Pint of Ale{Dustfinger}

[Selene]

Selene walked down the road quickly, occasionally darting off of it when she heard others coming. She didn't exactly want to be seen out on the road right now. Especially not in the clothes of a fire dancer. She more commonly, despite her talent, had things besides coins thrown at her when she was performing or just walking down the road. She had just managed to get the smell of rotten vegetables out of her hair and clothes and intended to keep it that way. She moved back onto the road when the cart had passed her and soon saw the popular inn for the Motley Folk in the distance. She walked faster now towards her destination.

She reached the inn ten minutes and five dashes into the woods later. She strode through the doorway into the dimly lit inn. It was pretty run down compared to other inns and the windows were just holes in the stone allowing small chinks of light in. The place passed in disorderly disgustingness. At least she could get a few pints of ale here for what some other inns charged for one. She took the tankard over to a free both in the back corner where she could see everyone. Also where she had a better chance of not being seen.

She took a sip of the ale, pulling a face as usual on the first sip. She never got used to its strength. Though she knew it was because it was half stale. She took another sip, minus the face. Selene heard the sounds of mice but she was used to it. Mice, bugs, they were just things you had to get used to. They weren't about to magically disappear. She looked around at the small crowd. She didn't recognize any of the faces. But then again the fact that half of the inn wasn't lit she couldn't be sure. She took another sip of the ale and pulled her cloak a little tighter around her. She sensed someone, or was it something, watching her. She looked around but didn't see anyone looking directly at her. Sure a few faces were turned her way but that was because of the position of their seats. She fingered the coarse edge of her cloak that was as black as the soot made by the flames.

She gave up the search for the eyes watching her and returned to her pint of ale. She took another sip before setting it on the rough, splintered table. She stared at the liquid that looked black as coal in this lighting. She ran her finger around the edge staring at it as if it'd show her the face that had been watching her. She sighed quietly. The pocket she kept her coins in was light. She'd have to find somewhere to do a performance soon. Or else she wouldn't be able to afford a pint of ale here.

[Dustfinger]

Dustfinger threaded his way through the trees silently, alone but for Jink, as he so often was. The marten darted ahead of him, seemingly oblivious to the thorns and twigs pulling at him, getting caught in his fur. Dust was slower, but only just. His own head was high enough that nothing got caught in his shoulder-length hair, and he seemingly danced through the bushes, the way he was moving. His final destination? The Inn of the Strolling Players.

The Fire-Dancer wore the usual red and black of his trade- red for the flames, black for the soot they left behind. He had the cloak pulled tight around him, though he wasn't cold- he never was anymore, his blood- or maybe liquid fire- being so hot. Sparks danced around him, but never touched the leaves, never put him in danger- the opposite, if anything, scaring animals away from this fiery being.

Finally, he emerged from the trees south of Roxane's farm, at the Inn of the Motley Folk. He needed no money, but he did wish to get away from his own life for a bit- be the one entertained, not the one doing the entertaining. He didn't play with fire much anymore, not in shows. All the time on his own, of course, for fire was in him now, and could not be denied, but never for crowds of more than a few- Roxane, Jehan, Silvertongue, Farid, Meggie, and Resa, at the very most.

Dustfinger also wanted to know what the players were saying about current events- what they had to say about the going-ons of this world. He still knew plenty of what was happening, but no one knew more than the Motley Folk, never at home anywhere, and Dustfinger now had a permanent house. It was unavoidable that he should hear less than they.

He pushed open the inn's door and walked into the dim, smokey room. For a few minutes, he leaned against a wall, hidden deep in the shadows, scanning the room for a familiar face. He didn't find any, but he did see a fire-eater like himself, dressed in the red and black all fire-eaters were. The table was otherwise empty, but the rest were full. If he was to sit down, it would be there, no doubt about it.

He got himself a drink, tossing a few coins onto the counter without a look at the bartender, and made his way over to her. A girl- that did surprise him a bit, though not overly. Dustfinger sat down across the table from her and nodded a greeting. The lack of seats elsewhere helped- he didn't have to open the conversation because he might no be looking for one. He was, after all, a man of few words, particularly since his return from the dead. He thought about that almost everyday, though he didn't like to dwell on it too much.

