Post by Dustfinger on Feb 6, 2009 17:59:38 GMT -4
Dustfinger stood at the edge of the forest, looking up at Roxane’s house. There was a low wall, chest-high with a wooden gate, hardly enough to protect the stony ground or the plants grown in it. It certainly hadn't stopped him when he had first come to the house. The house itself was small, not as poor as some farmhouses, but not as nice as others. There was a stable, a barn, a bake house, and a well, also.
Standing there, making the same observations as then, Dustfinger thought back to the day when he had first returned to this world, and to Roxane a few days later. She had been kneeling in the fields, tending to her plants, talking and laughing with Jehan. The Roxane he had remembered from that other world had worn brightly colored skirts, but she wore that day a plain brown dress, the color like the earth she was kneeling in, her long black hair pinned up like a farmer’s wife.
A goose- not just any goose, Roxane's guard goose- had noticed him at about the same time the boy did, flapping her wings and cackling. A goose was as effective and alarming as a dog, but dogs weren't allowed to be kept by anyone but royalty. Dust had stroked her neck until she returned to her place in the grass, and the boy had held up his rake as if to defend himself and his mother from the scar-faced man facing them, but Roxane had apparently told him it safe, for he reluctantly lowered the rake. Dustfinger still remembered her first comment to him, when she had approached with Jehan. “Obviously, no living creature can withstand you to this day. My goose has always driven everyone else off.” He had even come at this time of day, but today the boy and his mother were asleep, not in the fields, working.
With a sigh, Dustfinger turned away. The sun was just rising over the horizon and the orange light reminded Dustfinger why he was here. He had been standing just inside the trees, hidden from the house but for the bursts of flames, and yet never in any danger of lighting anything on fire, for hours, playing more than practicing, preparing himself. He wasn’t nervous about the show, nor did he actually need to practice for it. But something was making him anxious, and he didn’t have a clue what.
It’s probably nothing, he tried to assure himself. But as Jink and Gwin chased each other around the low bushes and between his booted feet, he couldn’t shake the feeling, so the fire-eater settled for ignoring it for a while. He rubbed his hands together and whispered a few fire-words. Sparks fell from his hands, forming fiery flowers where the hit the ground. Compared to all that Death had taught him, this seemed ridiculously simple- a parlor trick, at best, but still entertaining.
He whispered more words, words only he knew- with the exception of his apprentice Farid- and a beautiful blue jay flew from his hands. Silvertongue, the Bluejay, the bookbinder turned robber. As much as Dustfinger had hated Silvertongue’s world, the other man loved Dustfinger’s, which he called the ‘Inkworld’- a fitting nickname. The Inkworld was even where Resa, Silvertongue’s wife, was to have her second child. Meggie, too, seemed to prefer this world, though if it was still because of Farid, Dustfinger was no longer sure. Once, for certain, he was her greatest attraction to this world. She had loved the fairies and the glass men, the Motley Folk and the castles as well, but she had come because of Farid. These days, however, it seemed Meggie was with Farid less. Perhaps once had she come to the farmhouse with her father? No, these days she was more often to be found with Doria.
After a few more tricks and many more thoughts, Dustfinger, bare-chested as always when he played with fire, turned away from the forest, brushing his hair out his eyes with soot-covered fingers. Jink and Gwin darted ahead of him and up the hill to the house, and he dragged his shirt over his head.
Dustfinger wasn’t sure- he didn’t look- if Roxane was awake or not, but she’d baked a loaf of bread a few days ago, and Dustfinger cut himself a piece. The crust was hard but the inside was still relatively soft. He chewed in silence for a few minutes. His slice of bread then finished, he made his way to Roxane’s bed. After watching her for a moment, Dustfinger conjured a fiery image of himself, in the fireplace so as not to burn anything. Then he slid back outside into the glowing orange yard. The goose no longer cackled at him when he walked by instead approaching him slowly, wanting to be stroked. Dust obliged, running his fingers through her soft feathers. “I have somewhere to be,” he said to her a few moments later, almost apologetically. She seemed even to understand, waddling away as he slinked into the forest again.
Today Dustfinger was headed to Ombra, to watch other entertainers. He had no need for any coins, and no wish to be in the spotlight at the moment. But the people needed a distraction from their current worries and problems. The Black Prince had been the one to convince his childhood friend to finally put on a show. It didn’t take much- Dustfinger could clearly see that the people in the city- and outside it, as well- needed a distraction, and he was the best in the fire-eating business, even if he didn’t like how conceited it made him sound. It was no secret that he was the best before his death, either.
