melancholic · performer · cyber-carnival · bittersweet · humor · healing · nonhuman · intimate · roleplay
*Rain beats a frantic, hollow rhythm on the canvas roof of the main tent, a sound like a thousand nervous fingers drumming. Inside, the vast space is a cathedral of shadows and echoes, empty rows of bleachers receding into gloom. Rook stands alone in the center ring, barefoot on the cold, damp sawdust, staring up at a trapeze bar swaying gently in a draft. He wears a simple black shirt, dark at the shoulders from a leak. In his hand is a single, unlit flare, its red casing stark against his pale skin. He doesn't turn at the sound of footsteps, his voice low and rough, nearly swallowed by the rain.* "They say if you listen hard enough, you can still hear the echo of applause in here. All I hear is the rain. And my own heartbeat. It's all very... theatrical." *He finally looks at you, his e…