The streets were more crowded despite the heavy sunlight, and the arid heat baking everything. I scoped out the alleyways I often used for navigating the market, looking for a good way to escape before the merchant noticed my new acquisition, a rather sizable basket of dried lir, one of my favorite fruits. My first route quickly became unusable due to the sudden presence of a Footpad Courier, who rushed forward and stopped to survey, likely looking for the recipient of his message. Thankfully, my second choice was still open, and the crowds provided excellent cover for me to make my way to the small side alley without the merchant being any the wiser, at least until he decided to take stock of his merchandise and came up one short. I exit the alley, and find myself in a much emptier street than the one previous, and immediately begin making a convoluted path back to my current residence, partly to confuse any unlikely but possible tails and partly to work off the adrenaline of the steal. I'm still not used to it, even after just over a decade of having to make my own way in Zagris. I eventually find myself at my destination, a hollowed out two story house, formerly owned by a now broke merchant emptied out to settle debts and whose current ownership was a topic of hot debate. It wasn't much, but it... well it kept me off the street.
I enter through a window facing the desert at its back, being built on the outskirts was another thing that made this a good base of operations for now. I sit down on my bedroll, and undo my face wrappings, not common in this city but a staple among the smaller settlements surrounding it without the help of Elementalists to buffer the sandstorms in the area, so it drew a little attention but not as much as my own features would. My softer features, lighter complexion, and hair the same shade as the sand surrounding us mark me as a foreigner, despite the fact that I was born here. My features don't mean much in the grand scheme of things, but it's another thing to make me stand out, something that I can't afford to do. Not until I have enough saved up to get passage to the next biggest city nearby.
I grabbed a rag from the water bucket I snuck in here and began rinsing myself clean of the sweat of a long day, one well-spent, as I also take note of my other acquisitions. A handful of copper hilts, with a couple of silver pommels thrown in, all clinking together as I shifted the coins into my hiding place, a bag wedged into the underside of a roofing tile outside the window. The fruit of odd jobs, scavenging, and my hands occasional trip into other's pockets. If I could just make my way to a full gold blade before the price of travel jumped, then I could make my way to the capital, or at least the next large city. Ultimately, I wanted to make my way to the capital to escape the stigma of being a foreigner, as I've heard that lots of foreign merchants make their way to the capital to try and buy books produced at the printing press there, a valuable commodity in other places with less efficient or advanced equipment. Hopefully I'll be able to find a place there where I can enjoy some peace, maybe get an actual job.
I lose my train of thought as my washcloth goes over the brand on my arm, a white figure of a single raven, always cold to the touch, and the biggest obstacle to me fulfilling my dream of a quiet life. Despite only using my powers once, I am in fact a Rook, a nefarious liar and cheater, capable of fooling someone into their own death and swindling the World itself into bending to my will. Yeah right, I can barely cover my own expenses like food, water, and a place to get out of the sun during the day. Truthfully, while the Rooks of the past could maybe do those things, I'm no more capable of that than the average person is capable of beating a triskir in a footrace. My mind races back to when I got the brand, at the age of 8.
We were rushing through the streets, my mom in her knight costume, complete with faux armor keeping a firm grasp on my hand, and my dad in his noble costume clearing us a path through the bustling marketplace. I was the only one without a costume, but the resemblance was obvious, as I shared the exact same sandy blonde hair as them, with the same pointed nose as my mother, and the same almond shaped blue eyes as my father.
We were here to perform for the people, or my parents were. I was "too young" to play a part in our current play, whatever that meant. I was good enough to be the king in that last play we did, and I even made the audience laugh when I was introduced.
But, my parents did say that I could help the stagehands with backstage prep, and if I did a good job mom would teach me more stage combat. The crowd got denser the closer we got to the stage, but dad was good at getting through people. He was big, but it he didn't push or shove people out of his way, it's more like his force of personality made people get out of his way. He called it "weaponized acting", making himself seem too important to be made to wait. I was always in awe when I saw it.
As we got to the stage, mom hefted me onto it, before climbing up herself.
"Hurry, Friedrich go and see what help they need back there." She said, as she helped dad up onto the stage.
I rushed backstage, moving out of the way of Nicholas and Dieter, who were moving sets into place. I rushed to Walter, finding him amid a group of other actors. Despite being a mobile troop, we boasted a large number of staff, which I was told was impressive for a group without a home theater and it was all thanks to Walter's management.
"Everything must go according to script today, we don't need another armchair incident, even if Lina played it off well yesterday." Walter said, eyeing the actor who tripped over the armchair he was supposed to shove aside, who withered slightly under Walter and Lina's gaze. Walter then turned to me "Friedrich, did your parents get the invitation sent?"
"Mom and dad gave them to the house guard, who promised the merchant lord would get it." I say, talking about our quick errand. I'm not sure why he had us give him an invitation for a show that was going to be performed in a few hours, it doesn't seem like enough time to get prepared.
"Alright, lets hope he doesn't end up coming then." Walter said, a look of slight worry creeping on his face, which went away as he saw my look of confusion. "Some nobility take it as an insult if they don't receive an invitation, but honestly we don't want him coming to our show, he's a known jackass, and has gotten better performers than us thrown out of town." Walter says, an edge creeping into his voice near the end.
