The hunt returns victorious, if troubled. Despite worries the forray into the local wilderness has raised, the resultant feast is a tremendous success. Held at the Rusty Dragon, more than half the town, and certainly all the visitors, turn out for the event, which quickly becomes and impromptu festival of its own.
Merchants hawk wares, tumblers and singers perform (especially keen to re-enact scenes of bravery starring our heroes) and children play in the streets. For the first time in a very long time, it seems as though everything might be back to normal in the little town of Sandpoint.
The gypsies perform in what remains of the town center. They reenact the fights with a grace that is hard to possess. These gypsies are of the Fyr clan. A band of varisians who travel any and everywhere. Lead by Zane Fyr, a varisian of note. He is spoken of in many tales that usually lead to daring raids and beautiful women. He is a tall man in his middle age and bears himself well. His dark hair is still thick and long, with little gray hair. His eyes are a rich brown and full of mystery.
Zane stands slightly to the side and watches the performance. He knows it well. His wife and daughters have performed this dance in many cities and towns that have been attack by goblins. He looks through the crowd and catches a glimpse of red. He sighes and silently sneaks through the crowd following the glimpse of red.
He speaks softly yet his voice is stern. He grabs the shoulder of a young woman. She is as tall as him with vibrant red hair. She resembles Zane in the eyes and the way her mouth purses when she is angry.
Zane sighs again and says nothing. The young woman brushes her red hair behind her slightly pointed ear. Zane purses his lips and goes to grab her hand.
Aislinn steps out of Zane's distance and glares at him.
With that Aislinn turned and slipped away into the crowd as silently and unseen at her father.
Rissien has found himself gravitating towards the performers that have set up along the streets, using barrels and bystanders to help reenact the harrowing tales of the would be heroes. He finds it amusing and relishes the feeling of grandeur that comes with being the subject of such romanticized shows. As a young elf, for all the many years that he had been considered young, he'd watched the traditional epics and stories be acted out. The history of his people and of his species blown to gargantuan proportions and great elves cast to battle the very embodiment of evil in its many cursed forms. To see that others now considered him in a similar light should have humbled him, truly. But Rissien had met many in his days of wandering who were good and knew with certainty that he had no predilection for modesty.
Thus, he has settled himself on a barrel near the lighted lamps, well within sight of all the onlookers. Performers gesticulate with exaggerated intensity every thrown arrow and sing hastily worded ballads to the bravery and tenacity of Sandpoint's saviors, smoothing over the less glorious details as if they had never occurred. Rissien is pleased that no one would remember the way he had been pinned to the wall of the White Deer in the same light that he did.
Whereas his injuries have been lost between the lines, his simple act of cleaving the ears from the carcasses of goblins has left quit an impression. Rissien grins wickedly for effect, lighting a long pipe carved from sun-bleached wood. The noise of the festival washes over him but he feels in his bones the wary alertness of one hunted.
Rissien's bones serve him well. For among the crowd, with keen and discerning eye, a familiar face scans the crowd.
Cyrdak is a well known local, the owner of the local playhouse and possessing a personality matched in vibrancy only by his attire. For a few moments too long, his gaze rests on Rissien, tipping the elf to his interest.
To make a real living in Sandpoint on voice and countenance alone, Cyrdak is the man to see.
What she was wasn't something Zane had meant to hide. At least not at first. Zane looked at the space in the crowd where Aislinn had disappeared. He knew that his actions would haunt him. Her loved his daughter, that wasn't what was in question. He didn't know how people would react to her oddness. Her parentage had little to do with it. Her mother abandoned her to him not long after her birth. Stating she wasn't as she was and that she would live a better life with him in his travels. Zane knew nothing of raising a babe, so he did the only thing he could. He went back home, his tail between his legs and rejoined the caravan.
It wasn't until Aislinn was older that he noticed her strangeness. She could control people. Not directly, or at least as far as he could tell. Any time she performed, be it singing or dancing. Even when she played an instrument, even if she never played it before, her emotions seeped into her music. She made people feel what she was feeling. It was truly spectacular and at the same time, frightening.
Zane sighs and heads back into the crowd to resume his spot by the band.
Aislinn peers out from behind a man's sitting on a bench. He doesn't notice that she is behind him. She doesn't move until she is sure her father is back with the performers. She draws a long emerald green scarf from the folds of her skirt. She wraps the scarf slightly around her head. Just covering her ears and the dark marks that trail from under her ear and down the left side of her neck. From a distance it just looks like a tattoo but at a closer glance it is more than that. It is not a man made tattoo but something she was born with. An elaborate and intricate series of knots that weave in and out of one another like an endless loop. Only a little of the birth mark is visible, the rest is hidden beneath the linen shirt she wore.
