Chapter Text
As Alastor squints at all the signs hanging up and down the cramped city street, he’s starting to think he’d gotten the address wrong. Around him are countless stores boasting their goods and services, but there’s no hint anywhere as to the location of the one he traveled across town for. He sighs and turns for the start of the street he’s already walked up and down twice in his search when he finally spots it.
A small, painted wooden sign on the ground, leaned up against the foundation of a tiny storefront of cobbled stone and a worn-out door that was likely once bright yellow, but is now faded to wheezing off-white, as if it were still desperately attempting to produce its same loud call for patrons to enter through it. The sign, also faded, depicts a sun with rays curving outward in a drunken dance. In the center of the sun is a pink letter ‘M’.
Morningstar. Has to be.
Alastor adjusts his grip on his bag and heads for the sun-faded shop.
Peering through the windows as he approaches provides little information. It seems the only light in the place comes from the sun setting behind Alastor’s back. He considers for a moment that his intel is bad, and the place might be abandoned, but the golden, hand-painted hours of operation on the window doesn’t look nearly as faded as the paint on the door. And, according to his watch, the shop should be open at this time. Alastor tries for the handle.
Its ornate gold design is cool against his palm and the door hinges scream a cry for oil or some other lubricant, but the door swings open nonetheless.
Stepping inside, the shop’s air is stiff and still, as if frozen in time — a stark contrast to the floral-scented spring breeze that danced around the city on Alastor’s walk here. He looks about the shop as he lets the door swing closed behind him. There isn’t a soul to be found, but the shelves and cabinets lining the walls are chocked full of items that he couldn’t quite make out. The bright sunlight struggles to pierce the frankly filthy windows and the few rays that managed it could only illuminate so much.
“Hello?” Alastor calls out, not leaving his spot on the worn out, dusty crimson doormat at the entrance.
A beat. No response.
“Anyone here?” He says, a little louder this time.
Alastor frowns. Perhaps the place really had been abandoned? And if that’s the case he’d need to figure out a new plan. He eyes the display cabinets.
If there was no owner of this shop any longer then surely no one would miss a puppet or two?
His hard soled shoes clunk across the hardwood floor as he approaches the wall of cabinets and shelves. Each new location he checked was dustier than the last — even the items fully enclosed cabinets had a thin layer. But under that filth were inarguably gorgeously-crafted puppets. Thin, delicate-looking strings suspended from the top of each shelf propping up all kinds of creatures. Humanoids, lions, wolves, snakes, and a wide variety of birds. Each one if unique and unmistakable for any other puppet in the small store, but they all have the same artistic style that has been revered by collectors and performers alike.
And they are all exorbitantly expensive. Certainly nothing that Alastor could afford, but maybe if he requests that the artisan keep the design simple — and if he refrained from buying anything other than the absolutely cheapest bare necessities — he could afford one small puppet.
Stepping further into the store, intending to look at the shelves and displays housing the smaller puppets, Alastor becomes keenly aware of how much light is getting blocked by all the shelves and clutter. The overhead lights and lamps placed throughout the room were off, sure, but with the amount of sun coming through the wide windows at the front they shouldn't need to be on. This place could be beautiful, lit dreamily by the early morning sun, if only the owner took the time to care for it
Alastor looks back toward the front of the store, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams. With the clear lack of care shown for the place and the fact that he's seen neither hide nor hair of the owner, is it possible this place has been abandoned?
… That would make the puppet Alastor needs much more affordable. On the other hand, it would be difficult for him to perform if he were locked away in a cell under the Kingdom of Heaven’s palace.
Alastor squints, trying to read the hours of operation from the wrong side, and confirms once again that the shop is indeed open at this hour.
“Hello?” He calls again, louder than the first time, and waits a beat. Still nothing.
Perhaps he should just leave? Though he'd had to travel all the way across the city to get here, braving the brisk winds sweeping through the alleys and facing the sun so bright and hot its bleached every stone in every building he passed, it wouldn't amount to anything if there was no one to purchase from. If he went home now, he isn't certain he'd bother making the trip back another day if there was no guarantee that he'd have success in acquiring the puppet.
And not acquiring a new puppet was out of the question. In recent months, Alastor has made quite a name for himself and worked his way up to performing for exceedingly well-off clientele — the type that would be expecting him to have puppets suitable for performing to those of high status. No, he needs this new puppet, for better or for worse.
Alastor weaves his was through the clutter, maze like shop floor to the register, behind which is a faded purple curtain hung by a golden rod spanning a door frame. He hooks a finger around one size of the curtain, expecting to find a second room, but instead is met with a set of steps that run up a couple of feet before turning ninety degrees and continuing up and put of sight.
“Pardon me!” Alastor shouts, “Is there anyone here?”
A muffled shout echoes down the stairs just before thump vibrates the ceiling, more dust raining down and laying another thin layer over the array of merchandise. Alastor startles, but regains his composure and brushed the dust of his shoulder and hair as steps approach.
“My apologies, good sir. I hadn't intended to startle you, I just—” Alastor cuts off as a man rounds the corner of the stairs and halts in front him.
First and foremost, Mr. Morningstar is younger than he'd expected. He's not ‘young’ by any means — the man looked to be roughly middle-aged, perhaps even in his early fifties, with streaks of whitish strands shooting through his blond hair, concentrated at his temples and the point of his window's peak. Still, he is younger than the late-seventies Alastor had estimated given what he’s heard about the length of the man's career.
