The Medicine Seller is never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when that horse is actually a brand new furisode with a butterfly and flower pattern that appeals to his particular sense of whimsy. There has been some effort to tame that mass of hair of his, put up in his most ostentatious ornaments, while the back neckline of the furisode plunges low, baring the nape of his neck like some kind of shameless hussy. The trousers and geta he's thrown into the mix send about a dozen conflicting messages about him to the world, and frankly he likes it like that. He's the gender-equivalent of a rubix cube. Solve it or don't, it's not his problem.
He is not, by nature, one for crowds, but there's nothing quite like an open invitation to a party for getting the latest gossip. Moreover, free drinks, free food, and free rolls of toilet paper that he definitely didn't steal from the restroom and presently has stuffed in his sleeves. And complementary handsoaps. He's feeling happily spoiled.
The Medicine Seller spends his time eavesdropping on various people's conversations - particularly any that mention the compasses or a strange new city. Interesting, very interesting.
He's watching a small group make plans in hushed voices for their own trip to this other city, glad of his oversized ears. Though to make it seem less conspicuous, like he isn't being a nosy little creep, he pulls a long, thin pipe from his obi and leans towards a fellow sleeper.
"You would not happen to have a light," he asks with his chilly, flat affect, a far cry from the vibrant colours he's decked himself out in. "I have forgotten my matchbook it seems. Silly me."
Fakir is not the generally social type. But he is, to some extent at least, an artist. He'd come to watch the performances last year and ended up dancing himself. He may again - for all that dance is something that belongs more to Mytho and Ahiru, he hates the idea of getting too out of practice. That would make him out of step with them, after all.
There's another appeal to the party, too. The assurance that you can practice whatever powers you have without them going wrong. Even after a year, Fakir is wary of the sheer potential of his Darkblood powers. He knows he's right to be. But wariness can be a liability in a crisis, and there are too many of those in Trench. He'd be an idiot not to take advantage of a safe opportunity to practice.
So for now he sits at the bar, watching the acts while writing on a napkin. He's trying to see how few words he can use to affect something. What was originally steaming hot tea in a mug beside him is currently a block of ice, the result of the word freeze.
He leans back, surprised, as the man leans over to him. Well, the party certainly goes with the fellow's fashion sense, even if his affect is unchanged.
Fakir considers the pipe for a moment, eyeing its bowl like someone evaluating an antique. Then he glances back down at his napkin and simply writes burn. There is a hiss from the pipe bowl as the contents are set alight.
The kiseru is, indeed, an antique. Not so much as the one who smokes it though some might consider the Medicine Seller more of a fossil, but certainly a good few hundred years old, and in superb condition.
The tobacco flares to life and he gives a small nod of gratitude. It does occur to him that he probably shouldn't be smoking in front of the young man, but then again, the Medicine Seller has never claimed to be a good influence.
He watches as Fakir's neighbour goes to drink their tea, only for a block of ice to slide from the cup and hit them square in the nose. Furiously, they storm off to go have a word with the poor, bewildered server, and the Medicine Seller's eyes fall to the napkin with the words freeze and flame scrawled on them. For a moment, the corners of his mouth turn upwards, but it's short lived.
"...You are practicing," he states, matter-of-fact. "Are they your blood powers, or inborn...?"
A beat as he breathes deep the sweet scented tobacco and exhales a plume of smoke away from the young man's face.
"...Or does it make much difference here at all, I wonder...?"
Hastily, Fakir scribbles thaw on the napkin, tearing it slightly in the process. This simply means that his former neighbor, who was showing the frozen tea to the server, ends up tossing tea in the poor server's face mid-gesticulation. Fakir winces. He really didn't mean for any of that to happen. He'd thought he'd have enough time to turn the tea back before they noticed, given how wrapped up in a conversation they'd been...
He's not sure if his new neighbor's simple curiosity rather than judgement for the whole affair is better or worse.
"...Everything changes here."
It's both, in Fakir's case. The difference is in scope and strength. Which is enough of a difference for him to give a non-answer.
"Everything changes everywhere," he muses, watching the little drama play out. The server yelps in surprise as they're sloshed with cold tea, the other patron staring in shock, then apologizing and rushing to get napkins while swearing up and down that it was frozen solid just a second ago.
"...Ah."
He gives a small, absent minded exclamation, the stem of the kiseru halting halfway to his lips.
