Fire to Ash [open]

[Coba]

Forgive the lengthy and drawn out nature. I had some excess muse juice floating around. It was night. Darkness had draped itself loosely over Syliras, the weather clear to show that it was not clouds that drank hungrily the moon's light but the pure absence of moon to cast it in the first place. The city stretched above her, level after level spotted with the lights of household fires that flickered brightly despite the tendrils of night that filled the spaces between, the absence of light that fringed the glow seemingly peaceable enough, as if they understood the limits that nature's laws imposed and lived within them. There was relative composure that seconded the layer of dark, and echoed throughout this city, more so then anyplace she'd seen before. She'd never admit it, but she enjoyed the order, and the beautiful harmony that Syliras stood for among the wreck that seemed to inhabit the rest of their world. If only she could find a place in it. This place, while she longed for it, did not suit the work she was able to offer. It seemed that the Knights had a grip on what they required in terms of finding people that sought to evade them, because very simply this was their city. And she wouldn't make a decent enough place in this world where real estate proved to in demand as what she chased in her dreams. She would leave soon. The junction she found herself in was wide, and only sparsely populated. The streets were alive with early evening comings and goings, people in motion, seeking out their last minute needs before heading home, company of others as they took up their stations at their tavern seats, or perhaps just walking as she did in the cool and peaceable air that was out in force tonight, hands deep in pockets, eyes and ears open. Laughter floated through crisp and still atmosphere, murmurs and snippets of happier conversations reaching her. Coba smiled and breathed it all in. She loved the beauty that these people seemed so able to create within their daily lives without much effort. Or did she see these things because of where she had come from? Whichever it could be traced to, she sought to add to it, to give these people some small token of her gratitude for simply existing. She extracted a hand from her pocket, licked a finger and thrust it into the air, a strange gesture given the environment. She got some stares, but this made her smile just a bit more. Oh, how they would stare. Indeed, with the lack of wind in this crisp winter night, the entertainment that these people would normally seek in day would come to them in dark, where it was best observed. She stopped in her tracks, interrupting the sparse and casual flow of pedestrians, which gave her berth then reformed as a river does around rocks. As she put down her pack, she kicked of her boots and set her bare feet onto the cobbles, her toes cold on the stones. She pulled off her shirt to reveal the grey cloth that wrapped around her slight womanhood but revealed the strongly muscled midsection, tattoos and scars. It was better to have fire lick your bare skin then flammable clothing. A shiver fingered it's way up her spine, but she shrugged it off, knowing that she would warm with the coming exercise. By now a circle had formed with her at it's center, people stopping to stare with mild interest and some shock peppered with the idea that this small girl was absolutely mad. Their stares pricked on the back of her neck, and unease blossomed in her stomach. Stage fright? Sweat broke upon her brow, and she felt like running. She'd never really performed in front of a crowd such as this. Still, she tried to ignore them and masked herself in methodical precision. Unsheathing the sword, she knelt to soak the wicking that wrapped the blade with alcohol. There vibrated a buzz or speculation tinged with concern, and from what Leo had said, she had to get on the next bit or risk being arrested when someone misinterpreted her meaning. Placing it on the ground, she slipped the flint and steel out of her pocket to quickly spark the implement. It caught immediately, ease coming from practice. Straightening up with the flaming sword in one hand, she spoke: "Back up at least four big steps or I make no promises about your clothes." So much for brilliant showmanship. You sound like you're offering them an option to die fast or by torture. Chided the little voice that undermined her on a daily basis. Then, with a slow deliberation to her movements, began. The fire was always something that she'd loved. She played with it, a dangerous and volatile friend. It burned her when she was careless, but rewarded her for her persistence. The burning scimitar swung in fast circles in her fist, her fingers clenched around the chains attached to the ends of the handles to give her such freedom. The difficulty was moving in such ways that she stayed out of the path. The flickering circles of light that the spinning blade created were stark against the blackness of night. She stood still at times and switched the paths and so creating circling ribbons of trailing fire that burned into the retina of those who watched, though the mesmerizing effect had no permanent damage. It was no great exhibition of the art, but effective enough. She felt the heat of the fire as it came dangerously close to her face, only just able to to yank her nose out of range. Don't get too creative. She twisted and danced and beat the ground with her bare feet when they came into contact with it. Some of the crowd laughed and clapped their hands or stomped their own feet in time with the beat she established. Her pulse roared in her ears and the whir of the blade cutting the air filled whatever space was left in her auditory circuits for more noise. She was always careful to be aware of the path of the blades and their reach. She could have stayed like that for hours, but the quality of the burning agent she'd used was quickly being consumed by the fire. Slowing the swing so she could grasp the handle, she turned a bit more, slower, as the performance reached it's finish. Suddenly, without much by way of warning, she dropped to one knee, her blades held just in front and a bit above her face, and paused. Glancing about, she calculated the odds of something going awry in this stage, finding all the buildings in the vicinity were safe, provided she spat straight up into the air. Holding her torch in one hand, her other slipped back to the bottle of alcohol, from there she took a large swig and held it in her mouth. This was all done as quickly and discreetly as possible, preventing the dampening of awe people had when their subconscious picked up on the trick. She tilted her head back to look up at the night sky, scored by the flame, and spat. The spray of alcohol was fine, and igniting as it passed the fire, the result a tall tongue of flame that shot straight up, licking towards the heavens. It dispersed into the air, and the blades own fire dimmed, then went out completely, their alcohol feed used up. She was plunged into darkness, her eyes having adjusted to the light provided by the fire and now baffled by the black. She stayed kneeling, silent but for the throb of her own heartbeat and the cooling sweat upon her brow, praying hope against hope that her first real performance was not going to be her last one for shame.