3rd Spring 517
No one could tell who had heard it first. The fishermen near the harbour boastfully laid claim to being the first to spot them as they sailed in on their mighty ship and cartwheeled off it, but so did the hunters who came from the wilderness speaking of a processions of jugglers and acrobats that had entered the city their way. The shoppers in the Bizarre said they had seen them parading through the streets and each performer began to claim that they had been approached by them themselves, asked to join the magnificent theatre troupe. But of course, most people assumed it was the temple that knew, and all the other claims fell flat.
The streets danced with the news that flew between performer and onlooker, as if Ionu himself, or herself, couldn’t stop rejoicing at it. Each spectacle seemed to grow in size and impressiveness, trying to gain the attention of the theatre troupe that was on everybody’s lips and celebrate their arrival after what seemed like forever.
The Inverted had finally returned to the city of their god, and had brought with them the best of the best.
At once, crowds began to flood the Crooked Playhouse, searching for the group and the play they promised to put on in the first place that seemed obvious. The theatre swelled in size to accommodate the masses, the seats stretching out further than the eyes could see in its irregular patterns. Groups shifted between each other, none sure of their direction but moving all the same. A thick murmur had spread across them, speaking words that were almost all unrecognisable.
Then came a cry as someone spotted the notice, a single point that caused the whole of Alvadas to stream towards the object, one thing in mind. Inverted.
The notice flapped on a single piece of paper, pinned beside the stage in a location that only let a handful read it at a time. It was large, painted brightly with a hand that strived for detail, the image of a large tent stretched across the top. It striped reds and yellows, with intricate patterns in each stripe that were only seen by an observant onlooker. Along the edges curled tiny miniatures of the performers: of a tightroper doing a handstand, of contortionists in impossible shapes, of beast-tamers and beasts that no one could recognise.
Under the painted canvas, the writing was large and clear, printed in neat letters and reading in common at first but at closer inspection, it seemed to flicker between all the other languages too, lingering on whatever the viewer naturally saw.
The message was simple: "Come one, come all, to the greatest show around! The Inverted have returned and will be performing every day for the rest of the festival. Prepare to be amazed!"
Under these words, the simple symbol of the inverted triangle signed the notice off, marking it clearly as a message from the followers of Ionu. Nothing else followed; not a date, not a time, not a price, not a place. The crowd, looking for more, became annoyed and frustrated, turning to the man that stood beside the words who seemed to have some sort of connection to the group.
He was fairly average, that was, average height, no particularly distinguishing features, clothing that any other could be seen wearing. His messily cut hair shook as he bobbed up and down to avoid blocking the notice from those who wished to read it, but he lingered despite that. He called the words out occasionally, trying to be seen and heard through the crowd so the message would get across, except when questions were asked, when he ducked out of sight. With every question, he blended in with everyone else, and somehow managed to get out of answering a single one.
“When is it?” a group called out, wondering how long they should wait in the Crooked Playhouse. All the time? Only in the evening? Every other bell? The thoughts were all over the place, yelled out between people as half-hearted guesses. Eyes fell on the actors that were common around the Playhouse, and questions fired constantly towards them, waiting for a response.
“Not here!” they cried in unison, “The Inverted aren’t here!” With this news, the crowd was sparked with yet another question, rippling with both excitement and impatience as they tried to figure out what to feel.
It wasn’t before long that the question was echoing not only across the theatre, but across Alvadas itself. Most found themselves asking it, and being asked it, and none every got an answer, or if they did, used it to watch the theatre group rather than sharing it.
Where were the Inverted hiding this time?
No one could tell who had heard it first. The fishermen near the harbour boastfully laid claim to being the first to spot them as they sailed in on their mighty ship and cartwheeled off it, but so did the hunters who came from the wilderness speaking of a processions of jugglers and acrobats that had entered the city their way. The shoppers in the Bizarre said they had seen them parading through the streets and each performer began to claim that they had been approached by them themselves, asked to join the magnificent theatre troupe. But of course, most people assumed it was the temple that knew, and all the other claims fell flat.
The streets danced with the news that flew between performer and onlooker, as if Ionu himself, or herself, couldn’t stop rejoicing at it. Each spectacle seemed to grow in size and impressiveness, trying to gain the attention of the theatre troupe that was on everybody’s lips and celebrate their arrival after what seemed like forever.
The Inverted had finally returned to the city of their god, and had brought with them the best of the best.
At once, crowds began to flood the Crooked Playhouse, searching for the group and the play they promised to put on in the first place that seemed obvious. The theatre swelled in size to accommodate the masses, the seats stretching out further than the eyes could see in its irregular patterns. Groups shifted between each other, none sure of their direction but moving all the same. A thick murmur had spread across them, speaking words that were almost all unrecognisable.
Then came a cry as someone spotted the notice, a single point that caused the whole of Alvadas to stream towards the object, one thing in mind. Inverted.
The notice flapped on a single piece of paper, pinned beside the stage in a location that only let a handful read it at a time. It was large, painted brightly with a hand that strived for detail, the image of a large tent stretched across the top. It striped reds and yellows, with intricate patterns in each stripe that were only seen by an observant onlooker. Along the edges curled tiny miniatures of the performers: of a tightroper doing a handstand, of contortionists in impossible shapes, of beast-tamers and beasts that no one could recognise.
Under the painted canvas, the writing was large and clear, printed in neat letters and reading in common at first but at closer inspection, it seemed to flicker between all the other languages too, lingering on whatever the viewer naturally saw.
The message was simple: "Come one, come all, to the greatest show around! The Inverted have returned and will be performing every day for the rest of the festival. Prepare to be amazed!"
Under these words, the simple symbol of the inverted triangle signed the notice off, marking it clearly as a message from the followers of Ionu. Nothing else followed; not a date, not a time, not a price, not a place. The crowd, looking for more, became annoyed and frustrated, turning to the man that stood beside the words who seemed to have some sort of connection to the group.
He was fairly average, that was, average height, no particularly distinguishing features, clothing that any other could be seen wearing. His messily cut hair shook as he bobbed up and down to avoid blocking the notice from those who wished to read it, but he lingered despite that. He called the words out occasionally, trying to be seen and heard through the crowd so the message would get across, except when questions were asked, when he ducked out of sight. With every question, he blended in with everyone else, and somehow managed to get out of answering a single one.
“When is it?” a group called out, wondering how long they should wait in the Crooked Playhouse. All the time? Only in the evening? Every other bell? The thoughts were all over the place, yelled out between people as half-hearted guesses. Eyes fell on the actors that were common around the Playhouse, and questions fired constantly towards them, waiting for a response.
“Not here!” they cried in unison, “The Inverted aren’t here!” With this news, the crowd was sparked with yet another question, rippling with both excitement and impatience as they tried to figure out what to feel.
It wasn’t before long that the question was echoing not only across the theatre, but across Alvadas itself. Most found themselves asking it, and being asked it, and none every got an answer, or if they did, used it to watch the theatre group rather than sharing it.
Where were the Inverted hiding this time?
