[hr][hr][center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/6db984d3-4c29-457c-84f7-fd720c6f3470.png[/img][/center] [center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3068ada6-2525-4e47-b1a8-14d98dfb6177.jpg[/img][/center][hr] [center][color=firebrick][b]Location:[/b][/color] Astley's Amphitheatre -> Almack's Assembly Rooms [/center] [hr][hr] [hider=Astley's Amphitheatre] [center][img]https://janeaustensworld.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/astleysamphitheatre_530x419.jpg[/img][/center] [/hider] An eruption of cheers and laughter roared from the many tiers and balconies of Astley's that evening, in sharp contrast to the horror befalling others elsewhere in London. The stands were packed to the brim with men and women of all walks of life, come to see the star of the established star of the Russian Grand Circus, a performer of extreme skill and renown, the eternally indomitable Great Bazhooli. He was a very fit man in his early forties, possessing a vigor that made him the envy of men twenty years his junior. The cacophony of voices faded back, replaced by thunderous applause; the last applause of the evening. His last trick was an intricate affair involving the impalement of various pieces of fruit placed upon the head and outstretched limbs of a volunteer from the audience with his weaponry of choice - thrown knives. To make the performance even more captivating, after the volunteer was chosen, The Great Bazhooli covered his eyes with a dark, gossamer blindfold. Neither the audience nor the volunteer was aware that the blindfold did not actually do much in the way of restricting his vision. Up close, the flimsy fabric did little more than put a sort of blueish tint to everything. He was good, good enough to do the trick with a true blindfold, if it came to it, but he wasn't about to put someone's life in true peril to sate the crowd. No, he just wanted it to look like he did. The poor soul who volunteered, however, was not clapping. No, this was a young Baron dressed in finery who, when he called for a brave soul to face his blades, shouted and shoved to be up front, rude and willful in his attempts to get The Great Bazhooli's attention. The famous knife thrower smiled, acquiescing to his lordly demands. But he did endeavor to teach the man a lesson in manners. The young Baron now stood against the Impalement Target, quivering with leftover fear from the performance, surrounded by various knives and short blades. The remains of several slain pieces of fruit stained his exquisite clothing, and the shaken fellow appeared to have wet the front of his otherwise unsullied white trousers. The Great Bazhooli raised his sculpted arms, bowing several times to the adoring crowd. This was his moment, repeated a thousand times over the course of decades of performing. It was what he lived for. A gracious look to him, he strode confidently over to the fear-paralyzed nobleman and began removing the bits of sharpness from around his body. The slightest touch of compassion prompted him to lead the man away from his target by the hand, then begin clapping himself, motioning to him. When the crowd's favor shifted to his temporary assistant, however briefly, the spell holding him senseless broke, and he shakily returned to the stands. A few paces away from his seat, he finally noticed that he had urinated down the front of his pants. Much as The Great Bazhooli would have loved to have soaked up the adulation for a while longer, he was actually a little late getting to his next big appointment for the evening. His little Veta was meeting with the Graveolase this evening at Almack's Assembly Rooms. It was a venue he had not yet visited, probably because it was not the kind of place that requested his kind of entertainment, nor generally the kind of place that generally allowed Rusyn gypsies (or anyone with their blood) within a hundred meters of their front door. Luckily, his "Little Veta" was the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Romanova, and as such could pick anyone she pleased to form her entourage in state or social affairs. And so, he left the performing arena at a jog, headed to the backstage rooms to meet with his people and collect his pay for the evening. The Event Manager was present, politely already there with a bank note and small purse of pounds sterling. He counted out what was necessary for his setup men and paid them accordingly, and handed off the bank note to one of them as well. Pocketing the remaining coins, he gave bracing orders to them in Russian, amounting to [color=firebrick]"Note goes to Chernyshev immediately, and remember your percentage to the Circus. Go! Ve are late."[/color] One minute more found him in the carriage house behind the Amphitheatre, climbing into a richly appointed conveyance. The second the door opened, a massive, feline head poked out of it, vocalizing in a manner that any sane person would have found terrifying. As it turned out, the comparative sanity of The Great Bazhooli was left open to interpretation. [color=firebrick]"Tikho, Myshka! Back in carriage! Idti, idti!"