After a full day with the caravan, I haven't learned much, but the few things that I did learn, I feel are worth recording. They're worth writing down for many reasons, none of which I'm at all comfortable with. So, without further ado, I guess I'll just get into it, starting with the most important finding.
Cinnamon Shoal loves marshmallows. After winding down and helping the caravan drivers make camp for the evening, I once again sat down within my gifted tent and began thinking about my next move. I decided to go and wander outside of the bounds of the circled vehicles to clear my thoughts and hopefully arrive at some sort of decisive action. Instead, I found Cinnamon, alone and crouched over a small campfire atop a large, flat rock a good distance from the rest of camp. I was a bit surprised to see her out on her own, and more surprised when she invited me to join her in what I can really only describe as a welcoming tone. Well, welcoming for her. It was a bit like being invited to a party you didn't know was going on while being held at gunpoint.
Not wanting to be rude, I obliged, and sat on the opposite side of the fire across from the enigmatic, dark-skinned young woman. For whatever reason, she had a line of three marshmallows on a long stick in her grip, and seemed incredibly focused on roasting them properly. She tossed me the bag full of the treats resting beside her without so much as a word. Finding a suitable stick wasn't particularly difficult, but given that I had never tried cooking marshmallows over a bonfire, or at all, until maybe two hours ago, I'm sure I looked very much the fool as I got to setting up and trying to mimic her.
The pair of us sat in silence for a time. I'm not sure how long, as I felt checking my scroll would ruin the mood, and I don't wear a watch. I honestly don't think anyone does, out here in Vacuo. Regardless, eventually, Cinnamon began to speak. At first, I wasn't sure if she was addressing me directly, or simply filling the silence around us out of uncomfortableness or necessity. Cinnamon told me that she was used to traveling alone, even as a child, and that she used to keep a bag of marshmallows with her for occasions like this to cheer her up as needed. I then made the mistake of asking why she felt the need for such a thing tonight, and received no response bar shaking her head. I feel as though Cinnamon opened a door for me, and I slammed it shut immediately by being an idiot. Perhaps she is indeed as guarded and stiff as she appears when barking orders at her men, or perhaps I simply annoyed her. I think it's a bit of both.
On that note- there is the matter of "her men". I resumed the conversation by offering that I, too, generally traveled alone, and sought out sake for my own little comfort ritual. I didn't dare mention this journal, or the fact that I look for sake because it reminds me of my mother. Cinnamon told me that she understood, and then let on that she had been hired by the caravan, just as she had hired me on to assist her. Allegedly, that means that whatever she's paying me is coming out of her pay from these people, if they really didn't begin this journey together. That also means that if she's being honest with me, the workers and traders within the caravan likely aren't with the Fang. The entire conversation just added another confusing, conflicting layer to my time here. That trend continued as the night wore on.
Cinnamon and I proceeded to make small talk over the fire and marshmallows, and she generously offered me replacements after I completely burned my first set to blackened husks while paying attention to her words, rather than my stick. Around that time, the girl circled around the fire and sat next to me to show me how to evenly cook a marshmallow. I won't lie- only about a third of my attention was on her instructions, while another third was internally panicking over having an absolutely gorgeous and intimidating faunus girl in such close proximity. The final third was dedicated to making sure that the orange and white spines protruding from her upper arms remained a safe distance from my person.
Throughout the trading of nebulous information- Cinnamon is 18, by the way- I came to find out that the spines are lionfish barbs. While I've never seen a lionfish before, which is a fact that I'm incredibly happy with after speaking to Cinnamon and learning about them, she was more than happy to explain that the protrusions contain an incredibly potent venom. While not deadly to faunus or humans, being "stung" results in excruciating pain, and also opens the victim to her semblance- control over the semblance of anyone she happens to be touching, or anyone envenomed by her.
It was at that point in the conversation that two things happened. First, I burned the second stick of marshmallows while trying to process just how dangerous such a semblance could be both to me, and her, and Cinnamon got quite annoyed again. Secondly, I realized that this woman was not one I want to cross, if I can avoid it. Coward that I can sometimes be, the option of merely slipping away in the night after being paid half of my fee tomorrow did seem like the most attractive option, until the conversation reached its next phase. With what I learned as our time together ended, though, I'm not sure that I could walk away if I still wanted to, regardless of the White Fang being involved.
Cinnamon is lonely. That fact became increasingly clear to me as the night wore on, and not just through her words. Subtle things within her actions, and earnest glances toward me betrayed a longing to be understood. Maybe the only reason I picked up on such things is because she looks the way I often feel, or at least, she did when we were alone. Cinnamon has a definite, dangerous edge when around the people we're escorting, but at least for tonight, she seemed pleasant.
