[center][b]~ The 17th of October. Modern Day. ~

~ Princeton, West Virginia ~[/b][/center]

[hider=Opening Night]It's been as though you're walking in a dream. There is no other way for you to describe it. Your parents took you to a circus once. Long ago. Tired looking lions. Bears that did a few tricks. Clowns on motorcycles. Cotton candy that cost your whole allowance for the week. It was all a big ripoff, and you knew it back then when you were only a few years old.

This? This is something else.

The park in the center of town might be the size of a football field, and the iron fence rings the whole thing with one gate and entrance booth, but you've been walking for hours and haven't seen the same tent twice. This is absolutely maddening! The whole evening began with what could only be described as an ensemble of sensory overloads in the Grand Tent.

There you sat on the bleachers with hundreds, maybe thousands of others from your town, stacked like stadium seats going further and further down to a central ring. The air hummed with enthusiasm, the scent of popcorn, caramel, hot chocolate, and other small treats filling your nostrils.

It began with the trapeze act. Except it was not trapezes. Great curtains made of silk were unfurled into the air above the ring. Acrobats entangled themselves within and began twirling through the air, swinging into each others arms while torchlight replaced the crude electrical bulbs to illuminate them. The performance is sensual, passionate, but also filled with love. There are six acrobats swinging into each others' waiting arms. You get the feeling that each of them loves one another like husband, wife, and anything in between. It's a strange thought, but you can grasp the passion therein.

The act never really concludes so much as it is interrupted by the show beneath it. (You find out later on that the performance was called "Lovers' Embrace" and would continue for the rest of the night.)

"Ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, and none-of-the-above." The figure takes the center ring. A tall, lanky man(?) in a great black suit- jacket, pants, bow tie, top hat, and a half cape of silk. Within his white gloves, he clutches an old cigarette holder, lit and trailing smoke. The look is stereotypical, but he stands and carries himself in a way that you can easily imagine him wearing clothing dyed in a rich Imperial Purple, or sensual scarlet.

"I want to welcome you to tonight's entertainment. We at Cirque des Chasseurs wish you all nothing but a night of the greatest tastes, the brightest lights, the most mystical sights, and the most pleasant sounds as you have ever or ever will, experience."

The Ringmaster pauses, inhales a breath from the cigarette holder. He exhales with a flourish, forming a cloud of smoke several times his own size. A trick of the lighting? Are they funneling smoke from the torches?

"As the manager of this entertainment venue, I wish to impart a few rules to you all. First, there shall be no smoking within the tents or on the premises." 

The cloud above him twists and bends in the wind while the cigarette dissolves. Somewhere, a light flashes with the brightness of the sun. There is a crack, and then a roar. When your eyes adjust, there is no smoke in the tent. The torches remain lit, but even they will not give off any wisps. In the center of the ring, where the cloud of smoke once hovered, there stands an enormous lion. @Cherrywitch A golden haired woman stands beside the beast, dressed in scarlet and with a playful smile on her face- like someone who is about to play a trick on someone but they've no idea what is about to happen to them. She cracks a whip, but not to prod the animal- only as a signal. You think.

The lion begins pacing up the aisles, followed by the tamer. It stops halfway up the stairs near you, only for the tamer to tell the beast "I think now is fine." The beast pauses, straightens its spine, and the tamer stands perfectly on its back. Like a California surfer on their board, she rides it up the steps and out of the great tent's flaps, not once losing her balance.

"Reach out your right hand. Into the aisle," a voice beside you says. Another @Tenslashsix man, dressed in a suit and top hat, sits beside you. He nods quickly. You hesitate, but do so. With not a moment to spare your hand catches a piece of jewelry, a bracelet, fallen from one of the acrobats. Later, she will approach you for it and offer to show you around the Circus. Some of the things you will see, you will remember unto your deathbed.

"Another rule- please, no touching the performers!"

A woman @FancyHats struts into the ring beside the Ringmaster, standing from the front bench. It is hard to make out details other than the shape of her figure- after all, her dress is immediately wreathed in flame when she stands and burns as bright as a neon sign. Approaching on her left is a hugely muscled, mustachioed man with arms that could probably lift weights at an Olympic competition. He reaches out with one hand to touch the dress, only to suddenly and dramatically pull it away before running up the stairs to one of the tent's many exits. He curses in French the whole way. The woman extends one hand to the Ringleader, who accepts it and bows, the flames of her sleeves lick around the Ringleader's gloved hand but do not seem to catch.

"Unless of course, they invite you to do so!" The woman bows, then casually follows the strongman up the steps, her dress extinguishing itself to become a vibrant blue and cream color, though the sleeves seem to smolder like coals.

"Not a rule, but some advice. Please watch where you step! You may not know when an act comes to you instead of the other way around."