[Selene]

She heard the footsteps well before she saw the owner. Light, almost silent, but oh yes, she heard them. She heard a lot of things these days. She looked up from her tankard and pulled her finger out of the liquid a bit embarrassed. Even if her face or body language didn't show it, she was embarrassed. After all, it wasn't every day that the best fire eater this world had ever seen who came back from the dead sat down in front of you just like that. No not everyday, not ever. Except now. She gave him a slight nod and looked back down at her drink. She barely stopped a smile from going across her expressionless face. She fingered her cloak again and took another sip of her drink. He'd probably noticed how awkward she looked now compared to how graceful she was.

Yes, despite the nearly twenty year age difference she liked Dustfinger. That wife of his was lucky. She continued to look at the table, following the pattern of the wood grains even in the dim lighting. She'd taken to traveling by night lately and had grown accustomed to seeing in dark places. She looked up at him from her slightly hunched position over the table with only her bright, cloudy gray, almost silver, eyes. Last time she'd gotten a comment on the color of her eyes they'd said they looked like she'd stolen tiny pieces of silver from the Castle of Night. She looked back down after a moment or two and took another sip of the ale. It was about half full now. Or as some would prefer half empty.

She snapped the fingers on her hand that was beneath the table on accident when she was thinking about fire and felt the tiny heat from the small flame. The smooth expressionless that was her face was lost in a sea of embarrassment. She gulped as the flame went out. She really needed to stop thinking about fire all the time. Doing that in a place like this was just a disaster waiting to happen. She rubbed the back of her neck and returned to circling her finger in the half full tankard. She didn't look up for awhile, trying to force her face back into it's normal expressionlessness. It probably wasn't going to happen. She knew she wouldn't start crying. She didn't cry when she was embarrassed. She couldn't even remember the last time she cried.

She scratched her arm and the long sleeve inched up showing the tip of one of the many scars made by knives. Her newest ones were two on each arm and a particulary long and nasty one along her jaw line. She had gotten them about three months ago in a fight with some man who refused to let her in the inn because she was a woman working in a 'man's profession'. Why must all guards these days have knives and fists? Sure she'd gotten in a few hits and slashes with her own fists and knife but two men against one seventeen year old girl just wasn't fair. Oh yes, that was the last time she'd cried. Well almost. She'd been flooded with tears on the inside, barely stopping the storm of tears.

She looked disgustedly at the slightly termite-eaten table at the thought of the fight. One more bad memory she'd have to keep until her dying day. Why couldn't her scars just go away like normal cuts? Oh yeah because you always had scars when you got cut by a knife. Never did they just vanish. Unless they were terribly small and not very deep. She rubbed the scar along her jaw as if she could still feel the blade slashing through skin. She shuddered slightly and took another sip of her ale. Almost empty now. She looked up at him again, deciding her face was probably calm enough. She was looking over his shoulder at the wall rather than at him. She was at least raised not to stare.

[Dustfinger]

Dustfinger studied the girl for a few moments, his face blank. She didn't seem embarrassed, but perhaps she looked up too often. Perhaps. And once when she did, the fire-eater caught site of her eyes. They were a silvery-grey color, and Dustfinger liked them. His own eyes were just blue. Nothing very original, though he supposed brown would be worse- mud. Of course, his preference would be black or a deep, dark blue, like night- his favorite time of "day", if you will.

Taking a sip of his wine, Dustfinger's eyes scanned the small, dark inn. Still no sight of anyone he knew, and no one had apparently spotted him, for which he was somewhat- though the whole reason he had come here in the first place was to talk. If only Cloud-Dancer could talk to me these days, Dustfinger thought. Of course he couldn't- the tight-rope walker was dead. Stabbed in the back by Basta, and not in any figurative sense.

His first day back in his own world, Dustfinger had visited this very inn. Someone- a grey-haired, beardless someone who looked almost drunk- had laid a hand on his shoulder. At once, Dustfinger had realized he was looking at his old friend Cloud-Dancer. The poor guy had had a cabbage throw at him, probably for distracting a market trader's customers. Landing on a cloth-merchant's stall and breaking some ribs and his leg had ended his career, but he earned his living as a messenger for a while- until his death, delivering a message to Fenoglio. The old man who caused more trouble than he was worth.

But you exist because of him, Dustfinger, remember that, he told himself. He wasn't entirely sure this was true, like Fenoglio himself wasn't. He was flesh and blood, not paper and ink, for god's sake! Flesh and blood are not born from paper and ink. It just doesn't happen. Or does it?

