Chancing, Dancing, Romancing

[Blodwen]

The wedding cake was thick and stodgy. Its flesh was crimson red, and its skin - the icing - was a deep brown. Upon the top was a thousand small little flowers, balls of icing that were rolled to look like white roses. It was an artist's canvas, a writer's masterpiece, at least in appearance, but as she bit into the fluffy cake her nose immediately began to wrinkle.

"Ewwww ...!"

"Blodwen!"

The hiss came fast, and sudden. The girl with her eyes screwed up and her face an image of distaste turned around, only to be confronted by the wide eyes and the shocked look of her fellow musician.

Who was also her father.

The crumbs dropped from between her lips in a steady decline, until she spat the mouthful properly out onto the plate. Rolling her eyes Blodwen rocked to step back in line with him behind the band line, and grumbled.

"But it is really naff, father. Why on earth would someone have such a disgusting cake at their wedding?"

Serke placed a calm but comanding hand on her shoulder and pulled her back some further certain distance. His voice lowered as he whispered to her, his other hand's knuckles growing white as he gripped his pan pipes.

"The people who paid us to be here, dearest. The bride and the groom," he looked up, uncertainly at the many milling guests, of elf, human, dwarf and various other races alike, all politely laughing at others' stupid, senseless jokes. Quietly he sighed, and slowly let go of her. "We need to establish ourselves in this city, and this just might be our opportunity."

Blodwen muttered under her breath, but in all other senses she fell quiet. After all, her father was right. It was merely by luck that they had managed to gain this engagement in order to pay the first installments of their new life in Radasanth. With a high society bride - the daughter of an Earl no less - this was the chance of a half-lifetime, the other half not yet lived when it came to Blodwen's young age.

As her eyes canned across the group of people in the same motions as her father, the young half-satyr, half-faun began to agree with him. Though she could tell the lies behind the facades, distinguish the liars from the truth-tellers (of which there were far more of the former kind), she realised that this was the sort of company they exactly wanted. From lawyers to the fabled Ixian Knights in this company there was certainly an ability to begin gaining popularity. The idea of them moving here was to sample the medicines in hope it might cure whatever ailed Serke, but they still needed money for their new life.

Luckily none of them seemed to have noticed her chancing remarks. They kept gossiping amongst themselves, eating the horrid cake and forcing smiles on their faces. In the centre was the bride in her gossamer gown, satisfied for this moment of devouring and not dancing, for her tiny feet would eventually be very tired. Blodwen admired the craftsmanship that had gone into the dress, but certainly not the probably extortionate price tag.

She continued muttering to herself as she reached down to pick up the fiddle and practise for the next idle tune. Whatever it was, this party was certainly a maquerade in all ways, apart from the fact that nobody wore a mask.

[Blodwen]

Clinquant baubles hung from high above, shining and dazzling the dancers below. They twisted and turned a thousand times around, with their dresses and jacket tails spinning around with all variations of colour; a myriad of rainbows whirling in a kaleidescope. It was mesmerising, watching the hues merge together as the dancers let themselves be completely overwhelmed in the dance, letting their senses spoil to nothing until they just became a hoard of waltzing gentle beasts.

The two creators of this mad rush of energy winked at each other as they stepped up the tempo. Blodwen leant forwards to the conical loud speaker, that was a must for any bardic band. As her fingers wove spell-binding music upon her fiddle her voice began to ring out, singing in perfect harmony but in a tongue none of them would understand.

"Ehe garna nega meh ..."

Fly away with me ...

Behind her Serke grinned, his foot tapping time with their tune. His hands held the pan pipes up by his mouth and his breath was rapid and strong as he quickly changed note to note. Such an expert was he that he could smile and play all at once. His daughter looked back at him, and paused for a moment in her singing, waiting for the perfect moment. Serke rose an eyebrow as a scantily-clad scarlet elf twisted by, and then he nodded. His daughter rose her voice to a gentle harmony and began suddenly changed the words of the song ...

"Rana'zinn gemsh grenn'hri ... Zinn onns za'vannak!"

You are all liars ... you have no balls ...

It was the same tune, indeed, but the meaning had entirely changed. Yet the people did not notice they were being insulted. They just kept smiling and laughing, living the condemnation of their players without any more knowledge. Serke swallowed back a laugh, hearing what Blodwen was saying. He stumbled a couple of notes, missing a "b" and a "d," but got back into the swing of it easily.

The dancing continued on, oblivious. A small skip in the rhythm was nothing to them. All they cared about currently was flaunting their skills. Ladies mixed with old men, mixed with disguised urchins, forming endless circles until they were exhausted. For them this was not about passion, it was about displaying one's prowess like a flaunting peacock, all fair vanity in all kinds. They just needed the music to swing to, the lights to swing under, so the words were nothing but foreign jargon to them. The imagined what they wished inside, and the satyr-faun bards kept on. Insulting and betraying them behind their backs.


cockolorum, snowbroth, bloodmagic, clinquant, oni warriors

[Blodwen]

As the music dulled down to a halt, and the song began to die, the crowd of wedding guests began to thin. Serke was suprised, actually. In all the times he had been engaged in business at a wedding he had seen people go sooner. By the absence of light from the tall windows along the edges of the grand hall he could tell it was getting late into night. He lowered the pipes finally from his mouth, then leaned over to his daughter, speaking in a quiet voice.

"These Radasanthians definitely have more energy than Akashimans."

Gently Blodwen held her fiddle, pulling it, likewise finally, away from under her chin, and turned to him.

"Maybe they do have vannak after all."

Her father, the full blooded satyr, began to snigger. He choked on his own breath, and then gaffawed. Wheezing suddenly the laugh continued for a few notes, until quite by no warning he was reduced to spluttering. Then coughing. And gasping, doubled over as he clutched at his lungs. Claw-like hands grappled over his loosely-fitting shirt and a thunk told the story of him dropping his pipes.

Blodwen just stood there, blinking once, twice, then looking away, a familiar lump coming to her throat. As her father's coughing fit began to recede she bent down and took up the pan pipes to fold them away in their protective box with the other instruments.

"You lasted the whole night," she whispered, her whole tone and being suddenly dull and down. "The whole night."

He nodded. Waved a hand.

"I am okay, Blodwen," he said in a hoarse, horrible, heartbreaking voice, "I am okay."