The sound of steel hitting wood jars you. Where your hand had extended a moment ago, a knife was embedded in the wooden step leading down the bleachers, vibrating from the speed of its impact. A dozen others are likewise embedded up and down your section. You crane your neck upward- to see a young man, @FourthKing barechested with an open vest, held at the ankles by an acrobat. He is swung from one performer to the next, and he plants the knives into the steps of each section from over a hundred feet in the air, slinging the blades with unerring accuracy, easily dodging guests who are still walking to and from their seats. When you turn to grab the closest knife to you, you find only a pile of smooth ocean sand.

"Please do not feel compelled to offer monetary tips to our performers. They are being... suitably compensated for their skills."

You'd forgotten about the Ringleader with the stunts going on, and turn your head back in time to see him stepping onto a high wire above the central ring. Before him is a chestnut-haired woman, @VerusEbullio wearing her own flowing, fanciful coat and gown. While the Ringleader keeps his footing, he genuinely looks uncomfortable that high above the ground, using his walking stick to keep perfectly balance. The woman, meanwhile, cartwheels away from him on a cord that looks as thick as a fishing line. She gives an over the top gesture of exasperation to the assembled crowd.

'See what I have to work with?'

She removes a silk blindfold from her coat pocket, ties it around her face with both hands, pivots in place and then walks casually down the line, between soaring acrobats and above a hundred foot drop- with no net below it.[/hider]

From within the central tent comes the sound of applause. Cheering. The torches within the cloth tent dim, shadows are cast in steep shapes like the silk curtains above, and the Ringleader is swallowed by the darkness along the tight rope. He does not reappear. Not inside the tent, anyway.

The crowd applauds. The crude, ancient light bulbs lining the exit flaps are lit once more. Many spectators begin exiting the grand tent to begin their night of revelry. Some remain to watch the Acrobatic act in the grand venue, one that will not stop all night. The Hollingsworth-Trinity-Lee family is an odd one. Polyamorous to the extreme. They made California Hippies look absolutely Puritanical when it came to after-show hijinks. But their combat skills were second to none in the field, and they put their flexibility to great family friendly use to entertain the guests. The Ringmaster smiles at remembering the signing of their contract. They treated it with all the reverence of a wedding just to get out of their star-crossed marriages. The group love came later. The whole lot of them were due for renewal in two years. Something told him it would not be difficult to get them to sign again.

They had been managing many of the more recent Hunts since the death of Michael. That would need to change, starting tonight.

Parael Magnus observes all of this from atop the central pole of his own personal tent, one of moderate size compared to many others. Once, when the Circus first began, he hosted shows with several dozen spectators within. He does so sparingly now. The Circus is of such a size that he has taken to managing it and corralling the guests full time- there is no time to invite guests inside his own domicile to regale them with parlor tricks except in those rare occasions they find no daemons to hunt within a city.

He misses it. But he is not on this Earth to impress doe-eyed peoples with Celestial magic.

Extending his cane, he whistles briefly on the wind. He hopes to summon a murder of crows to carry his messages.

He was answered by a flock of pigeons, all perching onto the well worked wood of his walking stick.

"This is sub-optimal," the Ringmaster said with a grimace.

The dozen pigeons coo in unison.

"Of course I appreciate you all. I just- ravens are more the style of the Circus. You know. Foreboding. Ghastly. Mysterious. Shiny black feathers. Messengers of the Gods."

Again with the cooing. The largest bird, easily the size of a raccoon, shits on his walking stick.

"Of course there will be popcorn! Do you take me for a complete monster? Pick a popcorn cart and they'll know to spill a bag for you. Just don't go to Jerry's stand. He has a thing about cleanliness near the food and I'm inclined to agree with him. Magic or no, daemons or monsters, nothing supernatural can banish a Federal Health Inspector. Nearly cost us the Brooklyn operation last year and he threatened to call the IRS as well! Nearly pissed myself, but don't you all go telling anyone that."

Silence.

"Right. Anyway, I need a message to be delivered to a handful of my performers. Their tents are all topped with a baby-blue flag- wait, can you see in color?"

Cooing.

"Really? Ultraviolet too? Shit! I'll need to remember that. Could be useful in the future. But yes- every tent with a baby blue flag. Tell them they are to finish up their current acts and close their tents for the night. That they are to rendezvous together and meet inside my tent. I have given them ample time to mourn. Tonight they bury Michael- and they cleanse his home."

The pigeons did not need a command to be given. With a flutter of wings and a cascade of feathers, the animal messengers took to the sky, leaving the ringmaster atop his tent- smothered in pigeon shit.

"It will be Ravens from now on, or I'll be my own messenger," he grumbled, vanishing into the darkness of night once more.

When the newest team arrived, they would find their Ringleader half dressed in a new suit, naked from the waist up, within his own tent's rear curtain. A kettle of Black Tea would be boiling over smoldering coals despite the loose hanging sheer silk curtains, the pillows draping the Persian rugs as seats, and the low lit candles...