The Fan (self-mod)

[Dhanya]

Timestamp: 20th Spring, 510.
Location: Outskirts of Endrykas.
Purpose: Training and character development.

There was hatred and the fan. With the fan you call a wind that calms the mind and soothes your temper. You must move quickly. Each graceless movement is a chance to become stuck. Let your heart fuel the dance. Forget your aches and pains and move. There was hatred and the fan, now there is only you.


She’d found it on the ground outside the Emerald pavilion, red and old and unmistakable. She had no idea how it had gotten there, so far from home, on its own. It was worn around the edges but unbroken, a testament to Zeltivan craftsmanship, a dancer’s fan. She wondered if it was fate that she had found it. She opened it then snapped it shut. Flicked her wrist so it flared out and tossed it so it flipped in the air and landed in her palm. Still well-balanced after such misuse, though not perfect anymore.

Pygmy had risen early and soon found herself wandering in a bad mood. It was just a day, just another day in a long line of many. There was no reason to be upset. The sun was rising, warming the earth and the smell of rain was still there from the night before. It was a beautiful morning and yet it felt so ugly.
She hated to be alone. Hated it more than she hated a great many things but this morning she sought loneliness out and left the city centre. She walked until the sounds of waking people, chatting in their tents together, faded. She walked until the ground she trod was flat and dead. Not good for most dancing, suitable for what she wished to do.

She flicked her wrist, extended her arm, turned right. Her footwork was too slow and sloppy.

She flicked her wrist, extended her arm; turned her torso and dragged her feet. One step then two. She raised the fan to her face.

Amala couldn’t remember the next step. Pathetic. She was a better dancer than this. Flick, raise then close. Those were the steps. She stood still. Flick, raise then close and repeat. She barked a syllable and threw the fan to the sky. She caught it in her off hand. Flick, raise then close and repeat. It was harder with the left, she was out of practice.

She tucked the fan into her belt. If she couldn’t do the dance with it, she’d try without. Amala centred herself. Then she moved, core strong and steady, while her feet shifted in the dirt. It was an old dance and a difficult one, not well known or often taught. She had learned it because it was a classic and classics always inspired nostalgia in the upper class. It was a dance that required great speed without the body seeming to move barely at all. It emphasised fluid movements of the arm and leg with a rigid torso. You could not bend at the waist. Even the tilt of the head was rare, a punctuation in the dance and used sparingly.

Amala danced quick as a fish, clouds of dust in her wake, body like the willow. Her arms shifted with the wind, tracing movements of the fan that should have been in her hand. She stopped at the edge of the grass, the heel of her left foot nudged against the pad of her right, left hand raised.

She didn’t need a teacher to tell her it wasn’t good enough. Her arm movements were like dead wood falling, when they should have been like a sapling in the breeze. Her steps were not sure enough. Amala turned and danced again, her hands twisting at the wrist, flick, close and repeat. Better that time but still bad enough to make a god of dance spit in disgust. She pulled out the fan, annoyed at herself and began again. Each step more forceful, faster, sweat shining on her skin as her limbs twisted and unfurled the fan.

She danced until she was out of breath but every break was a chance to think and look at that fan, just look at that fan and look at who she’d been and look at her try to do this stupid dance, all but forgotten save by those with too much money and time. Useless, dated, out of time. She threw the fan to the ground and shouted, snarling something senseless to the skyline. She clenched her fingers in her hair and closed her eyes against the thoughts that were boiling over inside her.

You forgot me. You sold me. You abandoned me. I did everything, I was everything you wanted, smiling, singing, dancing, playing, always entertaining, always and you got rid of me. I hate you, I love you, I can’t stop thinking of you. I cannot see my mother because of you. I miss my mother. Look what you did to us!


Pygmy swore, panting, eyes stinging, throat hurting. She cursed his name and then picked up the fan and danced.

It had been two seasons since she’d left home, to the day.