As she stands she loses her balance and nearly falls onto the man she was hiding behind.
Rissien notes Cyrdak and rises to approach him, nodding once to show his intrigue in this man's interest that goes beyond reverence. As he moves gracefully to his feet, a figure from behind bumps into him and he turns to catch her. A gypsy from the looks of her clothes, he assumes she was with the caravans that had come to the festival. Fellow nomadic travelers.
"Excuse me."
He speaks in his natural tongue, the message loud and clear from the way he curtly bowed his head but pauses from passing over her when he sees the markings on her neck. Always one interested in body art as his own scarification ripples across most of his skin, Rissien pushes aside some of the cloth with the tip of his pipe. From his height, he leans over slightly, offering no explanation as he examines it, hair falling to shadow his face from the light of the torches. With his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones, it does nothing to make him seem friendly.
Aislinn is startled by the man, who turns out not to be a man but an elf. A heavily marked one at that. He is holding a pipe and speaks to her in a language she can understand.
" Excuse me."
He bows his head and stops, his eyes falling upon the marks she had not hidden so well. He uses the tip of his pipe to gain a better look. His face is shadowed and there is very little emotion that could be mistaken for friendly.
After a moment of shock, Aislinn moves the pipe aside with her hand.
" There is no excuse for rudeness, touching someone without their permission. "
Aislinn did not notice that she replied in the same odd language he had spoken.
Rissien stands again to his full height, intrigued by the body art that didn't seem to be inked onto her skin nor a brand. He had seen some meticulously applied dyes and even magicked signs but those had all been for some sort of ritualistic. Having assumed she was Varisian like the rest and the same language barrier was intact, her affronted response took him by surprise.
"I did not think I had the means to ask permission."
"Regardless as to whether or not you had the means, you still should not have touched me without permission." Aislinn pulled her scarf tighter to hide the marks. She looked at the elf again,he was scarred from head to toe. Intricate designs that seemed to have been cut into his flesh.
" You have the markings of a criminal on you." Aislinn crossed her arm over her chest and took half a step back.
Seeing the girl step away, Cyrdak takes his chance to interrupt the conversation.
Mister Rissien, I wonder if I could have a few moments of your precious time to discuss my upcoming production?
He speaks Varisian with a pleasant canter and a city accent.
"He does not have the MEANS to discuss anything." Aislinn unfolds her arms and glares at Rissien.
Rissien knows not what Cyrdak says, only catching a few key words such as "time" and of course his own name. Taking the man as an ally and his ticket out of whatever squabble this rambunctious girl was trying to pick, Rissien obliged, eagerly going to whatever fate the local had. He'd never mixed with gypsies well. They were ostensibly protective of their daughters' virtues yet allowed them to flock about on occasion in fashions that were risque even for an elf.
"Now you are the one being rude, little one."
Huffing, he turns to Cyrdak, a polite smile helping to make his dark eyes less surreal, the wrinkle at the corners of his eyes far friendlier than his resting expression.
"I do not speak Varisian, sir. But I am quite adept with body language."
It was a double entendre and Rissien chuckles to himself.
Aislinn scoffs at Rissien's remark to Cyrdak. It wasn't hard to see that the elf held himself in high regard. In a way Aislinn respected this odd elf. He seemed proud of his scars, even if he seemed a little too proud in general.
Ah, no Varisian?
Cyrdak frowns, his forehead creasing dramatically.
That is a shame, there's our weight in gold waiting behind the curtain.
He looks brightly towards the red-headed youth that had answered.
Did I by chance spy the two of you conversing, he asks pointedly, his hand on his coin purse with all the subtlety of a billboard.
Aislinn raises an eyebrow at Cyrdak and glances down at his hand. Her hand instinctively went to the leather belt that hung around her waist. The many strings of jewels and coins jangled as she shifted her weight. They made a soft musical sound that was slightly muffled by the silken fabrics of her skirt.
"May have." Aislinn replies in Varisian. Her accent distinctly different from Cyrdak's, as though one could hear all the places she's been. She folded her arms across her chest, the green sleeves of her fine linen shirt draped over the rich brown leather underbust corset.
Cyrdak smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes, which remain fixed on Aislinn's hands.
Ah, how I have missed working with gypsies, he retorts even as he tosses Aislinn a silver piece.
Aislinn catches the silver piece and swiftly hides it within the folds of her skirt. Normally she wouldn't have said anything and just hid herself beneath her scarf. She's couldn't explain the reason why she suddenly felt an urge to say something. Maybe because she was tired of hiding in the shadows like her father wished her to. Maybe she wanted a new kind of adventure.
