Dimitri Watts (deadkidslol) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-03-02 07:27:00 |
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"It will wash off," Tigris told Bolt, straightening up with a brush in hand and standing back to survey her work. A beat, then a flash of teeth in what was for her a smile. "Eventually." Luce ducked into the tent to collect her props, not even sparing a glance for her sister’s handiwork. It was the circus, and it was Tigris. Just another day, in a word. Tattooed men of ancient circuses better have been surly. Bolt wasn't exactly going to go out of his way to develop this character. He wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to do it; perhaps next year's sponsors would remember it. He stared straight ahead during the painting process. He would stare straight ahead during the event. Everything was stupid. Tigris gave the surly man in front of her a long look. He wasn’t a talker. Just the way she prefered her people. She expelled a low hiss, then stooped down to collect a bottle from behind the table which held the tricks of the trade. "Glasses?" she asked Luce. Her sister nodded towards the top of a wooden shelf splattered with paint, the remnants of Tigris’s temper tantrum after Ruth’s demise. Tigris plucked down a glass, splashed a healthy (or not) quantity of alcohol into it. "Here," she offered Bolt. The clowns, most likely, had seen to Dimitri getting suitably lubricated. There was no way he could do this without a few drinks in his system. Acting like an idiot for attention wasn't far out of the norm for Dimitri Watts but this was still a stretch. As much alcohol as the clowns encouraged him to throw down the hatch, the only reason he didn't look completely miserable was because Tigris' makeup application did wonders to hide his scowl. The clowns were every bit as happy as the paint on their faces made them out to be and, when Dim could no longer stand to be around them, he made his way back to the tent where Tigris was working on Bolt. "What if," he began apprehensively, resisting the urge to scratch at the persistent itching beneath the skull cap adhered to his head, "Uh, what if the chicken thing gets...messy?" Bolt handed his drink over to Dim. Dejectedly, Dim accepted Bolt’s drink and tossed back a large gulp somewhat more messily than he intended. He wiped at his mouth, effectively smudging up his makeup some. He didn’t notice. "Neither of you should be afraid of getting your hands dirty, so to speak," Sugar cheerfully declared. He winked at Dimitri, and somehow appeared to be not at all depressed by the recent events in the area. He turned his charming smile to Tigris, who had to be the scariest woman Sugar had ever laid his eyes upon. Poor Sugar. His smile was met with a dark scowl and a "harrumph" that bordered on a growl. Turning her attention to Dimitri (and her back derisively to Sugar), Tigris grabbed an already smeared towel and began dabbing at the Five victor’s slumped smile. On second thoughts, however, the smudged red paint did have a kind of artful imperfection to it in keeping with the slapdash nature of the clowning troupe’s act. She took a step back and tilted her head to one side, considering. "He looks fine," Bolt cut in. The sooner they could start this, the sooner it could be over. He hoped. He looked down over his arms and did, for a moment, admire the artistry of the tattoos. It was not the painting that bothered Bolt; it was the inevitable Capitolite gawking that would accompany it. Dimitri would've told Sugar it wasn't dirtying his hands he was worried about so much as putting the head of a chicken in his mouth and biting it off but then Tigris was dabbing at his face and he didn't dare move a muscle until she stepped back. He exhaled the breath he'd been holding because Tigris was indeed rather terrifying. "Yeah," he said, giving a firm nod of agreement without bothering to take his eyes off of Tigris and look at his reflection, "I look fine." He looked like a joke, the last he saw. Fitting, he guessed, and then took a more careful gulp of the drink in his hand. Fine, of course, was a relative word. But it was exactly that Dimitri wasn’t meant to look fine which caused Tigris to expelled an amused whistle of air through her pursed lips and flash him something closer to a genuine smile. “Funny man,” she told him, still grinning, then her mouth dropped back into its customary scowl as she reconsidered Sugar. Her initial sketches had been of a bearded lady, but her elder sister Aurelia had advised her that it might not be good for business if she made one of the Capitol favourites looked foolish. Sometimes Tigris really didn’t like Aurelia. Sugar met her scowl with what he thought was a charismatic wink. He appeared completely unmoved by her cold demeanor, although he wonder why she seemed so unreceptive to what worked so well on others. "Try to accentuate my natural beauty, baby," he said smoothly, submissively tilting his left cheek towards her. “I’m a lot easier to work with,” he added in a whisper, not wishing to offend his less fortunate companions. Don’t. Call Her. Baby. Speaking of ‘fortunate,’ an assistant arrived with a clipboard right then and there, ushering the three Victors (and Sugar especially, who had far from a sweetening effect on one stylist) out of Tigris’s sight and range, if not of mind. She growled and grasped the liquor bottle by its slender neck. Luce raised an eyebrow. "No, Tigris," she said. "It’s too late to make him a part of the knife-throwing act." |