[Vanator]

The morning had proved to be as beautiful as the elder had predicted, and Vanator had left the Drykas city early to enjoy some solitude before the business of the day begun. There would be younglings to school in archery later, and the little tykes could really test one's nerves. The Drykas had found a low, squat tree with widely spread branches and soft, spiny needles to lean against. Removing his pack, battle ax and the yvas from Backlash, Vanator let the horse roam freely. The buckskin mare laid in the fresh grass and rolled lazily from one side to the other. Taking a whetstone from his pack, the horseman placed a few drops of oil from a small vial onto the stone and rubbed it in with his finger. Then he began to slide the head of his battle ax along the honing stone. It was a task he found relaxing, and soon he was intent on making even, precise strokes along each side of the axe's keen edge. An unfamiliar noise, like a high bark, caught Vanator's attention, and he raised his head from his work to identify the source. His scan of the area showed nothing besides Backlash and the familiar birds of the grasslands. Then he turned to peer through the tree behind him. He was surprised, to say the least, to see Pygmy dancing. He twisted his body around to get more comfortable. The Kelvic moved to the steps of a dance the Drykas did not recognize. As he watched his friend strive though her movements, wielding the strange fan, he began to see her frustration. The dance was beautiful, or so he thought, if Pygmy would finish it. But his brows knit in concern as she grew more and more distraught, finally flinging the fan to the ground and shouting at nothing. As she clutched her hair in despair, he began to shift. He wanted to go to her and comfort her. But he paused, then settled back down. Pygmy had retrieved the fan, and was dancing again, her face still pained, but determined.

[Dhanya]

Amala danced for another hour, ignoring the heat as the sun rose, not stopping for water. It was foolish and had she been at home, she would have been forced to drink something. She ran through the dance, over and over until the steps were almost a meditation. She was almost as good as she’d been when she’d practised that same dance every day.

Dehydration slowed her down. She dropped the fan again at midday and picked it up, fingers shaking. She began again but to her frustration, found she could not dance any more. Her legs were too heavy and her arms she could not lift. She bent at the knees and dropped to the ground, landing on the grass and lying on her side, panting. Her abdominals ached, and her calves and her biceps. All her muscles seemed to be twitching and she knew there would be hell to pay when she got up the next day.

She pursed her lips and they wobbled in spite of her best efforts. Her hands were loose around the fan, still in her grasp even though part of her wanted to throw it so far she’d never find it again. She closed her eyes and let one sad sound slip past her lips. It was like a dam breaking. Once one was through, there was space for two, then three, then more of them and then she was crying. Sobbing like she hadn’t since she’d found out Jenon was going to give her away like a pet he’d gotten sick of. Yet more tears he’d never see because she’d never let him see her cry once she had some say in it.

Her shoulders shook and her eyes welled with tears to replace each one shed. There were some words, like hate and miss and love that broke through the barrier of insensibility and became legible.

Like the rain, it eventually subsided and left Pygmy lying on her side, in the grass, rubbing at her eyes. She pushed herself up until she was on her knees, then made it to her feet after a few precarious attempts. She ran a palm through her hair and shook her head. She hated crying, even if it did feel kind of cleansing afterwards. It was just so very piss-weak, really. It wasn’t as though Pygmy really had anything serious to cry over.

She looked at the fan in her hand and tossed it into the grass, her face full of disgust.

“Fuh-cking thing.” She swore, kicking her foot at it. “Crappy pattern on it, anyway. Gods, I’m hungry.”

Pygmy turned towards Endrykas proper and walked back towards the markets, looking for food and drink and something else to think about besides the sunburn she’d gotten from being outside uncovered for hours.

[Vanator]

Maybe he should have turned away, but Vanator found he could not. The Kelvic girl was his friend, and he thought he knew her pretty well. But the woman dancing alone in the grass was not like the gregarious, bawdy girl he knew. Pygmy's dance seemed driven by anger and frustration. As she struggled to perform her lone dance, she cursed, mumbled to herself, pushing her body beyond its ability to continue. Finally, he saw, it all came out. His heart rent as she wept, collapsing in the grass in what he could only describe as despair. He wanted to go to his friend, to hold her. But something spoke to him, told him it was not the time for him to know. So he sat quietly, an unseen witness to Pygmy's emotional exercise, until the girl finally rose and trudged back into town.

[Tundris]

Pygmy: +2 Dance +1 Discipline Item: +1 red, worn paper fan Vanator: +1 Observation Lore: The Emotional Turmoil of a Goat