The guards at the gate into the city didn't spare him a glance, and Dustfinger found himself in Ombra's marketplace very quickly. Sliding into an alley, and shadows, Dust watched the Motley Folk perform. There was a tightrope walker, his rope stretched across the tops of the buildings, dressed in the blue of the skies. From here, Dustfinger could pretend it was his old friend Cloud-Dancer, but knowledge of his companion's death clouded the image, and he hung his head in remembrance.
Cloud-Dancer had been delivering a message to Fenoglio. Unfortunately for him, it was the worst possible timing- not only was Fenoglio home, but he had two visitors. Slasher and the knife-happy Basta, no less. It had ended with Cloud-Dancer's death, and no punishment for Basta. Who would punish someone for killing a strolling player? No one but another strolling player, who would get killed for harming a citizen or soldier.
Lost in thought, it took Dustfinger a minute to notice the feeling of being watched. Looking around, he noticed several small children staring at him. They were much too young to have been alive before he went missing, clearly born during the years when he was only a legend in this world. Still, they may perhaps know that they were looking at the Fire-Dancer. Probably did, though they would never have seen him at work. That's probably the reason they're staring at you, Dustfinger. They haven't seen you play with fire before, and they want to. Of course, even if they didn't know who they were looking at, the sparks in his hair and around him would certainly draw some attention.
But there was something more, he could tell, even as he smiled at the two girls and five boys. He scanned the crowd again, but saw nothing or no one suspicious. Some people buying cabbage, others buying pots. I just hope no one throws a cabbage at that guy up there, Dustfinger thought. That was exactly what had happened to Cloud-Dancer, before his death. A merchant had thrown a cabbage at him, knocking him off his rope and breaking some ribs and his leg. Anyway, you're probably imagining it. But he wasn't buying it. Something was off, and no amount of lying to himself would change that.
Of course, it was too late to think of bringing Farid with him. In truth, he had thought about it. But he'd rather have made this trip alone, and so he had. Even Gwin and Jink had stayed at the farm. but Dust wished now that his apprentice had come. The boy would probably know what was bothering his master right away, long before they'd even gotten to the city, perhaps.
Even as he thought about the boy, Dustfinger's eyes found a fire-eater in the market. Nothing next to himself, even if he was being modest, which he was. Not much compared to most fire-eaters, actually, but not bad, either, and entertaining for a minute or two. It almost- but not quite- brought a smile to his lips, as he thought about how far he himself had come. He made to move nearer, but as he took a single step forward, towards the small man, hardly more than a boy, playing with fire, the uncertain feeling spiked. Okay, so will someone tell me why I feel this way, anxious, maybe afraid- but not for myself- or will I have to get it on my own? he wondered, partially joking but also dead serious.
Standing there, making the same observations as then, Dustfinger thought back to the day when he had first returned to this world, and to Roxane a few days later. She had been kneeling in the fields, tending to her plants, talking and laughing with Jehan. The Roxane he had remembered from that other world had worn brightly colored skirts, but she wore that day a plain brown dress, the color like the earth she was kneeling in, her long black hair pinned up like a farmer’s wife.
A goose- not just any goose, Roxane's guard goose- had noticed him at about the same time the boy did, flapping her wings and cackling. A goose was as effective and alarming as a dog, but dogs weren't allowed to be kept by anyone but royalty. Dust had stroked her neck until she returned to her place in the grass, and the boy had held up his rake as if to defend himself and his mother from the scar-faced man facing them, but Roxane had apparently told him it safe, for he reluctantly lowered the rake. Dustfinger still remembered her first comment to him, when she had approached with Jehan. “Obviously, no living creature can withstand you to this day. My goose has always driven everyone else off.” He had even come at this time of day, but today the boy and his mother were asleep, not in the fields, working.
With a sigh, Dustfinger turned away. The sun was just rising over the horizon and the orange light reminded Dustfinger why he was here. He had been standing just inside the trees, hidden from the house but for the bursts of flames, and yet never in any danger of lighting anything on fire, for hours, playing more than practicing, preparing himself. He wasn’t nervous about the show, nor did he actually need to practice for it. But something was making him anxious, and he didn’t have a clue what.
It’s probably nothing, he tried to assure himself. But as Jink and Gwin chased each other around the low bushes and between his booted feet, he couldn’t shake the feeling, so the fire-eater settled for ignoring it for a while. He rubbed his hands together and whispered a few fire-words. Sparks fell from his hands, forming fiery flowers where the hit the ground. Compared to all that Death had taught him, this seemed ridiculously simple- a parlor trick, at best, but still entertaining.
