Between the settlements of Cocockchaffer's and Reduviidae, in the woodland hills, lies a fading mill town. It is located on a sparse hill, with patches made up of sand and a hedge around it that filters in shade. When the wind blows, the buildings built out of matchboxes, tin cans, and pine shavings rattle on themselves. Litters is a small, monotonous town. On weekends, it's working. On weeks, it's more working. When the leaves change and the acorns start to fall, the town gets the most traffic.
On Friday, the leaves began to change colors. On Saturday, there is a cool breeze. And on Sunday, there will be a new show in town.
The Luminary Trope Circus' tent travels over a variety of landscapes, including ponds, the cockchaffer's village communities, and the Reduviidae lakeside villages. It makes a stop in the seaside communities before leaving almost as swiftly as it arrived. From a technological perspective, it's a collection of several mechanical components. Its main body is made up of screws, loose scrap metal in hues ranging from copper to bronze, broken pieces of rubbish, and other various parts. At one point, someone at a town they had stopped in attempted to put a paper parasol on it.The remnants of it are caught between a rusty sprocket and a brass bell.
It makes a whirring sound as it constricts itself. Its band of workers is milling about. Underneath its main mass lie two slender limbs made out of loosely connected, frayed cables and sticks. Attached are emptied crayfish pincers, a brutal sight to the rare empathetic audience or, more than likely, to the onlooker who is also a crayfish.
To the uninformed or to those looking at it from a distance, it might look like an animal, some sort of possum. The sounds it makes as it moves are a high-pitched, incomprehensible screeching as the pistons and gears inside of it spurt and spin. The moving "circus tent" settles on its legs just on the outskirts, where residents leave their hovels. Young nymphs alike all crowd behind their parents. Workers, on a break from the town’s leadmills, gather in murmuring groups. Bakers and sommeliers look on from window panes or just the opening of a cardboard matchbox.
A ringmaster, named Cepha Sanguisworth travels with it. A harvester that briefly ran with the 'Corps'. He had served in numerous missions on the Withers, something he took little pride in anymore. He is an entertainer now, after the endless drone of canid fleeces got too old for him. As it would anyone else. In Cepha’s youth, he had the privilege to have once called Litters "home." He thinks to himself that, while he is in town, he will go to see his old friend, Papillion, a tinkerer. Perhaps he will go see his twin brother, Khalid.
He cringes inwardly; that one he will definitely not do unless he absolutely has to. First, however, he must address the gathering residents, whose concerned expressions are all too familiar to him. He exits from the innards of the metal circus on a improvised stairwell fashioned out of the same cables and sticks as the legs.
The stairwell itself extends from the “front” of the circus. Cepha descends, taking great care to keep his steps calm and deliberate gait to avoid tripping on his tailcoat. He had been mindful about it, since the last time he did that was several towns ago— at least a month ago. It was embarrassing, both for himself and the troupe’s standing reputation.
But he joked about it. He had also fractured his tibia in the process, which meant that the circus would have to stay in one place for over a week. He believes that, one of the magicians, Soren, —obnoxiously complained about it. He laughed even more at that.
As he steps onto the soft grass, he inhaled a contrast of smells. The rotting wood of the homes, decaying leaf debris, and the thick smell of coal from the mills. The scents of faint cinnamon and fresh loaves of acorn bread from the bakeries was far more ghostly.
The onlookers shuffled and mumbled Their confused looks softened as Cepha appeared to be just another ordinary circus master, in stark contrast to the mechanism he moved with. A flea in this neck of the woods was common. Unlike in the coastal towns he had visited, no one stared at him on that fact, unlike the Reduviidae.
He adjusted his collar. The murmuring of the Litter townspeople slightly grew louder as he approached them, as they now crowded around him. Cepha finally adjusted his posture and his outfit again before speaking.
“Hello!” He spoke, keeping his voice at a carefully regulated volume, keeping it at a point where the crowd could hear him, but he would not frighten them. “Me and my merrymen come from all over the world, from the kingdom of Apisburb all the way to the falls of Ladybird Landing. Some of you may know me, even!”
