A Saga of Fen &amp; Fantasia | Solo Fin

24 Sep 2025, 18:35

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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro Affected

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19 July, 2025
Bergen, Norway

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Sometimes he needed to get away from the Jubilant Bazaar, and when the last of their performances had ended on the evening of that Friday, Piérre had taken the liberty of leaving a note informing Gitano that he was taking a well-deserved break and planning to made the journey to Bergen for the weekend: he would be back Sunday evening and meeting them at Fitjadalen. He wanted to explore and have some time for himself.

So naturally this was not a request for permission--this was just informing of the fact that he would be going and explaining the reason for his absence.

This was why he was dressed in his typical pink and green ensemble, something casual and muggle-like but just slightly strange enough to draw eyes. Figaro was settled comfortably around his shoulders and his wand was hidden under his shirt. He was walking with mild self-confidence; chin lifted and shoulders back, a slight bounce in his step as he went and wandered the city's more rural bits while admiring the old house structures and smelling the slightly stagnant sea breeze with the vision of the creepingly tall island of Askøy shrouded in slight mist in the background of his perceptions.

Eventually he found what he was looking for, a simple and open area that was similar to a sort of town square or gathering area. Out of the way but still central. Perfect for setting-up in.

Piérre was no beggar, but he was a performer at heart. It had been a precious while since he had broken out his mandolin properly and gotten to play it for anyone in particular besides himself... and over the past few years he had gotten quite good at his fingerings and gaining an appreciation for the improvisational arts concerning it. Chords came to him naturally, and while his music may have had in it no particular direction--beginning or end, as it were--it simply... was.

Taking his place at a park bench and removing his hat--it was an item that he had become intensely attached to ever since it had been given to him by Valentin--so as to place it at his feet to one side with its underbrim upwards, he settled down and let his cat leap to the ground and explore while he tuned (a practiced art by now) and then began to play.

He was aware of the heat of many curious and disregarding eyes, visions that looked him over and then ignored so as to continue on their way. Many muggles, he well knew, nowadays wore earbuds and headphones: they listened to their own podcasts and music. It was likely strange for them to hear (or in some cases perhaps it was impossible for them to hear) the strings that softly played directionless melodies that had a decidedly Italian flavour to them. Still, he felt that he had nothing else better to do with himself besides doing this strange thing that he had always wanted to do. He did it out of enjoyment of the art, to produce something good. To enhance or to improve someone's day with his talents that he knew were few and far between.

Figaro was the showstopper, as it turned out. It seemed that many people just couldn't seem to resist the temptation of petting a cat that was in the area, and like any good sociable creature Figaro naturally lapped up any and all attention that was given to him. Attention turned to his cat, of course, meant that attention was then directed to him, and he found that he got a few instances where an ebb of a crowd resulted in a pause and hesitation to listen to his art from a safe distance before they moved on. On rarer occasions some came closer and would drop a small krone or a few coins in the hat and then move on, and on the rarest occasion some would stop and listen for a few minutes until his music came to a temporary pause to allow his fingers to rest. They spoke in Norwegian, which the boy sadly did not understand and indicated with a soft: "I'm sorry, I don't speak Norwegian...", but found that often the language transition was of no concern and carried on in English instead.

He received a few compliments on his artistry, several questions on what he was doing, and many well-wishes--mostly from kindly older women or men who had simply come to enjoy the music. He was a traveler, he had said--just wanted to enjoy the brisk day and share a little music. Perhaps that was a strange thing to do, to be a stranger playing an instrument for his own amusement and whittling of his time and not really in need of any payment. Several people--with some younger kids who were walking about town with their guardian being some of the more excited among them--asked about his cat, which he let them hold and pet. He was, at times, nervous: humanity was often not the most kindly species, and being so young and so alone (with the obvious fact that he could not in this environment show that he possessed magic) was certainly a little cowing.

By midday he had enough money to go and get himself a little something to eat (he had money on him, of course, but it was always good to have a little spare pocket change just in case), and then he returned to retune and try his hand once again.

