Dracon (dracon) wrote in darkcarnivale, @ 2011-09-23 20:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | devon rasmussen, drake rasmussen |
Who: Drake & Devon
What: A close call
When: Late Sunday night
Where: Midway and all over
Rating: TBD
Status: Incomplete
Drake was helping out the riggers with some grunt work. They had just set up for the weekend, but one of the tents had to be moved because the ground under it was somehow settling. Probably a side effect of the compaction of an aquifer nearby. He had seen some serious cracks on one of the roads close to the lot where the Carnivale had set up shop. He liked the work crew so far, but that had always been the case. It was always some of the more ostentatious performer types that stuck in Dracon's craw, back in the old days as it did now. He was always going to get along better with folks who actually did hard work, who labored with their hands and broke a sweat and got dirty. It was just the way he was built. Besides, they were the kind of people who most often actually got his gruff brand of dry humor. The draconian enjoyed the physical labor quite a bit himself, so he would often lend a hand in his downtime. He wasn't scheduled to shift until the next two weekends, so he wasn't working the tents this time around. He'd be outside, helping the flow of people by doing his garden variety fire tricks. No scales and actual dragonfire this weekend, and that was just fine with him. The others knew what he was, anyway. He had forgotten how liberating sharing that knowledge was.
Ever so often, Drake would glance over his shoulder. He couldn't shake the feeling like he was being watched. He hadn't survived eighty eight years by failing to pay attention to his instincts, so he continued to work and pretended nothing was the matter, but his senses were on the alert. A shadow, a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, anything would likely set him off and send him into hunter mode. He was almost tempted to shift early, since his dragon form saw and smelled better than his human guise. But that would throw off his promised schedule to Arkady, so he compromised. His eyes already stayed semi-slitted, but he let his pupils shift further, losing their muddy browns and turning greener and brighter. He immediately started to pick out more details all around him. His tongue split into its forked iteration and whipped out a few times to taste the air like a snake. Nothing. Or, rather, something he couldn't place. Whatever it was, it wasn't unfamiliar, but it niggled at the back of his mind. He couldn't make sense of it, so he assumed it must be someone already in the Carnival that he was sensing.
When the work was done, Drake decided to take the long way around to get to his trailer. He needed to get his torches ready and get into costume. When he wasn't a dragon, he paraded around in a pair of leather loincloth/shorts combo and boots, posing as a human fire-breather. It was actually the same exact costume he'd worn back in the sixties and early seventies. It was a different time then, not that Drake would deign to notice. In any case, it wasn't just the flesh on display at the Burlesque tent that sold tickets. Everybody knew that, no matter the decade. Or the century, for that matter.
Back in present time, Drake still held on to the feeling that he was being followed. His peripheral vision scanned his surroundings, but he kept walking along like nothing at all was the matter. He would not make a move until he saw something more concrete.