Finally, Dustfinger looked up at the girl in front of him again. She was probably around 16 or 17- not far from his own daughter's age. As he noticed before, he noticed again her eyes. Very pretty. She was pretty- nothing next to Roxane, at least in his opinion, but pretty for a young girl. Why had she chosen this profession? Her clothes clearly marked her a fire-eater like himself.

"A fire-eater, huh?" he asked. "You any good?" A slightly teasing tone entered his voice- she was probably pretty good by now, as most learned their professions, such as fire-eating, at an early age. He took a long drink of his wine, then set the goblet down and held his hand out, elbow resting on the table. "Dustfinger, The Fire-Dancer," he introduced himelf, though he would have been quite surprised if she didn't already know that.

[Selene]

Selene drank the last of her ale in a few sips and quietly set it back on the table. She noticed her movements were becoming a bit less awkward. She wasn't exactly what you'd expect of a girl her age. Considering the fact that she could've been married a few years ago. That plan had instantly vanished when she threatened to kill herself. She didn't want to marry. At least, not yet. She was still looking after all she still had the southern half of the land left to see. She fingered the cloak again as if she'd die if she didn't do so every so often. She stared at the rough grains of the table again as if they would reveal something to her. The only thing she saw was perfectly flammable, if not a smidge damp, wood. Wood which fire would devour like her brother used to devour food. Used to. But this time she remained perfectly expressionless.

She rubbed the scar on her jaw again. The man sitting across from her had scars too. Except his looked like faint lines drawn on. Something the fairies would do for Dustfinger. Why did it seem that all of the fire dancers had scars these days? More or less from knives. Knives were practically a fire dancer's worst enemy. Even if they were also her best, and only, friend. She had a number that were so old and faded that even she, who knew where they were on her face, could hardly find them.

"Err...yeah...didn't exactly mean to almost catch the table on fire," she said blushing slightly. She knew the awkwardness would return to her movements so she tried to move as little as possible. She really hadn't been trying to set the place on fire. "I'm okay...better not try here. Pretty much a disaster waiting to happen. I've only been doing this three years after threatening to kill myself multiple times for mulitple times." She looked up and tried to relax her shoulders, stiff with nervousness. "Who knew they'd actually take me seriously?" she said shrugging.

She took his hand and shook it. How was this not a dream? Why were dead people coming back to life all of a sudden? That just didn't happen. The dead were supposed to stay dead. Where they belonged. Unless of course it was the best fire dancer in the universe. "I'm Selene," she said releasing his hand. She looked around. "Ask me to show you what I can do when I'm somewhere less flammable. Unless you'd like to see this place go up in flames of course?"

[Dustfinger]

Dustfinger lay his hands flat on the table, looking at the grains of wood as she had. Then he looked up, smiling his mysterious smile. "Looking for something?" He gestured to the table with a nod. He had, of course, noticed her flame, but made no comment. He could smell it in the air, though it was overpowered greatly by the fire crackling in the fireplace. He blew gently into his palm, and from the instant it left his mouth, his breath turned to flame. Smiling, he held the flame in his hand. After a moment, Dustfinger curled his fingers into a fist, killing the fire. He placed his soot-covered palm on the table again.

Watching Selene, he noticed her rub- again- a scar on her jaw. He stroked his own cheeks, where his scars had once been. Basta had carved three large cuts into Dustfinger's face, taunting him about his good looks as he did so. Because of Roxane, no less. He had worn for years the scars from jealous Basta's knife, the physical sign of his love for Roxane. When he had come back from the dead without them, he could swear- and still believes- that Roxane misses the scars, and it doesn't much surprise him, when he thinks back on how and why he got them in the first place.

"Selene," he repeated. Not a bad name, really. There were certainly worse. "Do you travel alone or with the Motley Folk?" Most entertainers stayed with others- usually, the Motley Folk, as Dustfinger himself had once done. It was rare for any entertainer to live and travel alone, and Dustfinger had met maybe two who had in his life. But he didn't recognize this girl. He didn't know if that was because she didn't stay with the Folk, or if because he hadn't spent enough time with them recently, though he had spent plenty of time by their firesides, the Black Prince's in particular.

Then the Fire-Dancer remembered something else she'd said- or rather, it finally registered. "Wait. You've been doing this for three years, but what did you just say about threatening to kill yourself? And multiple times, not just once?" Not that once wasn't bad enough. Was she that desperate to play with fire?