Between settlements of cockchaffer's and lakeside towns of hempieras1, 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, when the acorns start to fall is when the town gets the most traffic.
On Friday, the leaves start to change colours. On Saturday there is a chilly wind. And on Sunday, there is a new performance in town.
The Luminary Trope Circus’s tent travels over all sorts of terrain, over ponds, over previously-mentioned settlements of the cockchaffer's village and the lakeside towns of the hempieras. It stops in the coastal towns there before departing again almost as quickly as it came. In a technical standpoint, it's a mash of different mechanical pieces. Its main body is composed of screws, loose scrap metal in colors ranging from copper to bronze, broken pieces of trash, and other differing parts. At one point, someone in a town they had stopped in had attempted to put a paper parasol on it to make it look more friendly. The remnants of it are caught between a rusty sprocket and a brass bell.
It makes a whirring sound as it constricts in on itself. Its band of workers 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 a distance, it might look like an animal, some sort of possum. The sound of 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, 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.
Cepha Sanguisworth, a ringmaster, goes with it into town. A harvester that ran with the flea corps for a while. He had served in numerous missions on the withers2, 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 inwardly cringes; that one, he will definitely not do unless he absolutely has to. First however, he will have to address the gathering residents, their concerns murmuring an all too familiar sound for him. He exits from the innards of the metal circus, on makeshift a stairwell made out of the same mixture of cables and sticks the legs are made of.
The stairwell itself extends from the “front” of the circus. Cepha walks downwards, making sure to keep his steps calm and calculated so that he does not trip on his tailcoat, something he has always kept careful about since the last time he did that was a couple of towns ago, which was at least a month ago, and it was embarrassing, both for himself and the troupe’s reputation. He laughed about it, however. He had also fractured his tibia in the process, causing the circus to have to remain stationary for more than a week. One of the magicians, he thinks it was Soren, obnoxiously complained about it. That made him laugh harder.
As he stepped onto the soft grass, he inhaled a mixture of smells, the lead and graphite thick in the air, the decaying leaf debris and the rotting wood of the homes. He still detected some traces as he detected hints of cinnamon and fresh loaves of acorn bread from the bakeries. The onlookers of the town looked at him, their bewildered expressions becoming ever increasingly soft at the familiarity, as, contrary to the mechanism he moved with, Cepha looked like nothing more than an ordinary ringmaster. A flea in these parts was common, unlike in the coastal towns he had visited, no one stared at him on that fact unlike the hempieras.
He adjusted his collar. The murmuring of the Litters townspeople slightly grew louder as he approached him, as they now crowded around him. Cepha finally adjusted his posture, and his outfit again, before speaking.
“Hello!” He spoke, keeping his voice in a carefully regulated volume, keeping it at a point to 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 from the falls of Ladybird Landing. Some of you may know me, even!” He paused, trying to read the audience’s reaction. Most of them were silent, still waiting for him to speak. Good. That made the next part easier.
Cepha cleared his throat, and still began to speak, now with more gusto and without the initial hesitation. 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, 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 onto 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 Paillion 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 ring. The butterfly turns around from behind the registry, and nearly spits out his hot drink from his mouth. In the door 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 was 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. Harvesters give incidents names so that they feel recognized. It makes them feel important.” Cepha’s comb bristles flicked. “Most blood products come from harvesting missions. Got tired of the scratching though and the stench of it. I joined the troupe around three cycles ago, they needed a new ringleader. I suppose that theatre degree from the college finally paid off.” He shrugged again, adjusting himself as Pallion ducked and went under the counter, looking for something. “How is Khalid, anyway?”
“He’s really… adjusted himself to the standard, since you left. At least that’s what your father told me, my guess is that he was embarrassed that both of his sons were going into the fine arts. Your brother quit working on being an artist, anyway. Though if you ask me, I think he still does it in secret, I think. He works in one of the mills now. Sometimes he comes in to see me, talks to me about what I’m working on. I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes it up again, the art that is when your old man finally kicks the bucket.” Vulcan’s wings were the only thing Cepha could clearly see from behind the counter. Black, with long red elegant bands and white dots at the end of them. Befitting of an admiral. “I swear to you, Cepha. I had some Canid Ichor saved up just for this moment in one of my drawers.” The butterfly got back up, 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 I wanted you to look at. Perhaps you’d find them interesting? Anyway, I have to go see the folks. Only so much time when you're a circus runner.” 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.”
The Sanguisworth estate is one of the biggest buildings within Litters. It’s been around since the family has been around, which has been since the founding of the town. It’s made from the rotting corpse of a cardboard box. Cepha suspected that his father would've have gotten that fixed at least half a moon cycle ago. He did not. Papillon was right when he said Mr.Sanguisworth was a stubborn old thing, and Cepha supposed he always would be.
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. The house itself almost blends into the orange, decaying leaves that autumn brought. Cepha shakes his head dissmissively. It’s a waste of time walking up.
For a moment, he supposed 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 that 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 where the troupe gets its name. The great automaton rests behind the stage itself, blending into the hedgeline that surrounded 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, 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 whirr. 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 factoring 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 it. Some of the other tent’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 betray that notion. A contrast between the lead stained clothes of the other workmen. He moves with a 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 with 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.