As he struck up another melody and as Figaro curled up beside him and closed his eyes with a deep and contented purr, Piérre had no way of knowing that from the high perch of a third story window, just to one side of where he was seated, a little girl was watching him from behind the iron balustrade with wide and curious ice blue eyes. Willow-thin snowy fingers were curled around the dark metal, tight there as if in the innocent act of looking out from or crouching there on the balcony she was somehow committing some dangerous act. As if she knew that she was not supposed to be there, among the other windows on her level and below that were decorated with snuffed out, red-tinted lamps.

As if watching the outside world like this--with keen, curious, yet also strangely fierce eyes--was not something she often did.

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Last edited by Piérre Marchonné on 5 Mar 2026, 01:20, edited 1 time in total.

Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight

25 Sep 2025, 03:19

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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro Affected

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She had seen strange people in the square before; many times they were wearing dark or hastily configured clothes made of "jean fabric" and "denim", thick jackets... on more than a few occasions she had watched a few of them sleep in the square overnight before being off the next morning. Some came more frequently than others, always intent on sitting and trying to beg for krone. On a few occasions, she had also seen minstrels performing for the same purpose.

She rarely saw one as colorful as this one, especially not one with a cat. Especially not one with such a strange aura about him: who had a tangible presence that she wasn't quite sure what to make of or what to interpret it as. Still and silent where she knelt and watched from the safety of the higher ground, crouched like a small predator with golden-white hair that drifted on either side of her face like a curtain: camouflage, though the color did not appeal to the environment other than serving as concealment of her delicate features.

The minstrel continued his craft as she continued to watch and listen, observing as other strange humans continued to interact with the colorful being, with the little and wild silver and black-ringed creature. The social cues of bared teeth--an act among these kinds as being a signal of non-aggression when the lips raised and the apples of the cheeks rose in a way that caused the eyes to partially blind themselves--indicated that there was a degree of mirth in their interactions. This was a friendly gesture. A socially agreeable situation.

Piérre found that he had managed to somehow conjure a small group of family units to himself, with kids of younger ages somewhere between four and thirteen mostly attracted to the idea of playing with Figaro, who had woken up at the commotion and was now making his friendly rounds amongst them in turn with confident tail and banter. While his eye did flick from youngling to youngling at time, feeling within him a small and warm rush of content joy at seeing them play and giggle at the feline, he continued his work on the instrument. Continued to play for their pleasure as he tapped his foot with the rhythm of a more stirring and energetic tune. It seemed fitting, he thought, for all the sudden activity that he was surrounded by--to paint a picture of the visual in the form of the aural. Arpeggio leaps and bounds were interspersed with gallivanting repetitive sequences that varied at every time they were called-back to--like a little game with small changes every time that it was played.

He didn't notice that he had started smiling from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling with a childish glow that matched more than a few of the little ones that spoke in Norwegian to their parents and exclaimed loudly when Figaro bumped his head on them in earnest for more attention. His heart was beating fast, enthusiastic, and the familiar hum of arcana in his very blood seemed to course along with the tempo, a pulse that beckoned to him to be played with as well.

As much as he wanted to, though, that was simply not an option. Not here in such a public place as this. No, no... he had to be content acting like a regular old muggle street performer--here to be enjoyed purely for his mundane talents and prowess. Perhaps the subtle undertone of magic in the air that simply followed him about made him seem a little stranger than a typical bard, something about him caused the electronic devices that were being used to film him to jump in their video and audio for a moment before "fixing" themselves, but he was simply a musician at the moment.

Not a wizard. Not a magic-holder. Not a Gryffindor or any other house accolade.

A musician.

There it was, that strange feeling that was so familiar to the small girl. The sensation of something in the air, like the feeling of the winter wind that pricked the hairs of the arm and caused them to stand straight. Not out of fear or skittishness, but out of excitement and realization. A rush of power, the ebb and flow of force itself. Song that was so much more than song and art that was not mere art. Music that had vis. Dominion. Music that was, instead of notes and string, magic.

The strange, colorful man knew Tryllekunst Norwegian: magic art/illusion or stage magic.

Her cold eyes glittered in wonder, widening as a strange and golden sparkle twinkled deep in her irises at the realization. The curiosity. The possibility...

That he could be like them.
That he was one of them.

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Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight

7 Oct 2025, 18:28

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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro Affected

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Figaro was a patient creature who had been raised correctly by Piérre, and who despite not really appreciating being tugged and pulled around by children who were clumsy and sometimes did not control their own strengths knew that such acts were not likely to harm him. When he did grow tired of such play, he withdrew and leapt back up on Piérre's lap, curling up and laying down with his tail flicking back and forth as a deep purr rumbled and minty green eyes closed calmly.