"How may I be of service to you, good sir? " Her reply was sarcastic, to say the least and the small curtsey didn't help to hide it.
Cyrdak doesn't seem to notice the sarcasm, and says calmly, If you could but translate, ma'am.
" What would you like me to translate?"
Cyrdak narrows his eyes in annoyance, but in a courteous tone replies, Why, tell him I need good handsome actors for my newest production, and that he's just the ticket!
Aislinn raises her eyes at Cyrdak. Was he joking? She could tell he was annoyed at her, she didn't care. She looked at Rissien and tried to hide the somewhat confused expression on her face. Though despite her confusion and thoughts that Cyrdak might be slightly insane, she relayed the message none the less.
'Mister Rissien, this good man wants you to be an actor in his show.he believes you are a gorgeous specimen.'
Aislinn could barely contain her laughter.
When she spoke, Rissien drank up the words, eager for conversation. The compliment went down like a smooth wine, sweetened even further by its incredulous delivery by the marked child. Rissien visibly preens, obviously an easy enough man to win over. Cyrdak looked harmless enough as the elf eyes him, friendly and welcoming like the majority of the Sandpoint populous. Even still, he'd met a few grisly fellows who would prefer his scarred hide tanned and stretched like a canvas of his travels.
"It seems not everyone thinks I look the part of a criminal."
He says to Aislinn in jest, hoping that whatever drama had befallen their first encounters had passed.
"Tell him that I was just enjoying these celebrations...and ask if he is the man responsible for the show."
'Maybe he thinks you're perfect for the role of a criminal. Who knows?' Aislinn knew she was being unreasonably mean, for some reason she just couldn't help it.
She turned back toward Cyrdak and sighed.
' He says that he was just enjoying the celebrations and wonders if you're responsible for the show.'
Cyrdak grins as wide as his face will allow.
I play but a small part on this particular stage - I provide merely the venue and the day, and these wonderful performers deliver the rest.
He beckons for both to follow him into the white deer, where quiet tables can be had. As if to illustrate his point, a troupe of jugglers rushes by, passing between them objects of every conceivable shape.
Rissien leaves the festivities with a mixture of regret and intrigue, both missing the lively clamour and glad to be out of the open. He sits with his back against a wall, surprised a cornertable was available. Along the roads, it was the larger central tables that were rarely chosen. Now though they teemed with rowdy drunks, the floor wet from messily given toasts. Stopping a buxom lass and ordering a round for the table, he smiles at Cy
"You have been busy then."
He echoes Cyrdak's grin, trusting the girl to relay the message.
Aislinn couldn't figure out how she got herself seemingly stuck as this elf's translator. She followed the two into the White Deer and sat nervously at the table. She wasn't used to closed off spaces. She was used to being out in the open and the tents her caravan crafted. The tents that were a marvel to some, for they seemed to be small houses made of colorful flowing fabrics. Here the walls were made of wood, brick and mortar, it made her feel sick. No natural breeze, only the remnants of what blew in from the doors and windows.
A girl not much older than Aislinn was stopped and given the order for the table. She smiled and Aislinn recognized the smile. It's was the fake smile of a girl who didn't have anything else left to do. Aislinn sighed, she had known a few girls like her. It never ended well.
'You have been busy then.' Rissien remarks with a grin looking at Aislinn to translate. Aislinn rolls her eyes and begins to question again why she was sitting there.
'You've been busy.' She translates in a somewhat mocking tone.
Cyrdak doesn't seem to notice the mocking.
I have, I suppose. Ever since the goblins, it has been my self-appointed task to take these people from their troubles, drawing them into the world of music, dance, and comedy- I suppose it is necessary to escape this mortal world once in a while to glimpse the divine, and every parlor trick and staged act brings one a step closer to Shelyn.
Even if nothing else translates, goblins and Shelyn along with his serious demeanor and pensive expression should describe well enough his mood.
These people need heroes. Not ones with steel and muscles, mind you, those are of course important, but these people need heroes they can . I intend to give the people of Sandpoint Stars, divas, models.
He eyes Aislinn with gravity that defies his fanciful dress and boisterous act.
You may find yourself more interested in my craft, girl, if you desire more than a few silver and strive to be more than a parrot.
Aislinn glares at him, his comment bothered her. Her family was not a penniless band of gypsies. They knew more of his craft than he would believe.
' He thinks very highly of himself, you two would get along swimmingly If only there wasn't a language barrier. He wants to make you some kind of star.To ease the minds of the towns folk from the tragedy of the goblin attacks.' Aislinn sighed. She was growing more and more tired of her role as 'parrot'. She thinks of her father and how furious he would be if he found her here. Suddenly, she wished to stay slightly longer, just to hear what he had to say.