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Karo
Star
- Joined
- Mar 21, 2009
The crowds had been long clear, only a few stragglers still lingering around the clearing that currently housed the several colorful wagons, quickly assembled stage, and the hodgepodge of smaller tents adorned with small colored lanterns to make them stand out against the otherwise dull scenery of the still rebuilding town.
Though it had been years since the end of the war, enough so that even some of the patrons of the little show that had been put on didn't remember a life before, where magic wasn't outlawed, and where anyone unfortunate enough to be born with magical blood or bold enough to pursue the now forbidden arts on their own were jailed, or worse.
It wasn't as if the performers didn't often find themselves under scruty, even the tricks they performed were too close to real magic for the comfort of many who had witnessed the sheer destruction brought on by the war.
This little town, though, was always welcoming to them, usually so kind as to give the little band of performers a free meal in addition to the usual goods brought as payment for the show. Money usually wasn't accepted, it was the supplies that the troupe welcomed much more freely. A supply of dried meat and warm clothes and blankets were a much needed commodity.
Soon, the last of the stragglers had left the camp, leaving the performers to clean up and ready themselves for bed and another show the next day.
Unknown to the people of the town, though, the magic they had witnessed was more than mere parlor tricks. A forbidden, dying art being shown right under their noses under the guise of smoke and mirrors.
One person, though, had seen the truth. It, perhaps, was only due to her own magical heritage, but she had felt the surge of power from these people, people like her, and for once she felt as if maybe she could finally stop running.
Kyrie bit her lip, a young girl, in the awkward stages of no longer being a child, but far from being an adult in the eyes of many. Not a true resident of the town, the welcoming streets had been her home for the last few days, passing through on her endless journey from one town to the next, always running, but never quite sure from what.
She hesitated around the edge of camp, just inside the light glow of the dying bonfires and small lanterns lighting the festive campsite.
The runaway jumped at the sudden sound of a heavily accented voice cutting through the silence.
"Oi, whassat there?" A woman called, the caravan's resident fortune teller, pointing to the shadowy shape of the girl lingering near the edge of camp. "Ya lost, lass? C'mon over 'ere." she called.
Though it had been years since the end of the war, enough so that even some of the patrons of the little show that had been put on didn't remember a life before, where magic wasn't outlawed, and where anyone unfortunate enough to be born with magical blood or bold enough to pursue the now forbidden arts on their own were jailed, or worse.
It wasn't as if the performers didn't often find themselves under scruty, even the tricks they performed were too close to real magic for the comfort of many who had witnessed the sheer destruction brought on by the war.
This little town, though, was always welcoming to them, usually so kind as to give the little band of performers a free meal in addition to the usual goods brought as payment for the show. Money usually wasn't accepted, it was the supplies that the troupe welcomed much more freely. A supply of dried meat and warm clothes and blankets were a much needed commodity.
Soon, the last of the stragglers had left the camp, leaving the performers to clean up and ready themselves for bed and another show the next day.
Unknown to the people of the town, though, the magic they had witnessed was more than mere parlor tricks. A forbidden, dying art being shown right under their noses under the guise of smoke and mirrors.
One person, though, had seen the truth. It, perhaps, was only due to her own magical heritage, but she had felt the surge of power from these people, people like her, and for once she felt as if maybe she could finally stop running.
Kyrie bit her lip, a young girl, in the awkward stages of no longer being a child, but far from being an adult in the eyes of many. Not a true resident of the town, the welcoming streets had been her home for the last few days, passing through on her endless journey from one town to the next, always running, but never quite sure from what.
She hesitated around the edge of camp, just inside the light glow of the dying bonfires and small lanterns lighting the festive campsite.
The runaway jumped at the sudden sound of a heavily accented voice cutting through the silence.
"Oi, whassat there?" A woman called, the caravan's resident fortune teller, pointing to the shadowy shape of the girl lingering near the edge of camp. "Ya lost, lass? C'mon over 'ere." she called.