By this time, Piérre had finished with his music for a bit and had instead moved on to card tricks and slight of hand artistries: pulling coins out from behind ears, hiding small objects somewhere on his person, turning eyes away from the trick just long enough to pull off an incredible concealment followed by a magnificent reveal. Small games, little tricks; enough to cause laughter and wonder. He was going to need a new deck of cards with the amount of them that he was just giving away: they were rather nice quality cards too, gold-backed and elegantly designed with a distinctive Italian pattern on their backs and face cards. One of these that he gave away was the merry Jack of Hearts to a boy that seemed to be watching him keenly with dark eyes that seemed to taunt the concept of blue immersed in sweeps of brown.

No, those eyes were not entirely brown--they were richer, more saturated.

Piérre had seen eyes like those before... but where? There was something familiar in them, their set and also their appearance. Something haunted yet knowing. Pale gold hair daring to infringe on white, dressed in a rather charming outfit that was different than many of the other children due only to the seeming traditional appearance of it. He had smiled as he had flipped the card between his fingers before offering it, only to be met with narrowed eyes of suspicion--like a creature unsure of an offering of food. Birdlike. Raptorlike. Not unakin to vulturous, even. Still the boy's fingers did accept the gold-backed card eventually, although suspiciously so, and Piérre tipped his head in slight amusement before gently moving on. Shy kids... well, perhaps also suspicious kids... it was fair. He was the stranger here.

Behind the balustrade, the keen glacier eyes watched the man give the card to the boy. Her fingers tightened slightly as she brought herself to her feet and then wrapped her hands around the top of the parapet as she steeled herself to try. She was going to get down, going to join the rest of the children.

There was a fire escape adjacent to her that had been installed many, many years ago. It was old, rusted, shaky whenever the snows and rains came and the winds blew. Not quite dilapidated, but certainly risky. She had climbed down it before in the past... with help.

White lace and blue fabric swished as the bunad's skirts were slipped over the top of the bars and her leg followed thereafter. Climbing quickly, she pulled herself over and reached out for the fire escape, clasping onto it and making ready to begin her descent to the ground below. Pretty little black dress shoes without a scuff or scratch were careful to avoid bestowing such a mar to themselves now, searching for a hold on the rusted patina until her footing was secure. A small breeze carried her hair and the skirts slightly, billowing to one side as the fabrics wrapped lightly around her legs on the other. It was the breath of summer freshly freed from the clinging spring, anticipating the rasping breath of autumn that preceded the hiss of winter. Life clung viciously on such breath's tongue, as did the hot intonations of the predator's fang to claim it.

A foot stepped down the next few rung, small hands readjusting for the next hold. There was a larger gap between this rung and the next, the one that had used to be between them had broken away at some point before she had been born. Yet, she still had to attempt to lower herself to it nonetheless: a difficult task considering that she was only slightly over twice the height of the gap in question. If she managed to touch it at all, it would only be the tips of her toes that would do so.

But stretch and reach for it with her foot she did, struggling to find it. Shoulderblades burned with the effort of holding herself up on the extended three points of contact, her young and lacking strength obvious when in tandem with the difficulty of the skirts impeding her other perched foot below her. It took most of her strength to stay where she was, and in such a position she could neither retreat or advance.

Her foot rocked, slipped,

And she fell.

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Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight

6 Nov 2025, 14:52

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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro Affected

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There was a feeling of unease in the crowd that became present before the fixations of such concern were made known. It was a sensation, a particular ripple of unease that caused the fluid form of the audience to sway to one side, in one particular direction. It was to this tangible, graspable feeling that Piérre found himself suddenly assessing and interpreting, watching with keen eyes the way that it ebbed, how the nervousness seemed to heighten as the tension in the vicinity seemed to increase. It was obvious, within a matter of moments, that the concern was transforming into concern--concern that entailed fear. Something was off, wrong. There was danger; immediate threat. Not, perhaps, against the masses, but something discernibly worrying enough to cause a feeling of mass anxiety.