The second thing Alastor notices is just how disheveled the man is. Dark circles under his dull-blue eyes, unruly hair flying every which way, and wrinkled, stained pajamas that were too big on the man's slender. Not so big that they gave the impression of being purposefully oversized, but just enough that would indicate that their owner had slimmed down since their purchase. Alastor frowned.
“I just came to inquire about a commission, but if you are ill, I can come back—”
“No!” The response comes out too loud and raspy. Then, after clearing his throat, Mr. Morningstar continues, “Ah, sorry. No, I'm not sick, I was just in the zone and didn’t hear you come in.”
He shuffles down the rest of the stairs on pale, bare feet and Alastor steps back to the let the man past. Or at least he tries to. He hardly makes it a half step back before his bumping into one of the many displays crowding the room. It shakes and rattles from the impact as Alastor curses, but, thankfully, nothing falls or breaks.
A grimace crosses Mr. Morningstar's face. “Sorry for the mess. It’s uh, hard, keeping up with all this by myself.”
Alastor carefully side-steps the display case and joins Mr. Morningstar at the register, the wide wooden-topped counter spanning between them. He raises a brow. “You don’t have hired help?”
“No I uh,” Mr. Morningstar hesitates, wringing his bony hands together, “Once my daughter left the nest, I never hired anyone to replace her — putting out ads and doing interviews… It just a lot of work. ”
Alastor tries to contain his shock. He knew the man was a widow, but he hadn't heard he had children. “I see.”
An awkward silence stretches between them, quickly filling the whole store. Eventually, Mr. Morningstar breaks it by asking, “So, uh, how can I help you?”
“I am in need of a new puppet, I fear. Many of my currently models are beginning to show signs of wear, and I've heard such wonderful things of your work, so I thought I'd pop in an have a doll commissioned.”
Another grimace mars the craftsman's round face. “Ah. So the thing is… I don't really do commission anymore. If you see something on the shelves you like, you're welcome to buy it—”
“Well if I'm honest, sir,” Alastor cuts in, “I was looking for something a tad more simple while still having your masterful quality.” His best charming smile slides easily onto his face, and he waves his hand dismissively. “Surely something simple wouldn't be too laborious for someone of your immense talent — and would earn you a pretty penny.”
Mr. Morningstar laughs, forced and awkward. “I'm glad you like my stuff, but at this point in my career I'm not really in need of money.” Avoiding Alastor's gaze, Mr. Morningstar looks to the counter top and attempts to wipe away the dust settled on it with his bare hand. I only do commission if its for someone I know or if its in trade for something.”
It takes all of Alastor willpower to keep his face pleasant and jovial. There were a few other puppet makers in the city, sure, but none were as talented as the sloppily dressed man standing in front of him now. Not to mention that time was running out, he had hardly a month left before the most important audition of his entire career, and he needed the best of the best. He couldn't take no for an answer, there had to be something he could do to convince—
Dust kicks up from Mr. Morningstar’s swiping hand and flies in the man's face, immediately prompting a violent sneeze.
A strategy forms in Alastor's mind almost instantaneously. He smiles again.
“How about a trade then? Labor for labor. You create a puppet for me and I will assist you here by getting the shop back in order.” Mr. Morningstar's gaze flicks up to him and Alastor knows he's piqued the man's interest. He gestures around the shop. “Instead of this, you'll have a nice, clean, and organized environment that will allow your beautiful work shine once again. Plus, it will take another burden of your back — there will be no need to go through the hassle of an interview or put out an ad.”
At first, Mr. Morningstar’s tired eyes only dart around the store, as if calculating if the amount work it would take to get the place into a more functional state. Then he turns that analytical gaze on Alastor and squints.
“Why?”
Alastor blinks. “Why… what?”
Mr. Morningstar tips his chin up, a surprising amount of defiance burning despite the man being clearly exhausted. “Why do you want the puppet? Why are you so set on me making it?”
The sudden shift in demeanor gives Alastor the strange sensation that he now has something to prove. Like if he's not seen as ‘good enough' for this puppet-makers talents, he simply won't be deemed worthy of receiving a puppet at all, be it a commission or something off the shelf. Its good fortune then that he has a reason that demands the utmost respect.
“As I'm sure you know, not long ago Princess Vaggi was married in a private ceremony to the now Princess Charlotte. While they stay quite secluded, they are currently on the hunt for entertainers, including a skilled ventriloquist with experience in children's entertainment. I've been one of the lucky few to be granted an audition.” Alastor leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “Rumor has it they are expecting, or will be soon. If my audition goes well, your puppet could become a favorite of royalty for years to come, sir.”
The thick, dark eyebrows on Mr. Morningstar's face shoot up, wrinkling his forehead briefly before the man hastily schools his expression. But it's too late, Alastor caught the shocked reaction. He quietly preens knowing he's successfully impressed the man with his potential royal connections. There's now way Mr. Morningstar will deny him now.
He still makes an attempt, though, crossing his arms over his chest and looked Alastor up and down. “And… you have experience in children's entertainment?”
Holding his head high under the clear inspection, Alastor responded jovially, “But of course! Why I've been entertaining children since I was but a child myself! Its like second nature at this point!”
“And when is your audition?”
Alastor's smile broadens. “A little over a month, sir. Plenty of time for both puppetry and cleaning, don't you think?”
There's only a hum in response as Mr. Morningstar goes back to inspecting him. He goes so far as to walk around to the same side of the register as Alastor, letting his gaze rake Alastor’s frame from head to toe. Alastor isn’t certain what the man is looking for — perhaps determining if he looks fit enough to handle the labor of setting this place to rights?
But whatever it is, Mr. Morningstar seems to find it, because he extends his hand. “You've got a deal. Be back here this time tomorrow and we will begin.”