There's Danger in This City {[~Celeste~]}

[Dustfinger]

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.

[Celeste Devereaux]

It was dark outside, early morning. Only a sliver of the moon shown through the window, the only light of the small cottage, set on the edge of the woods. The light captured a small mouse scurried in the far corner of the room, its tiny footsteps barely making noise. Her aunt was fast asleep in the only other bedroom. Her soft snores could be heard down the hall, as she always left her door open. Neither of these things seemed to affect the person in the smaller bedroom, however.

Celeste was dreaming. She knew she had to be, as there certainly was no way she could be this happy in real life. She was with her parents, in a meadow. Her friends were there, too. It was bright and sunny- no rain, no dark clouds. Only the picture-perfect ones, from a nice sunny day. Hm…she actually seemed to be smiling. This was strange, for her. They were all running around, laughing. She definitely knew she was dreaming now. Her parents had never done this. The question rose of why, but she didn’t dwell on that too much. She sighed, with contentment. Why couldn’t she just sleep all the time? It sure did beat having to spend every waking hour with her aunt.

The scene of her dream shifted, and it was now getting dark, like before a thunderstorm. Her parents had confused looks on them. Celeste walked up to them, asking what was wrong. However, they didn’t answer her. Just continued to look, with the same confused and lost expressions. She reached out to touch her mother, as if to comfort her. Then she gasped, pulling her hand back. Right when they should have made contact, her mother disappeared. The same with her father. She looked around wildly, and saw her friends were also no longer to be seen. She was alone. Thunder crackled, and instead of water coming down, it was fire. Fire rained on her, singing her hair and clothes. There was nowhere to go to escape it either. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, and jolted into reality. She sat up in bed, gasping for breath, clutching the necklace her father had made her tightly. She loosened her grip, as if scared she might break it.

And just like that, her dream had turned into a nightmare.

She collapsed backwards on her bed, waiting to see if her scream had woken her aunt. She listened intently for a few minutes, but the only sound she could hear was her aunt snoring. Celeste rolled her eyes, while playing with the pendant at her neck. She doubted anything could wake her aunt up, except the usual rooster. That usually did the trick every morning.

“Celeste! Wake up,” Aunt Emmaline called, about 30 minutes later. Celeste sighed, refraining retorting back something rude. She was still suffering the after-affects of her dream. She rolled out of bed, and then went to the wash basin in her room. Splashing cold water on her face, she knew that she couldn’t stay here all day. She would go into Ombra, to occupy her mind. Harass the little kids, or something. She wiped her face off, and then slipped into one of her favorite dresses. She put her hair up into a bun-like style (far too elegant for what she was doing today, but she didn’t care), and sat down again, waiting till she smelled food to go into the kitchen. It would just be too awkward to sit and wait. She and her aunt didn’t talk much, besides the regular orders for each other. They had nothing in common, and Celeste surely didn’t make much effort into building a friendship with her. Sometimes she absolutely hated her aunt. It wasn’t as if Celeste provided money, or anything. But, Celeste had a reason for being there. Her aunt had some sort of mental disease. Celeste didn’t know the full extent of it, but her aunt rarely went outside. So, Celeste would run her errands, in return for staying there. It made her hate her all the more. She often thought happily about her life after her aunt died. She would finally have the freedom she craved. But since her aunt wasn’t that old, it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Unless Celeste was the one who did it. She may be a rude bitch, but she doubted she could kill anyone in cold blood. She sighed at her weakness.

Celeste made her way into the kitchen, when she heard plates clattering, and her aunt setting the table. That normally meant she was done cooking. She sat in her usual chair, and again she sighed. Every day it was always the same. With someone who got bored easily like Celeste, this wasn’t a good thing. Her aunt sat down across from her, eating scrambled eggs that she had cooked.