The direction of the attention caused the Britalian's own eyes to follow, and when they did land upon the centerpiece of focus, he immediately leapt to his feet. Beside him, Figaro startled, surprised by how quickly his master had moved but only yawning in response as minty green eyes tracked the street artist's hasty dash.

He saw the movement, something that may at first have been confused for a trick of the eye, a rippling fabric of cloth, or a seagull cutting upwards towards the top of a building to alight upon it; but it was none of these. It was a child, a young girl, whose feet were kicking in an attempt to hook about the side of a rusted out ladder that looked as if it could give at any given moment to no success. The lace and thickness of her outfit's skirt was not helping her cause, hindering her ability to maneuver around it, and it seemed that in every passing moment her grip was becoming more and more compromised.

Piérre could recognize the signs of someone about to fall. He himself had done so on many occasions as a child, but the situations in which he had found himself in were vastly different than these conditions. When he had been a boy, he had fallen from trees no higher than three to four meters in height, had known how to fall safely were he to hit the ground, and often either landed on grass and earth or upon his brother (who often groaned whenever Piérre reminded him of those times due to his taking the worst of the interaction)--he had not fallen from a height of two or three stories to the cobblestone ground and with the potential of the ladder catching a leg and causing a failure of ability to control the fall. The situation that this girl was in, as he watched her fingers slip and the movement of her body further lessen grip and stamina of strength, had the very real potential to be lethal.

Though a large portion of the crowd had begun to mill towards the building, it would not be fast enough to form a lacing of arms or clothes to serve as a net. Such formations could take up to a minute, and that was not time they possessed at the speed at which the girl's strength was obviously failing. But Piérre... did not quite have the same restrictions of capability of action as the rest of his audience. By his very nature, he was not bound to the same known 'realities' as they were.

He was capable of something more.

So even as he fixed his eyes upon the scene, felt the hum in his blood transform into a sudden rush of potential waiting to be released, yew wood was withdrawn and hidden close to his body as it flicked in a sudden 'M' pattern. Even as the child's hands slipped from the bar, as her blue, red, and white dress began to flow upwards alongside pale white-blonde hair in feeble attempt to resist the pull of the Earth, the resolve was already present and his intention unwavering. In a matter of the few seconds he had, he willed the magic to leave him, as the words of incantation murmured a manifestation of arcane into being. This was a good a reason as any to use such power, such talents. And, as far as he was concerned...

Fuck the Statute.

"Arresto Momentum!" He commanded, the wand directed towards the girl. In an almost instant response, the billowing of dress and hair seemed to intensify ever so slightly, her momentum slowing just enough to increase the duration of her fall, just slow enough to become mostly indiscernible. Hurtling over the knee-high wall between the building and the courtyard, Piérre swooped beneath her and caught her in a carry-hold with both arms; staggering slightly under the sudden weight before falling backwards and onto his rear, but certainly serving as a better and softer landing for the girl than if he hadn't.

He hadn't realized that he had reflexively tightened his grip to hold her to his chest as they had fallen the last little tumble to the ground, and suddenly let go to let her out of his grasp... but she didn't go, and he became aware of the wide and incredible icy blue eyes that punctured through his own and seemed to peer directly into his very essence. A shiver ran down his spine then, shaken by how intense her gaze was amid her soft features and fine hair that rippled akin to cloud across her shoulders and face--mussed only ever so slightly from the fall. After a second of shock, Piérre blinked and then laughed nervously. "H-hey... Are you alright?"

The girl's eyes remained wide, but she nodded and then tipped her head as if dissecting his appearance more closely. By this time, Figaro let out a cracked meow and scampered over to where Piérre and the child were, standing on his hind legs as he began to make biscuits on Piérre's shoulder. The girl's attention was drawn away by that as she laid eyes on the feline, and a new sparkle entered her gaze as she smiled. "Kattepus... Cat (affectionate)" And her fingers gently brushed the silver bengal's cheek, causing the feline to purr lightly and close his eyes, bumping his head into the hand and rubbing his face on her.

Watching this unfold with a continued awe and stunned silence as the crowd began to close in, speaking in tittering Norwegian and English, Piérre watched as Figaro cozied himself in her lap, and his eyes widened as he saw that the cat's fur had changed.

