But Doctor...I Am Pagliacci

((Open to whomever wishes to participate))

Lark made for a morose figure as he leaned over the edge of the small forest pond. He stared at his own reflection in its still waters. Eyes swollen, red, bloodshot. Facepaint running, ruined, down his cheeks like weeping red blood stains.

"...You've done it again, you fool," he choked, forcing back another sob that was all too likely to restart a crying fit he just recently managed to get under control.

This was his only his third day since he was forced to leave the court of his lord and patron. He didn't know if anyone would else would hire him. Or if he could even panhandle on the street. His main concern at the moment however, was if he was even going to survive the forest. All he could do was keep walking and hope to make it to the other side, and so he tried to put it out of his mind.

He reaches into his satchel of remaining possessions and began to dig around. When he had first been cast out of his Lord's castle, his arms were laden with his many instruments, canvases, art supplies, and his masks for the commedia dell'arte. But as his lord had put it, 'they had not even the enough gold to saddle him a horse', and now a majority of his possessions were scattered throughout the forest like a trail of miserable bread crumbs as he had to rid himself of more and more of it.

After enough digging through sweat-stained laundry Lark found his makeup kit and opened the small leather case. He took from within a small metal tin, and took a peek on what was inside. His red face paint, and it was running low. Soon he would not even be able to afford to look the part of a Jester, let alone get employment once again.

With some of his last makeup dabbed onto his shaking fingers and his face washed, Lark leaned over the pond once more and began to reapply his facepaint.

He watched the image of himself in the water, slowly covering up the signs of his misery in clown paint and began to choke back sobs once more. This time, he did not succeed.

"Oh, Lark, you've come undone," the clown wailed.

He rested his face in his hands and sobbed, red tears falling from between his fingertips into the waters below. He had to pull it together. As far as he knew there was no one around, but he couldn't bear for anyone to see him like this.

"Xander, would you stop the carriage, please?"

The dark-haired boy frowned, the glance he passed his companion mixed parts confusion and disapproval. "Why?" came his simple inquiry. His gauntleted hands closed tighter around the leather reins, but they did not move to slow the two black mares.

The woman beside him shifted atop the bench seat, turning away from him to gaze through the trees. Because she did not face him, her naturally soft voice was nearly stolen by the wind that tumbled beside them. He strained to hear her as she replied, "I hear someone crying."

Her words unnerved the soldier, and his frown deepened into a full scowl. "It's just the wind," he countered matter-of-factly. And if it isn't, came a grim thought, it is nothing we need to go chasing after. Sobs in a large, empty forest sounded like the stuff of nightmares, and something the pair would be better off avoiding.

Yet as he turned to look at the woman. The midday sunlight trickled through the leaves above, and played across her golden hair. She looked a bit angelic, her white cloak pulled tight across her shoulders, her small body leaning over the side of the cart to better hear the noise. He knew she had won the battle, and the first shot had not even been fired.

Raising his white flag, Xander finally drew back the reins, easing the horses down from their lively trot. Immediately, Nicolette began to pick her way down to the ground. "Be quick about it," the man said after her, his words more of a plea than a command. "We do have a meeting to get to."

As she was still turned away from him, her smile was hidden. Still, the good-natured humor was thick in her tone as she replied, "you say that as if you are not coming along."

"Of course I am coming along," Xander shot back, expertly dropping from his perch atop the carriage. He let the reins drop in front of the horses, as they were ground-tied, and knew better than to wander off.

Now, Letty beamed. "Do you not worry that the horses will get into trouble?" she teased.

He shook his head. On a sigh, he replied, "not as much trouble as you will get in." She opted not to reply, but the grin that painted her fair face spoke volumes. Such banter was common between the pair, and she though she cared for him deeply, she found some satisfaction in flustering him.

The pair moved through the trees in a comfortable silence. The breeze did murmur through the leaves, just as Xander had initially predicted. However, as they ventured further from the carriage, he also picked up on the sound of muffled cries. She was right, he mused. Of course she was right.

Once she spotted the man, hunched over the riverbank, Letty slipped into a brisk trot. There was no hesitation, or concern for her own well-being, which concerned Xander greatly. He flanked her closely, and did not leave her side when she finally slowed near the stranger.

"Hello," Nicolette offered gently. "Are you alright?"

Seven was a lucky number, wasn’t it?
For the anniversary of his seventh year of wandering, Fenn was exploring Raiaera for a solid month on end. It was just one of those places he hadn’t been through as much. Why not take the time to explore it? New land, new people, new experiences.
Unfortunately, he had found the elven cities to be less than accommodating so far. As much as the other races mistook him for one - it was the ears, he reckoned - they knew all too well that he didn’t belong. Snobby bastards. Elves, it also seemed, were also better at spotting pick-pockets than the other races were. Whether that was because of their keen eyes or simply living long enough to encounter their fair share of thieves, he didn’t know.

He recalled the few times he had been caught so far, and the lucky escapes. Yeeeaaah, he thought, chewing on a nail, it was probably better that he keep far away from the cities for a little bit.

In a sense, his anniversary was still going splendidly. The parts of Raiaera that weren’t plague-bitten were delightful. The forest atmosphere was splendid! Fresh air, bright leaves, soft earth, birds singing, sorrowful sobbing…

Fenn blinked and twitched an ear in the direction of the last sound. That wasn’t normal for a forest. It seemed that something was up. He turned in the direction of the sobs, and spotted what seemed to be an elegant ivory flute lying about on the forest floor. Puzzled, the little Fae bent down to pick it up, wiping dirt off of it with the fold of his cloak. He blew in it gently, producing a lovely dulcet tone.

