[Flashback]The Silent Waltz

[Mathieu]

Time stamp: 40th of Fall, 507 AV Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Thirteen coins. Thirteen only. Mathieu gave out a silent sigh. Things were not going as well as he had planned. Winter was soon to come, yet he had very little savings. With the cold chill in the air foretelling the next few months weather, he could tell that there would be no way to keep traveling in the near future lest he would find himself under two feet of snow. Things were not going well. He wasn't only traveling because "it's a lifestyle". He wasn't traveling because he was fleeing from someone or something. He wasn't traveling because of an unending pit of curiosity toward what the world had to offer - well, he did enjoy that aspect of journeying through Mizahar, but... No, he had a simpler reason. If he stayed too long in the same place, his shows would grow repetitive and boring. And his earnings would suffer the consequences. Still, thirteen coins? He wasn't one to complain very often, but people here really were rats. Although he shouldn't have placed his hopes too high - this was Sunberth after all. Looks like he was going to have to look for a wealthy target. He didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of having to seduce this kind of audience with his art - most of the fat donkeys were happy enough engrossing themselves with lard and rich food while sputtering gibberish nonsense while some musicians plucked one or two cords once in a while - but they were the ones that payed the most. Furthermore, finding a patron for shelter during winter wasn't a bad idea. Alright, he decided. Patron seeking would it be. He patted the neck of his old horse Dusk and started placing his stuff back in his cart. Running low on paraffin too. He definitively needed time to purify some more lamp oil. His show weapons were hopefully still in good shape, he wouldn't have to worry about that any time soon.

[Mathieu]

They were three. No, four. Probably after his purse. Perhaps after his horse too. Clothes? Dirty. Teared off. Not so far from rags. Intentions? Clear. Trying to surround him so he wouldn't escape. Weapons? Daggers. Clubs. Their burly faces were covered with scars and their nose shaded with red. Heavy drinkers likely, and tavern brawlers as well. Playing thugs to earn their daily booze. Guards? None, really. Sunberth it was, they were not to be expected in these streets. People were scattering, not wanting to get dragged in the coming conflict. Their footsteps splattered in the muddy road, pretending not to see. Mathieu didn't hold them responsible for their reaction - they would more likely get wounded and mugged as well. Eh lad. Mind sharing a bit o' gold? Yer' an artist right'ey? Ye dun wantta be loosin' yer delicate hands hey? the closest one said with what could almost be described as a friendly, paternalistic tone. Mathieu sighed. He wished his clothings would do the job every time. He wished his nickname would be enough to scare these folks away. But not everyone was afraid of symbols, and these drunken louts probably didn't give two slaps about it. He hardly saw any other outcome than violence here - the question was, should he let them first? Eh lad! Ye'r not lissenin ar'ye? Ye' lissen to wha' teh' elders say ye' lily man! Ye' pay respect to yer elders! added the one to his right, waving his knife menacingly. ... Let them first? No need. No guards around. People used to violence. Show was already done. Money already collected. Eh, money. Thirteen coins, he thought with a little smile. Oy' lad! The one to his right was closing in angrily while the others watched ready to prevent any escape. Ugly fellow. Big brown eyes, huge round nose, dirty hair with dandruffs falling like snow, slightly limping. Still half-leaning above his cart as he was packing up his tools, the Reaper's hands soon felt the cold wooden touch of a long staff. It was going to be a bloody day.

[Mathieu]

... Bloody day? What was going through his mind. He was no soldier. He was no warrior. He was no avatar of death, merely an artist. A humble one. Since when did he let his vanity step into the hall of his ego? Tsh, stop daydreaming Mathieu. One day it would cost you dearly. The situation was under control and was to be dealt accordingly. No rush. A quick and sudden swipe of his scythe was all it took to calm the would-be thieves down. The Fire Weaver drew a fluid arc with his right hand, stopping the sharp and pointy blade extruding from the staff he held right next to the filthy mugger, whom lost its color as quickly as he dropped his knife. In a futile attempt to surrender he raised his hands and stammered to cling to his dear life. Hoho-hoho-hold on, lad! We, we, we were just kidding right? Right guys? Right? he mumbled as clearly as he could while his eyes darted frantically from Mathieu to his friends on the side, begging for an approval. He didn't care about what the others had to say. The trick had been successful, and he highly doubted they would try to further bother him. Mathieu slowly drew away his scythe and firmly though slowly planted it into the ground, as a grim reminder of what would happen should they step forward. I seek no trouble, and wish none. Be gone, he said in a calm and unthreatening voice. He didn't have to ask twice. The first one was happily stepping backward as fast as he could, not bothering to pick up his knife embedded in the dirty mud that served as road here in the lowest district of Sunberth. The others looked at each other in confusion for a moment and quickly decided to fall onto a less dangerous prey later, shortly drawing back to follow the frightened fellow. Was that the right choice? To let these guys loose? Mathieu gave out a sigh. Why did he even think about such trivial matters? As if the future outcomes were of any concern to him. He was no peace keeper, no judge, no vigilante. Merely an artist. Yea, merely an artist.