Celeste picked at her food, the sound of the fork hitting the plate the only sound. She felt her aunt glance at her several times, which was kind of unnerving. ‘Maybe she heard me scream after all,’ Celeste thought bitterly. She wondered if Emmaline would say anything. Or just keep quiet, which wouldn’t surprise Celeste. After a few more moments and now knowing her aunt wasn’t going to say anything, Celeste decided to break the silence. “I’m going into town today,” she said, still staring at her plate. Aunt Emmaline only nodded once, looking out the kitchen window. More silence. Then Emmaline got up, put her dish in the sink, and went to get some paper. She quickly wrote down some food items, and some thread she needed for some pillows she was sewing. Wordlessly, she handed the list, and some money, to Celeste. Taking the paper, almost jerking it from her aunt’s hand, Celeste scowled. She knew going somewhere just for the hell of it wouldn’t rest well with her aunt.

Celeste stood up, grabbing her bag from the front door. She slipped the note and money inside, almost wishing she would forget. It would be a good excuse, but she thought her aunt couldn’t be all that dumb. Celeste rarely forgot things, as much as she wanted to. After that, she put on her shoes quickly, wanting to be out of there- out of the dead silence that seemed to make her ears ring. She opened the door, stepping outside into the cool morning air, and closed the door- without as much as a goodbye to her aunt.

She headed around the back of the house, towards the trail they had that led into the town of Ombra. It was a long walk, but Celeste didn’t mind. She had done this many times before, and it was just a way of life now. She kept her head high as she walked, knowing the path perfectly. The morning dew on the leaves made it somewhat slippery, so she had walk slowly and carefully. She shuddered at the thought of falling into the mud, in her nice clothes. She began walking a bit too fast, and she stumbled, only to catch herself by putting her hand on the nearest tree. She forced herself to slow down. ‘After all, the sooner you go, the sooner you go back to your aunt’, she told herself.

She passed a path that led to a house she rarely went to. And the only times she did was to spy on the occupants there. It was the house of Roxanne, which just happened to be the place Dustfinger lived. Celeste glanced at that path, then at the path in front of her. She could spare some time, couldn’t she? Making her decision, she started on the path to Roxanne’s house.

She hid behind some bushes and trees, curiosity getting the better of her. She loved to spy on people, and sometimes to show that someone was spying on them. She liked to mess with their heads, but she never gave herself away. They knew someone, just not it was Celeste. To her, it was almost like a game. However, she forgot the game watching Dustfinger. She scowled as she watched him play with fire he loves so much. She scowled, because she actually hated him.

Her parents died in fire. She nearly died in the fire. And yet here he is, playing with the thing that caused her so much sorrow. She held every fire-dancer in contempt. Even the ones of legend, like him. It didn’t matter that he had somehow escaped death, and returned after all these years. It didn’t matter that people talked of him, there were legends passed around about him.

She still hated him.

She saw him start walking in the direction of Ombra. She realized them he was heading the same place she was. She quickly retreated, going back to her path. She would arrive later than him, and she hopped she didn’t run into him.

After what seemed like forever, but was really only 15 minutes, she came near the end of the path, and right at the gate that lead into the city. After proving herself to the guards that she was there to buy stuff in the market, they let her through. People were coming and going all ways, going about the usual business of their day. Head still held high, in her arrogant manner, she pushed her way past throngs of people. Like she always did, she ignored the dirty looks she received, and just kept on her way. Being friendly wasn’t her forte. Nor was it something she wanted. It was too much a hassle, for one thing. Two, she felt like she owed them nothing. Why make the effort?

Celeste wasted no time in getting the things for her aunt. She figured after she did that, she could have at least a few hours free. She cut in line, in front of some elderly woman paying for some bread. The woman made a move towards her, as if to tell her she was first. Celeste only glared at the woman, long enough to make the lady cower back, and keep quiet. She even backed up some, giving Celeste more room. She smirked, loving the power her glare had on people. She turned her back on the unknown woman, and paid for her food.

