The 15th of Ashan 718
Some would claim that being a jester required no skill whatsoever. They only needed to wear tights in bright colors, do stupid things all the time, and occasionally make people laugh.
Oberan firmly disagreed.
Tights were utterly unnecessary.
As long as you made it clear that you were playing a role, of course. If not, people usually did not put up with your nonsense. Tights had the distinct advantage of alerting everyone to the fact that you were playing a role, even if you weren’t, without you needing to explicitly tell them. It allowed you to get away with things that wouldn’t fly otherwise, do things that would be cringy or shameful in every trial life. Try something and fail? Just pretend like it was planned, overact to the point where people genuinely couldn’t tell whether it was or wasn’t.
So yes, you didn’t necessarily need mad skills. You did not need to be funny. And you didn’t need the tights.
Problem was you were none of those, and you didn’t wear the motley, people either thought you were retarded, or a huge asshat.
Oberan was wearing the jester’s outfit, obviously, and stood in the center of a small crowd in the middle of a square. There was a market nearly, with vendors hollering rhymes to attract attention, yelling about how low their prices were and how high the quality of their product. The sea of people flowed through the streets, pooling around the most interesting of the stalls, and passing by the numerous buskers and performers who’d come to profit off the gathering of vendors.
Those who played an instrument were always present, providing merry tunes for the masses to enjoy as they passed with the languid speed of a crippled snail, forced to walk at the pace of the slowest among them. There was no greater anguish for the punctual and swift to be among such crowds. It was for the men to listen to as they were dragged around by their partners, forced against their will to spend an eternity in shopping limbo. For those people the music provided comfort, something to enjoy while they suffered. Background music in Tartaros.
There were acrobats who did tricks and flips, some solo, some in groups. The general rule was that the more people, the grander and more spectacular the stunts. There were jugglers and strongmen, firebreathers and ventriloquists, illusionists and mimes.
And Oberan? Well, he did absolutely nothing. Instead, he just stood there, frozen in place. The pose his body held was odd, with his arms held at weird angles, and his legs looking like he’d just tried to take a gigantic step, but couldn’t quite find the strength to raise back up. Near his feet was a cap with some coins in it, and every so often someone would throw a bit of nel in there. All because he didn’t do a thing. Which was harden than it looked, as he needed to keep his balance, hold the pose, and stare in the distance while making sure to blink when no-one was looking and breathe inconspicuously. Not to mention the top of his head was itching so badly, but he couldn’t scratch it!
He lost track of time, lost in his thoughts for the most part. Oberan knew he hadn’t been posing like this for longer than five bits now, and it was becoming time to briefly move and relieve himself of the god-awful pose he’d decided to strike. At that moment, he saw her.
The Mortalborn knew that he had to involve her somehow. Why? Because he couldn’t help himself; she was a Naerikk.
All of a sudden the motionless jester launched himself forward, breaking through the crowd of people around him, and grabbing her wrist. He pulled, drawing her into his little performance space, one hand locking fingers with hers, the other placing itself onto her waist. A bit of exercise to loosen up his body after pretending to be a statue for half the morning. The music from the performers next to his spot carried loud and far enough to leave no question to the beat to follow.
“Won’t you join me in this dance, milady?” he asked, his tone mocking the genteel speech of the nobles up North. There was no window for a refusal on her part though, almost immediately after the rhetorical question he began moving, pulling her along with him, whether she wanted to or not.
He knew enough of dance to know that the man was supposed to lead, but that was just about the full extent of his knowledge –and skill—on the matter, and it clearly showed. If there were a jury to score his attempts at ... whatever dance it was he was trying to imitate... they'd give him a three. Out of a hundred. Or maybe a four, depending on whether they were feeling generous.