"Unless time has stopped that is."
He looks askance at Fakir and makes a suggestion. "Perhaps try 'warmth' or 'evaporate' if you would like to help them."
Fakir opts for evaporate. It strikes him as having fewer ways it can go wrong. And indeed, although the server and the fellow patron are clearly befuddled by the complete disappearance of any liquid, they are at least not suddenly struck with fever or something along those lines. After a moment, the server sits down himself and offers to split something stronger with the patron.
The Medicine Seller regards the other two with interest, their conversation taking a sharp turn to bonding over all the bizarre things that happen nearly on the daily in Trench.
Congratulations on the impromptu matchmaking, Fakir. Well done.
"...Would we ever know if it had? ...Unless, of course, there are any who are not confined by such laws."
"If there are," he says slowly, "they would probably be the ones stopping it."
In his world, he had never experienced Drosselmeyer stopping time himself. Or rather, he'd never been aware of it, because he'd been stopped with it. But Ahiru had. It's certainly possible for someone or something to do. Fakir has never stated it to anyone, but he thinks the Pthumerians, or maybe something above even them, pull the strings here just as Drosselmeyer did in Gold Crown Town. Making a story that amuses them from the people they can drag in.
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A. A Lingering Mingling (Open)
no subject
There's another appeal to the party, too. The assurance that you can practice whatever powers you have without them going wrong. Even after a year, Fakir is wary of the sheer potential of his Darkblood powers. He knows he's right to be. But wariness can be a liability in a crisis, and there are too many of those in Trench. He'd be an idiot not to take advantage of a safe opportunity to practice.
So for now he sits at the bar, watching the acts while writing on a napkin. He's trying to see how few words he can use to affect something. What was originally steaming hot tea in a mug beside him is currently a block of ice, the result of the word freeze.
He leans back, surprised, as the man leans over to him. Well, the party certainly goes with the fellow's fashion sense, even if his affect is unchanged.
Fakir considers the pipe for a moment, eyeing its bowl like someone evaluating an antique. Then he glances back down at his napkin and simply writes burn. There is a hiss from the pipe bowl as the contents are set alight.
no subject
though some might consider the Medicine Seller more of a fossil, but certainly a good few hundred years old, and in superb condition.The tobacco flares to life and he gives a small nod of gratitude. It does occur to him that he probably shouldn't be smoking in front of the young man, but then again, the Medicine Seller has never claimed to be a good influence.
He watches as Fakir's neighbour goes to drink their tea, only for a block of ice to slide from the cup and hit them square in the nose. Furiously, they storm off to go have a word with the poor, bewildered server, and the Medicine Seller's eyes fall to the napkin with the words freeze and flame scrawled on them. For a moment, the corners of his mouth turn upwards, but it's short lived.
"...You are practicing," he states, matter-of-fact. "Are they your blood powers, or inborn...?"
A beat as he breathes deep the sweet scented tobacco and exhales a plume of smoke away from the young man's face.
"...Or does it make much difference here at all, I wonder...?"
no subject
He's not sure if his new neighbor's simple curiosity rather than judgement for the whole affair is better or worse.
"...Everything changes here."
It's both, in Fakir's case. The difference is in scope and strength. Which is enough of a difference for him to give a non-answer.
no subject
"...Ah."
He gives a small, absent minded exclamation, the stem of the kiseru halting halfway to his lips.
"Unless time has stopped that is."
He looks askance at Fakir and makes a suggestion. "Perhaps try 'warmth' or 'evaporate' if you would like to help them."
no subject
Fakir continues to watch them, just in case.
Unless time has stopped...
"Has time stopped here before?"
no subject
The Medicine Seller regards the other two with interest, their conversation taking a sharp turn to bonding over all the bizarre things that happen nearly on the daily in Trench.
Congratulations on the impromptu matchmaking, Fakir. Well done.
"...Would we ever know if it had? ...Unless, of course, there are any who are not confined by such laws."
no subject
In his world, he had never experienced Drosselmeyer stopping time himself. Or rather, he'd never been aware of it, because he'd been stopped with it. But Ahiru had. It's certainly possible for someone or something to do. Fakir has never stated it to anyone, but he thinks the Pthumerians, or maybe something above even them, pull the strings here just as Drosselmeyer did in Gold Crown Town. Making a story that amuses them from the people they can drag in.