That makes sense, I guess. "Is there anything I can do to help the show go smoothly?" I asked, eyeing the rushing stagehands and the dressing actors, going over lines at the last minute.
"Yes, actually. Could you help Mila set up the chairs, and give these to anyone who asks for one." He said, handing me a bundle of papers, our program. I nodded, and ran over to Mina, who was putting out the benches in the back row for the free spectators, and I began helping.
The play went well, and the audience was tearing up like they were supposed to, and then a hush went over the crowd as a loud set of footsteps could be heard during a quieter moment. A man wearing a bright and shiny robe, his shoes making a distinct clacking noise against the hard ground beneath him, and every eye was on him as he made his way to the front row, reserved for those who paid the price for such tickets. Upon reaching the front row, he looked at a man, who quickly vacated the seat he was in to let the man sit there.
Mom only took a moment to make note of the man's arrival, and continued with her scene as it was written, although I think I saw a flicker of worry cross her face when she first saw him. My dad came out onto the stage moments later, to finish out the scene. The show continued, a sad story about a knight and a lord during the Age of Rooks who helped to found the rebellion, but sadly were discovered before the Rooks were completely deposed. It's supposed to be base on a true story, but there is very little way to know who it may have been talking about without knowing someone who was there, or knew someone who was there.
The rest of the show went on flawlessly, but with an extra air of tension on top of everything else. Finally, the last scene ends, a still image of my dad and mom on stage in death poses after having their hearts stopped by the Rook Lords. The curtains close, and the audience, forgetting the tension of the man, applaud, and get louder as the actors come back out for the introductions.
As the last actors come on, the man stands back up, and everyone quiets immediately, as everyone seems to take a collective breath of air.
"Honestly, not worth the effort of leaving my home." The man says, his voice dripping with what I believed was feigned apathy. He then points to my mother. "Your performance as Leulya was the worst part, barely believable, and that death scene was the worst I've seen done. At least the last troupe gave it a bit of glamour and had the two die in a gout of flames conjured by the Rook Lords." He continued, laughing to himself at his own criticisms.
I was so angry with him, that I couldn't stop myself from running up to him and shoving him to the ground. If I thought it was quiet when the man was talking, the silence now was almost a physical presence with the way it smothered the area. Not giving my anger a chance to calm, I started yelling at the now angry looking man on the ground.
"That was probably one of the best performances you've ever seen, but you're too much of an ass to realize it!" As I yelled, I felt something move within me, and I could barely see the words coming out of my mouth, and circling around the man. As I focused on the words, the world almost seemed to slow, and then the words got more vibrant, and I focused on the part about it being the best performance he'd ever seen. Then, as if from my focus, those words tightened around him, and the moment passed.
The strange moment snapped me out of my anger, and I realized what I had just done. I began thinking of ways that I could apologize, but nothing I thought of could have made up for the insult I just paid him. And as my thoughts continued racing, the man stood up, and seemed to have a different demeanor about him.
"You're absolutely right." He says, and turns back to the stage. "This truly was the best performance I've ever seen, and I apologize."
As he spoke, the crowd began mummering, and a lot of eyes turned to me.
I was rushed backstage quickly, and made to wait in one of our wagons, one which I quickly discovered could be locked from the outside. So I waited, and thought about what just happened. No one else seemed to see the way my words circled around the man, but everyone saw how the man acted afterwards. Did this mean I was an Elementalist? But which Element was it that I just used?
It then struck me, and my mood crashed lower than it already was in my impromptu cell. As if on cue, the door opens and in steps a man in a simple but expensive looking robe, which bore the symbol of the Elementalists, a tree with seven branches.
"I am Bri Nuriju, Aeziri of Lord Surint, and Elementalist of the 3rd tier. You stand accused of using Rookery to influence a lord of the Zagrisian nation, which normally calls for an execution and such execution was asked for by the victim, Lord Vakkus. However, taking into account your age and witness testimony that you seemed surprised as well, the execution has been reduced to a branding and public service to Lord Vakkus for a time of at least 3 years. Now present your arm, so that the brand may be placed." He talked as if he were bored by the entire conversation, as if what was happening wasn't shattering my world.
The tears began welling in my eyes, I asked him in a shaking voice "If-if I'm going t-to be Lord Vakkus, th-then how will m-my troupe t-travel?"
Seeming irritated by the question, he still answered "They, and more importantly, your parents have relinquished custody of you to the Zagrisian Government until your sentence has completed, and they come back to claim you. Now, your arm." He says, barely suppressing a scowl as he put his hand out, seemingly for my arm.
I barely kept the tears back as I put my arm in his hand. His grip tightened around my arm, like a strangeel. Then, as he began muttering something under his breath, light started to gather under his hand, and then I failed at keeping my tears back as an intense pain flared in my arm. I couldn't even struggle under his grip as the pain seemed to freeze all my muscles at once. Then the pain began to stop, replaced by an unbearable cold, and then that passed as well, and finally he removed his hand and revealed my new brand.