I want to believe that her insistent, almost desperate need to keep me at her campfire and continue talking was born partially out of regret for her association with the White Fang, but I know that such a presumption is too much, too soon to be anything approaching realistic. For now, I've decided that I can be content with her merely showing interest in me, and allowing me to take interest in her.
Though I can't put a measurement of time on it, after what felt like hours, our conversation came to a natural, nearly silent end. I did manage to properly cook one stick of marshmallows on my fifth attempt, and Cinnamon stole one of them from me as payment for putting up with my ineptitude. I didn't protest, or particularly mind, but I will admit that she's on to something with those things. They're quite good when properly done, and still entertaining when they turn all black and burst into flame. All in all, it was a successful venture, in terms of food, and a terrifying one in terms of her.
I'm not sure when it happened, or why, but as we sat in silence and I occupied myself with staring into the fire, lost in thought, her head somehow ended up upon my shoulder. By the time I realized that she was in direct contact with me, her eyes were closed. I will admit that I watched her chest rise and fall for a duration, before realizing that staring at her chest did indeed mean I was staring at her chest. Fortunately, she was either too content or unconscious to notice, and I didn't have the heart to wake or alert her, whatever the case would have been. I still don't know if she was actually sleeping, or simply resting against me for a reason I don't fully understand. Eventually, though, she pushed off of my shoulder as if nothing was amiss, and announced that we should head back to camp. So we did.
Cinnamon reminded me that we had at least two more nights on the road before we would reach Shade Academy as we put out the fire and collected her half-depleted bag of treats. It was then, before I could stop myself, that I made the offer to meet her outside of the caravan tomorrow. I made the excuse of needing practice with marshmallows, and she quickly agreed to the proposal. While I'm not dense or desperate enough to think she meant anything literal when she said "it's a date", her words did stir an entire line of uncomfortable thoughts and feelings that I had spent the majority of our conversation trying to keep repressed. Those thoughts surfaced with a vengeance as we made our way back to our charge together, and those thoughts still linger now.
I've always known that if ever I was going to venture into the dating pool in any serious way, I would look for a woman unafraid to tell me what to do. Not only is such a notion quite stimulating, but I'll readily admit that one of my biggest flaws is indecisiveness and a tendency to freeze up and become paralyzed in the face of big decisions. Starting something intimidating is a near impossibility for me without endless procrastination, and funnily enough, starting to pursue any sort of relationship with a woman who meets those qualifications is one of the most intimidating things I can possibly imagine. Such is life.
Cinnamon Shoal is an imposing, fierce, and at times, surprisingly gentle woman who quite clearly knows what she wants. That much, I now know for sure. What her business with the Fang may be, and why she's bothering to help this caravan deliver whatever they're delivering, is another matter entirely. There are still many pieces to this puzzle that I'm only just learning of, and I still have no idea what shape those pieces may be. Letting my mind wander to thoughts of this woman in any way beyond professional partners is only complicating things, but I can't deny that the thoughts keep coming.
I suppose that my thought process was that writing all of these thoughts down, putting them to paper and staring at the words, would allow them to simply exist upon this page. If I made an entry about how her skin seems to almost turn bronze in the desert sun, how her muted, confident smile is enough to send tingles up and down my arms, and how her haughty, almost judgmental accent and inflection keeps me hanging on her every word, I could set all of those things aside the moment I close this journal and return to them when I'm ready to deal with those things. I am well aware that such hopes are absolutely in vain, and that, at least for now, I've developed what some would call a schoolboy crush. Of course, I'm not in school, nor am I a "boy" at this point, but the notion is equally as pathetic and distressing.
I think, at this point, it's fair to say that this journal will remain completely private for as long as I travel with Cinnamon. I'm well aware that I've changed the "rules" regarding this book in every single entry, but as I've already stated, I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. It isn't just this book, either- I have no idea what I want out of life, this journal, or even this job, at the moment. I thought protecting cargo would be simple. I should know by now that nothing involving people ever is.
I've had these sorts of feelings for people that I clearly shouldn't before, and they've generally passed without incident, in a matter of weeks, or sometimes months after I move on from the person. This time, though, something feels different. I suspect that knowing that Cinnamon is a member of the Fang is both causing my mind to run wild with worry, and possibilities. Perhaps it's a hero fantasy of being able to "save" her from remaining involved with a group that the majority feel is only serving to run faunus relations even deeper into the ground. An uncomfortable part of me is beginning to wonder if I want her to try to convince me that the Fang is something else entirely, and that I should rethink my stance on them. Both prospects are equally terrifying, as I have no idea how I would approach either one.
Regardless of the facts and feelings slowly presenting themselves to me, I should turn in for the night. I can only hope that if I somehow manage sleep, my dreams remain clean, comforting, and restful.
They are almost never any of the above.