He hesitated, attempting to gauge the audience’s reaction. Most of them were silent, still waiting for him to speak. Good. That made the next step easier. Cepha cleared his throat and still began to speak, now with more confidence and without the initial hesitancy. He talked of some of the lands they had visited, all too familiar with the repetitive patterns that the townsfolk of Litters were used to. Some of the more elderly audience members looked at him skeptically. That was fine; he could challenge their narrow worldview if he absolutely had to; he had done it before. Some of the children and workers in the audience, however, seemed to hold onto every one of his words. He noticed this and, as subtly as he could, tried to add some more fantastical details as he blathered. Some of them perked up a bit, and some of them did not. The elderly audience members just looked more annoyed. As he finished speaking, he relaxed his shoulders and tried not to sigh, instead simply inhaling.
Some of the audience had left by now, mostly the elderly or the workers, who either grew tired of his words or had more important things to do. The few remaining either cheered or laughed; a few even had the courtesy to clap. It was the standard reaction befitting a small rustbelt town such as Litters. And with that, he was satisfied. Cepha Sanguisworth took a brief bow, muttering a “thank you.” Before he moved on to the more boring parts of his work, The scheduling.
“The circus will only be here for three days. Today, Monday, and Tuesday,” he said. “There will be a few flyers in town detailing performance hours, but my coachmen, crew, and myself are trying to make sure we extend our time as much as possible. Me, Cepha Sanguisworth, and the rest of the crew of the Luminary Trope, thank the town of Litters for its cooperation.” He bowed once again. “And of course, thank you.” The remnants of the crowd muttered amongst themselves once again before disappearing back to their lives in the town.
Cepha Sanguisworth sighed, finally releasing the breath he had saved throughout the entirety of his speech, and looked back at the construct. Some of his carnies were talking amongst themselves. His coachmen, two stout twin damselflies, swiped a mutual glance at him, awaiting whatever it was he had to say. Cepha shook his head. He had a lot of work to do before the performance. But he had already made up his mind on one thing.
He was going to go pay his old friend Papillion a visit first.
Vulcan Papillion is in his workshop on a Sunday.
The autumn leaves are rolling in front of him, and he is drinking hot nectar with dandelion when he hears the store bells sound The butterfly turns around from behind the registry and nearly spits up his hot drink. In the doorstep of his workshop, made from a tin can, is a familiar flea. He clears his throat before he smiles.
“How’s my favorite flea?” He speaks from behind the counter, putting the cup down. “Haven’t seen you in what, four or three cycles?” Vulcan chuckles at his own joke as Cepha gets closer.
“It’s been longer than that.” Cepha shrugged as he looked at Vulcan behind the counter.
“How long ago was it that you left for the army? I remember your brother being devastated."
“Five cycles ago, I believe. And it wasn’t really the army, so to speak; they just say that, so the most stubborn of fleas come out to'support their corps.’ They’re more like harvesting missions, kind of like the mill corporations here, if anything. Failed missions are given incident names so that their unlucky participants feel recognized.” Cepha’s comb bristles flicked.
“Most Inchor products originate *from* harvesting missions. I got tired of the stench of it. I joined the troupe around three cycles ago; they needed a new ringleader. I suppose that theater degree from the college finally paid off.” He shrugged again, adjusting himself as Papillion dove and went under the counter, looking for something. “How is Khalid, anyway?”
“..Since you left, he's really adapted to the 'standard'. At least that’s what your father told me, probably felt ashamed that both of his boys pursued fine arts in different places. In any case, Khalid quit working on being an artist anyway. In my opinion, he still does it covertly. He currently works in one of the mills now. He visits me, occasionally. We chat."
From behind the counter, Cepha's sole clear view was of Vulcan's wings. Black, with long, elegant red bands and white dots at the end of them. Befitting of an admiral. “Cepha, I swear to you, I had some Canid Ichor saved up for precisely this occasion.” The butterfly rose again, but instead of Ichor, he got out a small clock. Likely one of his projects.
“That’s alright, Mr. Papillion. I’ll be in town for two more days, and I’ll come in between shows. I wouldn't want my old friend to be too lonely.” The circusmaster straightened his back. “Speaking of which, I have some metal parts I got from a trader in Apisburb that I wanted you to look at. Perhaps you’d find them interesting? Anyway, I have to go see the folks. Only so much time.” He chuckled at his own comment.