[/color] he shouted, recovering his coat and hat from the driver and climbing in. [color=firebrick]"Seychas my otpravimsya v Veta. Schastlivyy?"[/color] he berated the massive tiger, letting him know that they were on their way to Elizaveta now. He was apparently at ease in its presence, a feat that admittedly took him a little time to accomplish initially. Earlier that day, before he left the circus, the huge animal continually blocked The Great Bazhooli's path while he was trying valiantly to attend his own performance at Astley's. He was adamant about it, until the noble gypsy mentioned Elizaveta's name. When he offered to take the great cat to her, eventually, it allowed him to pass. No way he was going to mix it up with a tiger. Even if by some miracle he killed the beast, he would have Veta to answer to. There was no victory to be had. The trip from the Amphitheatre to Almack's was relatively short, during which time he equipped himself with his various "walking around" blades. Slipping into his formal coat and top hat, he made the subtle and mostly insubstantial transformation from The Great Bazhooli to Master Vladimir Alexandrov, escort to the Grand Duchess. The tiger seemed to be staring at him during the last bit of the ride. [color=firebrick]"Vhat? Hat not straight?"[/color] [hr] The door to Almack's blew open, admitting the large, white tiger into the place of upper class hobnobbery. Screams could be heard from within, but it was a moment or two until he could catch up to the beast. In that time, an animal of that size and reputed ferocity could cause major damage, which prompted the bombastic Russian to give chase from their carriage, even before it came to a stop. Myshka had escaped with a suddenness that caught Vladimir off guard, as if he had gotten wind of Veta and could not wait for the vehicle to stop, else he smelled something in the air he didn't like. Regardless, the tiger's exit from a moving carriage prompted Vladimir to do the same, hand on the brim of his very becoming top hat as he hit the ground with an executed shoulder roll. He used the inertia of the roll to spring to his feet and tear off at a run. By the time he entered Almack's, he was a little surprised to see that Myshka was doing fine. He was with his little Veta, who was accompanied by what appeared to be a heavily armed Catholic, a pale noblewoman, and a dead guy. Obviously, the presence of a formerly living (and very fat) individual alongside the tiger and what appeared to be a particularly stressful moment for all parties attending caused him no small amount of alarm. However, as no one was being disemboweled at present, he treated the event as he treated all things: [i]With panache[/i]. Confidently, he strode into the main corridor, deftly tossing off his hat and coat to the nearest person to the coat check, whether or not said person was actually working the station. [color=firebrick]"Tell proprietors of House that they have honor of receiving Master Vladimir Dmitrievich Alexandrov! Qvickly!"[/color] he shouted, to everyone and no one in particular. A flick of his wrists brought out two sizeable short blades from among the collection on his person. He twirled them between his fingers as he approached, reprimanding the tiger in snatches of both Russian and English. [color=firebrick]"Myshka! Vhy you do this to Velikiy Bazhooli? Alvays vith begat', zastavlyaya vsekh bol'she bespokoit'sya! Bad Kitty! Very bad kitty! Scaring hell out of zhirnyye, lysyye, pompeznyye Aristokraty, and for vhy?"[/color] He approached Elizaveta and company, sprinting two steps and leaping forward, flipping once in the air before landing on one knee, fists (still grasping large knives) planted firmly on the ground in a stance of bowed subservience. His head lowered, he addressed her in loud, clear words, using the locally standard English with more drama than was actually necessary for the occasion. [color=firebrick]"I am here for honor of serving your vishes, Grand Duchess Romanova! And! And to apologize hundredfold times, your Grace."[/color] he raised his head to better view both Veta and Myshka, seemingly ignoring everyone else in the room. It also served to show off the extremely showy but immaculate grooming of his facial hair, as only a Bazhooli can maintain in the Empire. [color=firebrick]"Please allow me honor to escort your Grace. I vill try to ensure such indiscretion repeats not this evening."[/color] Yes, they knew each other. No, it didn't matter. In public, he would show Elizaveta the respect he insisted others should, even to the point of passionate histrionics. If it got the point across and drew attention in the meantime, all the better. In a slightly quieter voice, he looked to Myshka, [color=firebrick]"Do this thing again, Kitty, I vill [i]Mamushka[/i] vearing vhite tiger fur."[/color] He shot a quick smile and wink at Veta and Myshka both, indicating a more jovial intent with his last sentence. [color=firebrick]"Vhat does my future Empress desire of her servant?"[/color]