Finally, she was free. She wandered aimlessly around the town, again pushing those stupid people out of her way. She noticed a crowd of people all looking at something a couple houses over. Being the nosy person that she is, she quickly made her way over to the group. She pushed past people, catching them off guard, which made it easier to move them. She didn’t care how rude she was. She stopped abruptly when she reached the center of the crowd, looking at what caused all the excitement. She rolled her eyes. Just a tight-walker. She watched as a group of small children laughed, and pointed. To her, it was pathetic. People forcing themselves to forget their struggles. What good did it do? When they left from here, they will still be in the same predicament as they were before the show. All fools. She was so much better than them. Certainly not cowards like they were. She made her way to part that didn’t have many people, except for a few small children.

Just then, a small boy bumped into her, causing her to stumble. The back of her dress ripped. Her nerves were already stretched because of the morning’s events. She clenched her teeth, turning quickly to look at the boy, seething. She had a horrible temper, and it wasn’t unusual for her to get violent. She quickly jabbed her fingers against the small boy’s chest, causing him to fall in a way that would hurt his leg. Not break it, but make it painful to walk for a bit. She smirked, when no one made a move to help him.

Everyone was busy looking at the show. She gave him a kick in the chin, not paying any attention to his silent cries. She wondered why he didn’t say anything, or scream. Was he mute? But then again, did it really matter? She went back to scanning the crowd. She noticed a fire-dancer made an appearance, and the crowd quickly shifted their attention to that performer. Celeste still looked around, and her eyes finally rested on him- Dustfinger.

Celeste couldn’t stop the glare and hate that radiated from her. Her eyes never left him, almost wishing he would turn around, and see her hatred. Usually, when she stared at someone with that intensity, it made them uncomfortable, even when they didn’t know who was looking. She hoped she had the same effect on him.

[Dustfinger]

Dustfinger's eyes scanned the crowd. Something was off, something was completely wrong, but he had not a single clue what. He didn't break his stride and continued in the direction of the fire-eater, but his eyes darted back and forth, looking for something, anything, that may have been the problem he could sense. C'mon, show yourself now, c'mon, c'mon... It was only a matter of time before they were found, whether willingly or because Dustfinger spotted them- assuming, of course, that it was a person, and not just a feeling of dread, which it could also be, of course.

Standing at the back edge of the crowd around the fire-eater, Dustfinger's eyes shot from one side of the market and back again, scanning every face, every person, from the smallest child to the oldest adult. Finally, he noticed something- a women standing over a small child, lying on the ground. As he watched, the women kicked the boy under the chin. Clearly, she had just knocked him over, though why, Dustfinger could only guess. Looking at her face, well, that made the possibilities endless. She could have just been in the mood to knock a kid over- she had that look about her.

The Fire-Dancer pushed through the crowd, apologizing when someone turned to yell at him. Most complaints stopped dead when people saw who they were looking at. The Fire-Dancer, Dustfinger, before you were born.... He heard his names and fragments of sentences as he made his way over to the two he'd noticed previously. He could tell this women was the cause of his uncertainty, his anxiety.

"Hey!" he called. "Step away from him." He noticed that no one stopped to help the poor boy, and Dustfinger bent down next to him, right knee on the ground, his left arm resting on his other. He held his right hand out to the boy, and he took it. Dustfinger helped him up and spun him around so he faced the women.

"Never turn your back on an opponent," he whispered. "Get going, now." The boy obeyed, with only a backwards glance at his savior. Dustfinger got up slowly and folded his hands behind his back.

"That boy give you trouble?" he asked, his voice now perfectly innocent, maybe even too uncaring, too casual. Maybe.

[Celeste Devereaux]

Celeste was tired of holding her focus in just one spot. She glanced away from the man, for only a couple of seconds to scan the crowd, and to glance at the boy on the ground. Returning her attention to the same spot, she frowned. He was gone. She looked around the group of people, curiousity getting the better of her. She wanted to know where he went.

As if on cue, she heard a man's voice, telling her to step away. She clenched her fists. Just her luck. She turned her head quickly to look at who she only assumed to be Dustfinger. She took an involuntary step backwards, as he came closer. Then, in a fit of stubborness, she took a step forward, so it was if she didn't 'step away' at all. She crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes to the sky, as if uninterested in his involvement helping the boy. She didn't register what he said to the boy, which annoyed her. She let it pass, though.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the boy back away. She glared at the boy, almost as if she was putting all the annoyance of her problems in that one stare.

