go as high as possible and make all the children gasp and laugh. He'd stumbled on the dismount, though, from lack of practice, but had caught himself, done a back flip, and landed properly that time to much applause. Later, he wrote a letter to his father, thinking of how good it had felt to astound and amaze. He had a love-hate relationship with his body; it was stunted, malformed, but it could do so many amazing things that he needed to value it more than he did.
Of course, he could value his elastic arms and legs without valuing his liver.
So he set himself up outside his trailer after his show, as the night's amusements started to wind down, dragging out one of the perfectly-sized chairs from his trailer, fetching tumblers and shot glasses and spreading them out on the little table he'd been given. He figured the others could either bring their own chairs or sit on the damp grass... if anyone came at all. He knew he wasn't powerful like the witches or beautiful like the fae but he wanted to make friends anyway and if that meant plying them with alcohol and telling funny stories and singing show tunes, he would do it, to make friends, to make allies, to try to fit into this strange place like he hadn't fit into anywhere else ever before.
Pulling on his fingerless gloves, he tapped out on his phone, having conversations, trying to draw people in, as he sipped at his screwdriver, hopeful for the night and, for once, hopeful for the future.