Another sob sounded nearby, as if in response to him. Was the flute and the crying related in some way? The mystery was tempting. He couldn’t let such a curious thing go by without doing a little digging, now could he?

It didn’t take him long to traverse his way through the forest undergrowth and locate the source of the sound. A rather disheveled jester stood by a riverbank, crying his eyes out and smearing his red makeup all over the place in the process. Fenn peered out from behind a bush, spreading frost as he shifted the leaves out of the way. For a moment, he merely watched as the jester bawled and scolded himself. Perhaps, Fenn realized, the flute belonged to this poor fellow, and maybe he’d be happy to have it back.

Normally, Fenn might have shrugged and pocketed the flute for himself, leaving the owner wondering where their item was. But, the clown just looked so pitiful. He just didn’t have the heart.

Before he could decide on a course of action, a grey-clad lady trotted gracefully from out of the trees, followed closely by a boy with dark hair and a rather disgruntled expression. "Hello," the beautiful woman offered to the jester. Her voice was sweet to Fenn's ears. "Are you alright?"

A silent gasp of surprise contorted Fenn's faerie features. It seemed as if he hadn’t been the only one to pick up on the crying. Now seemed like a good time to introduce himself as well! Oblivious to any sort of delicacy he should have had about the situation, Fenn leapt out of his bush without any warning or explanation. The grubby Fae child grinned at the two and brandished the flute in the direction of the jester. His glassy green eyes were lit with expectation. Here, he seemed to be saying, as he held the flute out to the jester, I found this! Is it yours?

Lark stopped crying as he heard the stranger's voice and behind his hands, his eyes snapped open. The audience is here. It's time to put a show together. said an intrusive thought most morosely. Lark had them often, and did his best to simply ignore them and look on the bright side. No one could know he was sad. When it got right down to it, Lark prefered to pretend he didn't know either.

"A-ah, yes...Of...Of course," Lark restrainedly exclaimed. He began to wipe madly at his eyes and cheeks to rid them of their smudged face paint as he rose to his feet to meet the new duo. Humans. Like the uncle who raised him and the father he had never met. The friendly one was distinctly more feminine then he remembered any human he knew being. Not the male one. No, that rigid looking warrior was just about everything Lark had come to expect from humans.

Suddenly, there was another figure. Shorter, looking up at him, holding one of the instruments he had abandoned. A direct reminder of what he had lost. Hold it together. Nothing is wrong.

"Ah, so many friendly folks in the woods today, " Lark exclaimed, taking a few theatrical steps away from the crowd as he smiled his way past the tears welling in his eyes.

"What a most joyous occasion for so many friends to meet so suddenly serendipitously such so smiles start, spread, stay, all day!" Lark exclaimed in a rhythmic fashion.

Lark threw his arms up in the air dramatically, and let the streams of tied together handkerchiefs shoot out of his sleeves like streams of water in his grand finale of a first impression.

Lark's heart beat hard in his chest. Every performance is an audition and you aren't good enough, Lark.

Whatever Fenn had been expecting, an enthusiastic performance from a sad jester had not been it.

His mouth dropped in awe as colorful handkerchiefs streamed from Lark’s sleeves, spilling forth like a silken waterfall to crash to the ground below. Magic! And not the literally-real-magic kind of magic one saw so often in Althanas, but the lovely sort legerdemain he enjoyed. It was very much like what Fenn did, only with stage props rather than wallets.

The Fae grinned widely and gave an enthusiastic applause in return for the joyous display.
And yet...

As one who had a little practice in being deceptive, he knew that something was a little off about the grinning jester. How sudden the turn of mood was struck him as uncanny; his lips smiled, but his eyes sobbed. He eyed the lady curiously, wondering if she had felt the off-ness too. Or was that just him being paranoid again?

Either way, he hadn't come here merely to exchange pleasantries. Fenn glanced down at the frost-bitten flute in his hands and held it up for the jester to see again. His glassy green eyes were wide with expectation and inquiry.

A heavy hand on her shoulder startled the blonde woman. Her quick over-the-shoulder glance revealed that Xander had pressed even closer, his expression hard with concern. It was only once she turned back that she realized the cause for his worry - another man had joined their small party. Or, perhaps "man" was not the appropriate term. Rather, the newcomer did not appear much older than ten, with blonde hair and wide, medicine bottle green eyes. Wide, green, pupil-less eyes, Nicolette recognized, unsettled; her companion's unease suddenly made perfect sense. What was this boy?

Yet the woman was of royalty, and her upbringing forbade such outward displays of confusion and distrust. Instead, she settled deeper into the smile she wore, offering the stranger a friendly nod, and an equally friendly "hello."

Her attention was quickly drawn back to the jester, who seemed to undergo a complete transformation. Given a moment to properly examine him, Nicolette picked out the tell-tale signs of an elf. She had only interacted with a handful in her eighteen years, but her studies had devoted quite a bit of time to their culture and appearance. "You're bound to meet dark-elves," Alexander had informed his young charge, "so it would be wise to educate yourself on the appropriate decorum."

But where did decorum fit in a situation like this? The elf, who appeared a jester of sorts, performed a short skit for his tiny audience. The motions were practiced, and the smile was forced, which did nothing to calm Nicolette's nerves. But the expulsion of the handkerchiefs from his sleeves warranted an applause nonetheless.

"You are quite good, jester," Nicolette informed him, pausing her clapping. "Where is it that you hail from?"