The 4th of Vhalar 718
Outer Perimeter - North East Etzos
People clapped and cheered and whistled.
A man dressed in a green and red jester’s motley was doing flips and handstands and flick flacks.
Though it wasn’t quite Cylus just yet, afternoons were still the warmest part of the trial, and even for a jester wearing a skin tight outfit –or maybe especially for such a person—the extra tidbit of warmth was no excessive luxury. Blowing winds brought frigid cold that cut through flimsy layers of cloth, caressing skin with icy touch.
Nevertheless, the some people weren’t dressed for the season, challenging the weather and daring the sniffles to try and infect them. Oberan was one of those fools, a prime target for the common cold. Jokes on it though, the Mortalborn’s nose was already dripping more or less non-stop.
The jester called in rhymes to draw attention, inviting more people over with the promise of awe-inspiring tricks and baffling magic. Excitement to distract from the doldrums of everyday life. Given the place he’d set up shop, there weren’t a whole lot of people around –this wasn’t the commercial circle during market day, after all—but still a decent amount for a busker to earn a good few coins. As mentioned, he hadn’t targeted the commercial circle, but instead he had targeted a more or less main street near the gate. Near the circle, but still in the perimeter.
He wanted to see how successful an act like this would be first, before performing it in the spots were a lot of coin was to be earned. Test first, gauge reactions, and if they were positive, show the work to the big public. Usually the jester wasn’t one to put much thought in his performances, but now he had something he wanted to try. If Etzos was ready for it though, well, that was the question. Some time ago he’d tried out a rather … different… act, and it had gone right over everyone’s heads. Well, it wasn’t surprising that a city too busy to obsess over hating Immortals and freeing others from the yoke of the deities were unappreciative of art. Philistines.
If it wasn’t a performance about Pahrn defying the damn Morties, it was a shitty performance. If it wasn’t a statue of an Immortal dying at the hands of man, the statue was crap. If it wasn’t a painting depicting a struggling Etzori casting of the chains of Immortal indoctrination, it was a shit painting.
He’d said it before, and he’d say it again: those philistines couldn’t recognize art if it slapped them in the face. And the Outer Perimeter folk were the worst of the worst. Worse than the stuck-up know-it-alls living in the inner circles. Even worse than Rynmere nobility—well, maybe that was being a bit too harsh on them.
Nevertheless, if he didn’t cater to the Etzori, he’d not earn any money through busking, which then really muted his fun.
“Let me begin my next act by telling you lot a little bit about myself,” the jester began, pulling off his gloves, and rolling up the sleeves of his motley. “I have traveled East, West, North and South in pursuit of the Mystic Arts.” His hands went behind his back, returning with half a dozen little balls in his palms. With continuous skillful motions of his arms, all six balls began sailing through the air in circles, up and down and up again.
“I spent arcs studying under the wing of powerful wizards and sorcerers, hoping to master even a fraction of what they showed me.” He continued juggling, but every three rotations, there seemed to be one less ball, until he suddenly was dumbly throwing only one ball around, which then too vanished instead of being launched back into the air.
“I want to show you some of what I learned, but be warned! What you see is real magic. Ancient and long forgotten. Not what the so-called ‘mages’ of these times use, but something completely different, and infinitely more dangerous. I will show you some basic uses of this magic, things you may think to have seen before. Emulated by stage magicians and quick-fingered street performers, but do not mistake my craft for mere parlor tricks.”
There was a momentary pause where he let his gaze wander over the faces of the crowd, expression grave and his stare intense. He began juggling once again, moving his arms with the necessary rhythm, though no balls were present. But then there was one. And two. Three, four, and five. Six at last, all whirling through the air in a neat little circle.
Until they weren’t. Instead al were thrown high in the air, the faces of the crowd following their arcs, up then down, down, down, where the jester caught them all in a wicker basket he hadn’t been carrying before. A basket which hadn’t been anywhere near him before. Maybe it’d been hidden behind the wooden box on which he stood, but the man hadn’t shifted his position to grab it.
All balls caught, he spun around, and when he stopped, the basket and its contents had vanished. The jester stepped off his box, let his gaze sweep over the audience once again, and on his face appeared a smug grin. He lifted the box, and there was nothing underneath or behind it. He turned it in his hands so all sides could be inspected, and while it was opened, there was nothing inside.
The murmurs of the crowd stopped for a moment, as if everyone needed a moment to gasp for air, and then hushed conversations started once again, louder now, more excitedly.
“As I said,” the smug-looking jester repeated, “these aren’t parlor tricks. You are welcome to inspect my box, if your skepticism demands it, but my magic is the real deal.” The grin on his face only grew wider, as some people did indeed come forward, and he knew they would only add to the legitimacy of his claims.