He whispered more words, words only he knew- with the exception of his apprentice Farid- and a beautiful blue jay flew from his hands. Silvertongue, the Bluejay, the bookbinder turned robber. As much as Dustfinger had hated Silvertongue’s world, the other man loved Dustfinger’s, which he called the ‘Inkworld’- a fitting nickname. The Inkworld was even where Resa, Silvertongue’s wife, was to have her second child. Meggie, too, seemed to prefer this world, though if it was still because of Farid, Dustfinger was no longer sure. Once, for certain, he was her greatest attraction to this world. She had loved the fairies and the glass men, the Motley Folk and the castles as well, but she had come because of Farid. These days, however, it seemed Meggie was with Farid less. Perhaps once had she come to the farmhouse with her father? No, these days she was more often to be found with Doria.
After a few more tricks and many more thoughts, Dustfinger, bare-chested as always when he played with fire, turned away from the forest, brushing his hair out his eyes with soot-covered fingers. Jink and Gwin darted ahead of him and up the hill to the house, and he dragged his shirt over his head.
Dustfinger wasn’t sure- he didn’t look- if Roxane was awake or not, but she’d baked a loaf of bread a few days ago, and Dustfinger cut himself a piece. The crust was hard but the inside was still relatively soft. He chewed in silence for a few minutes. His slice of bread then finished, he made his way to Roxane’s bed. After watching her for a moment, Dustfinger conjured a fiery image of himself, in the fireplace so as not to burn anything. Then he slid back outside into the glowing orange yard. The goose no longer cackled at him when he walked by instead approaching him slowly, wanting to be stroked. Dust obliged, running his fingers through her soft feathers. “I have somewhere to be,” he said to her a few moments later, almost apologetically. She seemed even to understand, waddling away as he slinked into the forest again.
Today Dustfinger was headed to Ombra, to watch other entertainers. He had no need for any coins, and no wish to be in the spotlight at the moment. But the people needed a distraction from their current worries and problems. The Black Prince had been the one to convince his childhood friend to finally put on a show. It didn’t take much- Dustfinger could clearly see that the people in the city- and outside it, as well- needed a distraction, and he was the best in the fire-eating business, even if he didn’t like how conceited it made him sound. It was no secret that he was the best before his death, either.
The guards at the gate into the city didn't spare him a glance, and Dustfinger found himself in Ombra's marketplace very quickly. Sliding into an alley, and shadows, Dust watched the Motley Folk perform. There was a tightrope walker, his rope stretched across the tops of the buildings, dressed in the blue of the skies. From here, Dustfinger could pretend it was his old friend Cloud-Dancer, but knowledge of his companion's death clouded the image, and he hung his head in remembrance.
Cloud-Dancer had been delivering a message to Fenoglio. Unfortunately for him, it was the worst possible timing- not only was Fenoglio home, but he had two visitors. Slasher and the knife-happy Basta, no less. It had ended with Cloud-Dancer's death, and no punishment for Basta. Who would punish someone for killing a strolling player? No one but another strolling player, who would get killed for harming a citizen or soldier.
Lost in thought, it took Dustfinger a minute to notice the feeling of being watched. Looking around, he noticed several small children staring at him. They were much too young to have been alive before he went missing, clearly born during the years when he was only a legend in this world. Still, they may perhaps know that they were looking at the Fire-Dancer. Probably did, though they would never have seen him at work. That's probably the reason they're staring at you, Dustfinger. They haven't seen you play with fire before, and they want to. Of course, even if they didn't know who they were looking at, the sparks in his hair and around him would certainly draw some attention.
But there was something more, he could tell, even as he smiled at the two girls and five boys. He scanned the crowd again, but saw nothing or no one suspicious. Some people buying cabbage, others buying pots. I just hope no one throws a cabbage at that guy up there, Dustfinger thought. That was exactly what had happened to Cloud-Dancer, before his death. A merchant had thrown a cabbage at him, knocking him off his rope and breaking some ribs and his leg. Anyway, you're probably imagining it. But he wasn't buying it. Something was off, and no amount of lying to himself would change that.
Of course, it was too late to think of bringing Farid with him. In truth, he had thought about it. But he'd rather have made this trip alone, and so he had. Even Gwin and Jink had stayed at the farm. but Dust wished now that his apprentice had come. The boy would probably know what was bothering his master right away, long before they'd even gotten to the city, perhaps.
Even as he thought about the boy, Dustfinger's eyes found a fire-eater in the market. Nothing next to himself, even if he was being modest, which he was. Not much compared to most fire-eaters, actually, but not bad, either, and entertaining for a minute or two. It almost- but not quite- brought a smile to his lips, as he thought about how far he himself had come. He made to move nearer, but as he took a single step forward, towards the small man, hardly more than a boy, playing with fire, the uncertain feeling spiked. Okay, so will someone tell me why I feel this way, anxious, maybe afraid- but not for myself- or will I have to get it on my own? he wondered, partially joking but also dead serious.