She heard his question, but waited till the boy was out of her site- when she could no longer glare. It wasn't as if she was in a rush to answer him, anyway. She could answer his question in a couple of ways. Appear sorry, appear angry, etc. However, the heat of the moment has passed, and she no longer cared about the annoying brat of a kid who stepped on her dress. There were other things to avert her attention to now.

So, the expression on her face changed from that of anger, to boredom. She inspected her fingernails, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Finally, she looked up at him. He was taller than her, which just annoyed her further. She hated looking up to people. She would much rather look down on them.

"Does it matter?" she asked, in a bored tone to match the expression on her face. "All kids are the same. Don't pay attention to where they are going, don't have respect for people older than them, don't listen, yada yada. Plus, I'm sure his family doesn't have enough money to replace what he ruined, by the looks of it," she said, sneering up her nose. "Kids are just a nuisance, but we can't change that, now can we?" she asked, rhetorically.

She turned her attention back to the other fire-dancer, gazing at the flames. She could only look for a couple of seconds, before her memories made her look away. She settled for looking everywhere but at the fire-dancer now showing off tricks, and the fire-dancer now at her side.

[Dustfinger]

"I've never liked people like you. And it's people like me no one wants on their bad side." Dustfinger was, to an extent, a coward, but only those close to him knew it. True, he was much more brave since his return from the dead, but that didn't mean that he liked killing or hurting people with no real reason. This girl didn't know that, though.

Dustfinger blew into his cupped hands and a fiery image formed there. He lifted the crying boy the lady had knocked over up so she could see him clearly. "I suppose that brings you enjoyment, doesn't it? I know your type. You would fit in with the Adderhead and his men, to an extent. You like torture, I assume? Although I don't suppose you remember the Adder well."

[Celeste Devereaux]

Celeste shrugged her shoulders, not looking at him when he spoke. She acted very interested in the show now being performed. "Do you think I care if you like me or not? To me, I just achieved my goal," she said, with a slight smirk. She could care less who liked her or not. Plus, she would much rather they didn't like her. It just made things much easier.

She watched out the corner of her eye as he lifted the boy up. She rolled her eyes, expecting some kind of lecture or something. "Well, what else is there to do for 'enjoyment' here? Same old thing, every single day. However, people portray different reactions. Sometimes they cry, sometimes they ignore you, and sometimes they fight back. The last one always makes for a fun time, of course. Besides, what could it hurt? People get hurt all the time, for various reasons. You can't live your life expecting a smooth sailing." She jerked her head to the boy. "I'm just toughening him up, if you will."

She folded her arms across her chest, turning back to the show. Looking at it, but not really seeing it. She heard of that name before- the Adderhead. In a not so good way, either. However, she didn't know all the details. People didn't like talking about him. "No, not really," she said simply, trying to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

[Dustfinger]

"Yes, the Adder. Fenoglio's quite proud of him..." Dustfinger's voice was near inaudible. Besides, the girl wouldn't understand, and he didn't have to tell her if she asked. "He is- well, he was quite the character. The Bluejay took care of him, though you would have been but a child then, as well. I suppose, if you grew up in Ombra, you may have been brought into the forest, protected by the robbers there?"

Dustfinger recalled with great clarity the night the Adder died. He had first rescued his daughter, Brianna, from the cage she was trapped in, guarded by a Night-Mare, Basta. Jacopo had brought Mo- not the Bluejay or Silvertongue, just Mo the bookbinder- in White Book, then distracted the Piper so the three words- 'heart,' 'spell,' and 'death'- could be written. The Adder died in his bed and Mo had ended up stabbing the Piper with a bookbinder's paper knife. They had later traveled back to the cave the robbers had been holding the children of Ombra in, to find they had moved. When they found them in the human nests of a giant tree, Dustfinger hadn't noticed any beautiful pieces of work like this girl in front of him. Sarcasm filled his thoughts as he watched the girl.