He knew Figaro's fur patterning by heart, down to the exact spotting and stripes that he could lay fingers on blindfolded. Looking at his beloved familiar now, in the gentle strokes of where the young girl's hand had traced, the fur had darkened, had gained melanin to transform it into an array of calico-like colourations of brown and cream--painting his own cat with the remarkable transfiguration of another species.

Magic. His gaze snapped back to the girl, noting the arrangement of jewelry in her hairband--no, those were definitely bones. The necklace, made of a series of spine bones intermixed with ribs. The gentleness with which she stroked his familiar, and how she appeared blissfully ignorant of the fact that she was performing such a remarkable magical trick. Her ears... pinched and deformed at the tips--like his.

"Are you doing that?" He whispered to her, also beginning to pet his cat. Her gaze returned to him before she smiled again and nodded enthusiastically. When her hand left Figaro, the colors faded away. He was, once again, his silver bengal morph. Piérre blinked in awe again. This was... this was a magical child among muggles. Muggleborn.

An amazed smile crossed his face. "Did you know you're--" He remembered that there were muggles around them. "I think we're okay." He laughed, gently helping the girl to her feet before he returned to his. Figaro climbed up his leg and perched on his shoulders contentedly. "Does anyone know who her parents are?" He looked between faces, searching for resemblance between the girl and anyone gathered... but it seemed unlikely. She had likely come from the building behind them, likely not one of the people here. Such assumption was further confirmed by the fact that the crowd began to glance among themselves and titter, trying as well to determine where it was that this young girl's guardian was as well.

But just as he was about to try to act upon his desire to locate the guardians himself, the pale boy with the downy hair that he had given the Jack of Hearts to suddenly burst through the crowd with a rambunctious but warrior-like tenacity, speaking something in Norwegian and imposing himself between Piérre and the girl. With a surprising strength, he forced Piérre away and hugged the girl in a way that ensured that she was behind him, his dark blood-red eyes searing through the street magician's very soul as if by glare alone he could murder Piérre where he stood. He spoke again harshly in Norwegian and Piérre put up his hands defensively, eyes wide. "Hey, woah woah! All good! Sorry, I didn't know that..." Was it just him, or did it seem that those eyes suddenly seemed more bird-like? His posture appearing almost exactly like that of a raptor? The similarities between the girl and the boy...

Of course...

"I wasn't going to hurt your sister, I promise." He said with a nervous smile, as Figaro's tail whipped back and forth in anticipation of warding off a potential danger to his master. "Tell you what, I think she might be shaken up, why don't you go home and... make sure she's okay. For me?" He was familiar with situations like these only because of his own troubled upbringing. How greatly this young boy now reminded him of his brother and himself--the one protecting the other with such zeal that would even extend to the utilization of knuckles and nails to protect without a second thought in one's mind. "I-I'm glad that you came to watch my show, though. Do you two have names?"

The girl's wide blue eyes glittered. She seemed to recognize something in his last sentence. "Zyva." She chirruped quickly, the shadow of fear and nervousness gradually fading from her eyes as her brother continued to defy the Britalian. Her fingers twined into the boy's hair, which about her hands appeared slightly feathered and layered. "Kynchyn."

"Kynchyn" glowered at Piérre; hackles never lowered it seemed. Nodding, Piérre quietly folded his hands in front of himself, keeping himself humble and non-aggressive. There was notable fear here, easily noticeable. "Well, I'll tell you what, Zyva. My name is Piérre, it's been nice to meet you, but make sure your mom and dad know about what happened just now, alright?" The glacier blue eyes flickered for a moment, that unknowable shift somewhere deep inside, but they stayed bright. "Especially about the 'Kattepus', okay?" He smiled again. Surely someone would be able to take care of a strange situation like this... concerning Muggleborns and magic in these public places--provided of course he didn't get slapped with a penalty for his own blatant work of magic himself.

Zyva's spoke quickly to "Kynchyn" in a low voice, a playful brightness infecting the inaudible dialogue, and the boy finally allowed himself to relax, taking Zyva's hand in his own and tugging her away from Piérre and the crowd. They retreated towards the building bedecked at each window with a red-tinted lantern. The sign overhead read "Sinober Kinn".

The girl--Zyva--waved brightly at him as "Kynchyn" glared at him.

Then, they vanished into the building, the door closing behind them with a certain air of stubborn finality.

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Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight