Caspar Vaux (sentinel) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-19 17:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, !plot: founders festival, caspar vaux, rictor cassul, siri d'albis |
Who: Rictor Cassul, Siri D'Albis and Caspar Vaux.
What: The three Kerwonians play at treasure hunting.
Where: The Festival Grounds.
When: Backdated all the way back to the Founder's Festival.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Status: Complete.
This was one way to bring these three together, at least: unite them under the auspices of a scavenger hunt. It was like a childhood game, a harkening back to their playful years together in Reinberg. It was an exercise in finding that which was lost (a symbol and theme which appealed to their trio, and no one need explain why). For the two men, it was occasionally as simple as collecting detritus from their usual forays into the festival. Caspar brought a shattered glove from one of the exhibition matches, Rictor contributed an empty bottle of fine spirits. When he handed the map of the city over to Siri, it was technically supposed to be marked with the best places to eat—instead, she scribbled obtuse symbols and doodles all over it, trees with snarled roots and a snake eating its own tail, an abstract sun etched over the Mages Tower. Her two fighters took it in stride and declared the map a success, a more-than-suitable addition to their eclectic trove of souvenirs. “What about these hard ones?” Ric asked after a time, when they’d paused by one of the fountains to enjoy some ice cream. “Like, obtain a handkerchief from the Duchess of Tonberry.” “Limberry, you fucking idiot,” Cas said, but his mockery was scrubbed of its usual antagonism. They needled each other as they meandered through the bazaar (Siri between them like a shield), but it was with the gentleness of old habit rather than new irritation. Like an aged couple trading familiar retorts and jabs, a long-accustomed dance. The three of them weren’t always together; their social schedules and planned event-viewing occasionally drew them apart (and Rictor spent a great deal of the weekend by Lex’s side instead). But like a pendulum swinging back, they usually found each other at some point during the day, to compare notes and trophies, deviating from the map and the list—because really, the list had never been the point to begin with. She keeps their fingers tangled together as they join up once again to compare further found treasures of this hunt. There is something she is still looking to find, heavy in her chest but loosening its hold. Gnarled roots giving way to a beating clock that played with time, it measured their moments together, ‘tick' and responding ‘tock'. Siri ignores it, refusing to acknowledge anything that seeks to measure the limitations of their time. Rictor shares his bounty, carefully folded stub from a ride he took earlier; Siri wants to ride too and she resolves to do so later but for the moment she glances up at Caspar with a smile waiting for his approval (grudging granted, drawn out by the awareness of Siri's eyes &mash; she was there, with them, all of her). This, however, is still a competition because Caspar smiles that Cheshire cat smile of his and offers the photograph of the winning airship crossing the finish line. The vibrant colours, the contrast of machine and cloud, Siri touches it lightly tracing the edges of it. "How...?" but Caspar has no answer for her beyond an affectionate kiss on the forehead see? see? I'm still here and Siri allows herself that happiness. Lastly an autograph from a mage at the tower is handed over by Siri, though whether the mage in question is capable of casting blizzaga or some other obscure spell remains in question; she might have forgotten, but there is something in her posture that seems certain. This time the instructions were right. Siri circles them both, designated tasks for them to follow - they have crosses and stars drawn on the paper and she hands it over while she disappears into the crowd; they'd find each other later, more trinkets of this hunt acquired. And really, it had never been about the list to begin with but it was a useful guideline that prevented Siri from returning with something more bizarre than autographs on napkins. By the last day the trio had become good at this. Split up, forage, reconvene — they were the brass cogs of a clockwork mechanism, even with Siri’s tendency to wander, and their eclectic collection of what to an outsider must look like post-parade carnage was burgeoning by the minute. Ric smiled his proud smile of a job well done as he deposited a playbill and a booklet of the festival events into their treasure trove (which was really a cardboard box Siri had sketched all over until it looked appropriately grandiose). “The show was pretty good,” he said by way of expansion, and something in his voice made it clear that he hadn’t gone to see it alone. “Like either of us is stupid enough to trust your taste as far as we could throw you,” Cas retorted automatically, the jibe half-hearted at best. His attention had been caught by the cast array of objects Siri poured into the box, at least one of which was a picture of a rider by a hoverbike. The rider didn’t seem to know that their picture was being taken, and none of them could even be sure if it actually was the winner, but the unspoken agreement to not actually care held true and the men congratulated her on her splendid get. Cas presented the items Siri had assigned to him: a song list (with an address scribbled under a name decorated with a few too many hearts and flourishes) and his personal coup de grâce — the Faram forsaken moogle plush Siri and Ric had seemed to find so amusing to make him procure. He refused to answer any questions about what the vendor had said when he purchased it or do anything more than shrug at Ric’s teasing — he had been a lot more embarrassed about the whole thing than he had wanted to be, and he wasn’t going to give Cassul the satisfaction by looking nonplussed. When they finally ran out of jokes to make, Siri looked over the items one more time, nodding her head with final satisfaction of a job well done. She wound her fingers through both men’s hands as they walked together to turn in their bounty. Handing over the items for scoring was just a formality at this point; when it came down to what really mattered, they had already won. |