The Truth Of Things [Solo]

[Kit Rowan]

511 AV, Season of Spring, Day 4 Kit did her best to keep smiling, to keep moving. There was a subtle difference between doing what was good and what other people thought was good. An acrobat knew how impressive another was, magicians too, and musicians, and blacksmiths and everything that required even the littlest inkling of skill. But Kit was not trying to impress someone who knew what she was doing; she was trying to impress people who didn't. "Alright," she said, clapping a foreign girl on the shoulder and said. "Stay there," she said, and the poor girl could only nod; excited, frightened. The only way to impress people who didn't know how to do what she did was to make it seem effortless to her, and difficult for them. She smiled to her crowd . . . and when she was small Kit had imagined that it would be quite a large crowd indeed, but she had been wrong. There were a little over a dozen watching, full of morbid curiosity. One of them was a sneering young man whose eyes combed over her until she felt like nothing short of a long trip to the bathhouse could wipe her clean. And she knew from the way he looked at her that he would either give more than most or nothing. Such was the way things were, and she could not afford to be choosy. So instead of scowling at him she smiled, or tried to smile. She turned her eyes to the others and spread that smile to each of the members of her little audience. They weren't much, and they weren't her choice, but they were hers. Her clothes looked like the splattered canvas of a colorblind painter, little splashes of green, yellow red and blue. Her tunic, her breeches. Even the ribbon in her hair was colorful. A bright yellow. She knelt down and pressed one foot back, exaggerating the preparation for a run. Her eyes kept turning to the audience, flicking over them, scanning for a reaction. One seemed legitimately interested, the rest careless. But people were stopping by to see what the fuss was about, and the setup told the story for them. Wandered toward her, and they stayed. Kit circled the girl, slowly, always keeping to the same distance. In her small audience, the girl in the flowered dress had her hands over her mouth in silent worry and fascination. She turned to them and grinned. "Another volunteer?" Kit didn't wait for an answer. "You, in the blue" she said, beckoning him to come forward. She could feel the questions rising up in them. Two? They thought, and it drew them closer to her. She looked out and saw their breathless faces. It was not so hard as that, not really, but she had made them expect that she could do only one. And now she was doing more. Kit surprised them all again; she held out a hand toward the nearest member of the audience and motioned for them to come forward. Three? She had them now, Kit knew; had them eating out of the palm of her hand. But this was not her first trick, though it might be her last. Her legs ached, but Kit could not allow herself to doubt. To doubt was to let herself think that she might fail, and to think that would scatter her audience like a house of leaves in wind. She lined all three of them beside each other and walked behind them. Kit gently pushed at the first's back until they were leaning over, and the second, and the third as well. A little rail of backs. "Stay there," she said and wandered backward one step, two steps, three steps, four, seven, eight . . . Then she ran. Speed was important; if she couldn't get fast enough, she would crash on top of her volunteers and hurt herself as well as them. She bounced up off the ground at an angle, and tucked herself into a ball. Kit sailed over her three volunteers, and turned around once in the air. She landed running on the other side, and as soon as she had started it was over, her heart drumming away inside her chest. Kit ran back and twined her grip around the nearest volunteer's hand, bowing, and taking him and the other two with them. The audience clapped; there was even one cheer. She grinned a jaunty grin, grabbed her broad-brimmed hat off the ground and toured the audience. Kit had dreamed of people eager, dropping their mizas into her hat, with her never needing to tour them and badger them. It was not so, but looking at their smiles, she almost fooled herself into thinking that it was.

[Kit Rowan]

She held out her hat toward the sleazy young man, and he looked her over again. Kit felt a surge of outrage, and remembered something she had said when she was younger. 'I am a performer, not a whore.' And certain enough, she wasn't. Most men seemed decent enough, and there were enough who didn't stop by at all that she supposed must have lived decent lives. But what she hadn't considered then, when her aunt and uncle had been the ones feeding her, when she hadn't needed to spare a thought to gold spent toward food or clothes or being clean, was that she might be given a choice between an empty stomach and these creeps. But she had learned that hunger was harder to bear than disgust. The trouble was, they knew that too, and squeezed the buskers that were pushed to the side, like Kit, for everything they could get. It wasn't that they liked Kit and the others. It was that, no matter how much she hated them, Kit needed their money. She was barely getting by as it was. He casually dropped a single copper miza into the hat, and Kit's insides broiled. "Would you like more," he asked without asking, one eyebrow raised high. Kit moved on to the next member of the audience without a word. "A little help?" She prodded, and he snorted, crossed his arms and marched away. Kit fought the urge to call him shyte in three different languages. The ones she had gotten to participate were more generous, though they'd been as much part of it as she. Their faces were flushed, and they were laughing with each other, trading 'remember whens.' All but one had left. 'Can you help me?' 'Oh I'd loved to, but . . .' 'I can't afford to have more than two meals a day.' Two more pieces of silver. Not a bad way to end the day, all told. Kit let herself fall, allowing her legs a temporary reprieve. She took a long drink from her flask of water, sighed, poured her hard-earned mizas into a pocket of her colorful jerkin and started packing everything up.

[Kit Rowan]

It took Kit a bell to get back home, and by the time she got there the sky's edge was the color of a deep bruise. She noted that was beautiful with the half-hearted conviction of a girl who had her mind on immediate things. She shrugged off her bag, let it fall to the floor beside her, glad that the weight of it was gone. In front of her audience, Kit could at least pretend to be strong, pretend to be cheerful and full of life. But now her aches all came back, and though she knew that they were good aches Kit did care care for how many she felt. Kit didn't feel like an acrobat, a performer, not when there was no one watching. She felt sweaty, tired, bitter and afraid. The simple fact was that today had been a good day. Kit had gotten more than a gold miza for her trouble; but it would not be enough. Tomorrow, maybe she would squeeze five silvers out of the crowd, or if it was terribly bad, all her work might be for naught. How many days, she wondered, until she burned through her meager stash of mizas? She had dreamed of days of entertaining people, of cheering and thanks. Money had never seemed a problem to her before she had to deal with it, but now it was, and thinking of it made her feel older, but no wiser. She sighed, disrobed and fell onto her bed. And in the moments before she fell asleep she told herself that tomorrow might be better. The sun set, and Kit slept.

[Mercury]

Kit Rowan Skill(s) Philosophy + 2 XP Busking + 5 XP Acrobatics + 3 XP Lore(s) Impressing the Ignorant Dressed to 'Impress' Staying Strong for the Audience Mizas make the World Go Round Method to my Madness: Great description of the crowd. Keep at it. I gave you philosophy because I really felt as a PC and a player you really got into the mentality not just the actions of a struggling performer - it was a great insight and I enjoyed it very much. You can address any questions or concerns to the little voice in your head. A.K.A. PM me.