“Take this for me, old man.” Cepha passed Vulcan a couple of coins, who muttered a ‘thank you.’
“I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Papillon.”
“Be seeing you, Cepha.”
Among the largest structures in Litters is the Sanguisworth estate. It has existed since the town's inception, which is also the length of time the family has lived. It’s made from the rotting corpse of a cardboard box.
The Sanguisworths themselves come from a long line of goblin fleas. Cepha’s father used to tell him and Khalid that they were the last of their line, descended from some nobleman in Apisburb. Cepha never believed it, but Khalid rightfully did. Khalid would believe anything.
Cepha stops for a moment, looking at the house on the top of the hill that Litters is situated on. There’s some black mold growing on the side of it; the walls need to be replaced. Cepha suspected that his father would've gotten that rectified at least half a moon cycle ago. He did not. Mr.Sanguisworth was, as Papillon had said, an obstinate old thing, and Cepha supposed he always would be.
The house itself almost blends into the orange, decaying leaves that autumn brought. Cepha shakes his head dismissively. It’s a waste of time walking up.
For a moment, he assumed he would’ve considered it. But his head turned for a moment back to the circus; he could even make out some of the carnis’ chitter chatter and Soren’s complaining. He had something to return to, rather than the quite literal rotting home.
Cepha Sanguisworth turned around and went back to the circus.
It is Monday, opening night.
There is a stage in the middle of town. On it are rows of string fairylights, the big top’s iconic signature, from which the troupe gets its name. The great automaton rests behind the stage itself, blending into the hedgeline that surrounds the fading town of Litters. There are a couple of attractions down below. Entailing a makeshift carousel made up of floss strings, remnants of tea bags, and small porcelain figures. There are a few styrafoam balls floating around and a concession stand selling acorn bread and cinnamon tea drops from the bakery. A few signs advertising the circus itself, including such signatures as “HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A MANTIS RIDE A CYCLE?” and “THE TAMING OF THEM AND THE SECRET LIFE OF BIRDS.”
Soren Winderlight, the moth magician, has set up a stand in the corner near the main stage itself. It is a red tent made from the finest silk. She blinks for a moment, taking in the crisp smell of plants dying. She taps at a ball on her stand with a small, dyed black stick. A few stray nymphs whom she's supposed to report for having entered the fairgrounds early gather at her stand and gasp as the ball disappears. Soren reasons that there is no fun without a little bit of rulebreaking, especially if they are Cepha’s rules.
The circus’ coachmen, the damselflies, hide behind the stage. Their emerald wings flicker as they tinker away at the circus itself. Its gears sputter and spin. Some stray oil spurts out and hits one of them in the face; the other laughs.
The ringmaster takes the stage; his footsteps are brisk and calculated. Taking in the amount of fresh air factored in. Some of his workers run frantically across the fairgrounds like ants, or, well, some of them are ants. The sun sets, casting an orange glow across the traveling fair. The fairylights fully take their stage, glowing faintly and illuminating the soft green grass below them. Some of the other tents’s own fairy lights flicker on. He inhales and then sighs.
Cepha Sanguisworth rings a bell, and the still remaining interested townspeople of Litters filter in. The fair is now open. He rings another bell, and some of them gather as his audience. Among them, he recognizes two of them.
A flea walks in, guiding an old butterfly. His eyes are like ghostlights, and some would assume that he just wears a simple, unassuming outfit befitting of a millworker.
There were a few colored stains on it, however, that betrayed that notion. A contrast between the lead-stained clothes of the other workmen. He moves with grace, but he's slower for the sake of that old red admiral. His and Cepha’s eyes meet, and the flea nods. Cepha nods back. There is a mutual understanding; there is no bad blood between them. Somewhere, he can hear Mr. Papillion laugh.
Khalid Sanguisworth takes his seat with the old tinkerer. The audience is all gathered, and the ringmaster himself is motivated by a boost of confidence. He glides through the air, nodding to the right side of the stage for the band to begin their serenade. The drums roll, and he speaks.
The first night of the circus begins.