Washed up Street Rat

(March 8th. Closed to Clopin until stated otherwise)


Dim russet eyes wavered with fatigue, muscles screaming for rest. Limbs quivered with each sluggish movement, threatening to collapse beneath his weight. Aladdin struggled on, encouraged by the massive precipice in the distance, a large onyx shard against the equally dim sky. Dirt blanketed him and he seemed injured, breath coming out in ragged pants. Desperate, Aladdin felt that it was time to return to his true home. His endless trek from Agrabah, all the way to the Pridelands left him weak. Still the rock was oh so far and he doubted that he would make it. Dry tongue attempted to moisten his lips but the texture remained sore and cracked from the touch.

The thirst had started to grow far too strong; his body was dangerously close to fainting. Just a little longer, he begged internally. Aladdin had decided that it was his time to fix, reclaim his place. Aladdin only ever had good intentions for his alliance, and he needed to get there quickly. He was unable to remain in the den of the lions any longer, his cursed brother brought back Jafar and he needed to leave.

Knees suddenly plummeted to the ground and the rest of his body followed, limply hitting the terrain he stifled a grunt of pain. Breath stirred the dirt below and he groaned loudly, he was so close. Brows knitted together and he outstretched a quivering hand only for it to fall, fingers biting angrily into the dry dirt. It was no use, he had to rest. Muscles convulsed painfully and he had to hard back the aching from lack of water. Vision blurred, the cliff taunting him even more. Stubbornly he growled, No, he will now allow himself to give up yet, resting was pointless now. Struggling he hauled himself to his steps, swaying to and fro he again tried more steps forward. Continue on.

(OOC: This is after he brings Cinderbelle back with him to the camp, so she's just kind of...chilling in the background.)
The gypsy king had been...busy, for lack of a better word. Since he had arrived back in camp, he had been observing many things. He had noticed the lack of food and other provisions in the camp, the lack of morale, and the lack of a leader. Clopin was irritated, to say the least. He had spent the past few days speaking with a select number of old friends, and rescuing a giant canine, which now resided in his tent, alongside the few books he had brought back with him from the monks he had stayed with beforehand. However, his irritation didn't come from the fact that there were so many things that had changed since his return. It came from the fact that he couldn't do a single thing about it, and that nobody else seemed to take notice. It was as if they were all walking ghosts. And with the darkness hovering above them...they might as well be. The gypsy king sat at his small, makeshift desk, as he left the canine sleeping in the corner. On his desk sat another book of alchemy, and as he continued to read by the oil lamp, his vision began to grow somewhat blurry. He rubbed his eyes, and decided that perhaps it was time for a short break. He quietly exited the tent, leaving the small lamp on for the dog. As he walked further and further away from the tent, and eventually the camp itself, Clopin paused, and dropped to his knees.

His head hurt like hell, and he could hear the demons speaking again. They hadn't said much in the past few days, but now they returned, with more whispered secrets. He curled his hands into fists, resting them upon his thighs. He closed his eyes, regretting the knowledge that he had gained. But then again, had he not gained it, what would he have brought back?

Nothing.

Clopin figured that he could deal with the whispers, as long as they provided him with the strength and knowledge he so desperately wanted. As he opened his eyes once more, his sharp vision caught the faintest shape of a small, stumbling sillhouette not too far off in the distance. He tilted his head, curious to know just what it could possibly be. The gypsy king pulled himself back up, and he began to walk towards the mysterious shadow. As he came closer, he slowly began to recognize the tattered street clothes, and the tell-tale black hair and brown eyes of his old friend. Although he was covered in dirt, there was no mistaking what the gypsy king saw in front of him.

"...Aladdin? Is that...is that you, mon ami?"

One gradual step after the other, he struggled onward to his desired destination. Mouth gaped and his panted heavily, he had to make it, he must. Gulping, the dryness creating agitating friction in his throat, the pain spurred him on. The people needed him, they needed him. The Villains had grown powerful and he had to warn them and show them what he had learned. He would cleanse them of their soft lives; he will show them true strength. Thoughts reeled in his mind like a vile mantra, his intentions were of course for the good of them, however within his state, murder and cruelty swarmed his blackened mind.

Aladdin was the same Aladdin; he was always capable, always able to do these things. He never needed to, he had Abu and Jasmine. They kept him grounded and he was very happy. Cruelty runs in his veins, he was a villain and perhaps he always was this monster and he kept it shielded away. The events in his life tore it out in the open and he may never recover, but he will at least do what he should have done before. Aladdin never should have run from the heroes, his torture on Nasira was justified and he shall face them. No more running, he will reforge them, as he was reforged as well.

The tattered man was lost in thoughts, distracted by them; he seemed to be convinced that he would save them from their fragile states. A voice sliced into the inky depths of his mind. Aladdin paused, limbs swinging dangerously beneath him as if he would fall. Instinct told him that the person was danger, he barely understood the words and he swiftly tore the scimitar from the hilt along his hip. Breathing sounded more like snarls and he glared viciously into the darkness. Milky thoughts struggled to comprehend the words and the figure slowly approaching. The weapon, along with his own body fell and he knitted his brows in despair. Recognition sent him reeling back like a punch and he gawked openly. Knees and palms flat against the grass and he seemed almost relieved.

“Oh Clopin,” he gasped, words like grating glass from lack of use. Happiness and regret wafting in thick clouds from him. He had raised a weapon against his own friend, his thoughts attempted to reason with him, but he dismissed each thought, he should have known a friend would come this close to the pridelands. Aladdin wondered if he was with the villains far too long, anticipating an assassination at every corner.

“I’m sorry,” he spilt the words out so suddenly, he seemed almost begging. “I..” words caught in his throat, the dryness and the words too heavy for him. He couldn’t possibly explain where he was this entire time, the gypsy might already know but the regret weighed heavily. Consciousness was wanting to fade, his exhaustion and the presence of friend easing him. Maybe it was time to rest.

Clopin's eyes widened, as his old friend held a scimitar up to him, ready to strike. The gypsy king's hand immediately drifted towards his dagger, since he very well wouldn't call upon his scythe on his friend, of all people. Disarm him, but not completely maul him. Before he could take the weapon out of its hilt, however, he saw recognition paint Aladdin's eyes, as his friend and weapon dropped to his knees in front of him. The gypsy king was confused. His friend sounded so exhausted...so different from the Aladdin he knew. He could see him fading in and out of consciousness, and he knew that he had to get Aladdin help.

Quickly.

He stepped forward, placing Aladdin's scimitar back in its hilt. Then, with several tries, he heaved his friend over his shoulder, and began the trek back to camp. The demons, for the time being, had stopped their incessant whispering, and Clopin was glad for the break. He was incredibly worried, as the last he had seen of Aladdin was him leaving the heroes camp, becoming a pariah of sorts. He looked up towards the dark clouds, silently hoping that no one would bother him as he snuck Aladdin into the hospital tent.

"Mon dieu, Aladdin, whatever did you do to yourself?" Clopin whispered, crossing the first few tents that marked the outer half of their small camp. He darted back and forth, avoiding all the paths where others were walking. Once he found a pathway that was rather empty, the gypsy king darted once more, making a beeline for the hospital tent. As soon as the two of them were safely inside, Clopin breathed a sigh of relief. Gently, he set Aladdin down in one of the open beds that lined the pathway to the closed half of tent that performed surgeries and the like. Various nursing staff darted past them, and Clopin absentmindedly watched them, as he kept a protective hand on Aladdin's shoulder.

Whatever Aladdin had done...wherever he had gone...he'd be forgiven, no?