Faire: First Draft, First Section

 
Loudly buzzing spotlights spun around madly for a moment before coming to rest on a stage that was empty but for a metallic pole. The crowd hushed, punctuated by a few cheers and whoops from the vast audience of people who stood ready, but for what, they did not know.
 
It was difficult to place whether she was had made up herself considerably, or if she was that red naturally. Not just red, no, but glistening. Her hair fell short, not far past her shoulders, in lavish curls, and the light illuminated and reflected off nearly every curve she had, and down the swoop of her barbed tail which flicked as she strut out from the side of the stage.
Growly music began to play, sultry rhythm and menacing at once, and the tiefling began to dance.
 
It was not an innocent dance, not in the least, but her barely-covered body performed with such a broken grace that it almost seemed divine. Each twist, stretching skin against taut muscle and bends which put every slope of anatomy on display, one would swear this was a seduction rite, but never could it be performed so pure. She was a thrusting devil, then a pleading angel.
 
She slid down the pole as the music slowed, gliding with a tortured slowness that caused fists to clench. The song was over, the spotlights threatened to disappear from the body still stretched on the pole, heaving with breath. The lights spun away.
He swore, letting out a breath he’d been holding longer than he was aware.
"Gentlemen and most especially ladies, that was the magnetic RUBY!"
He almost forgot he was there on a job.
 
Henrick was a go-getter. Not that he was particularly ambitious, but employers would tell him a person’s name, and he’d go get them. It was never a permanent position, but it required more brawn than a typical, slick bounty hunter, and less brains than a detective. So they called Henrick.
Turns out, he had more smarts than he let on, but he kept it to himself. No use in complicating a simple job.
 
The Vaudevillian Guild was one of the toughest to crack into, being as the members were about as trained at thievery and deception as one could get with a legal profession. Slippery folks, Henrick knew, but he’d never worked with them directly, and with good reason. He never even went to the faire when it came to town, he preferred not to be robbed in public. Necessary precautions were taken this time, however, and his paltry pocketbook was tucked safely in with his crotch. Nobody getting to it without his express and lustful consent.
He checked himself to be sure, and…
Wait, even that was gone.
Motherfucker.
 
The famous suspension trapeze act had started, but he could hardly be interested. Heading through the outskirts of the bedazzled crowd, he shuffled towards the edge of the stage and around, where passage to the shabbily tented backstage area was available. He stepped through a space between two tents.
 
In the middle of the shantytown square, the pole had been moved. It shone in the moonlight, dimly reflecting electric lights that surrounded it on the walls, flickering as people passed by in the rush of theatrics and cue times. Wide berth was given to this pole, and right on it, as though the song had never ended, was Ruby.
Her gyrations were miracle. There was no rhythm but what she brought, slow and passionate as though the air itself was her trusted lover, and she writhed with gymnastic ease. Nobody paid her the least mind.
 
Henrick had stopped in his tracks, mesmerized. From such great distance as he had previously and currently encountered her, he knew no detail of her face, only the curve of her open mouth on the air illuminated from behind. He couldn’t tell her eye color or even if she might be missing one. The amazing part, he recollected, was that he didn’t care to know. No effort was made to close the distance between them. He was frozen, unable to think, just watch.
No wonder someone successfully stole from his codpiece, it was like all tensile sensation had turned off, all senses were rewired to visuals.
 
Then her leg was behind her head.
He stopped believing in the gods right then.
 
A pause in her dancing left her breathing on her back, and two smallish figures came to her, taking her hands and easing her into an upright position and scurrying her off to one of the tents. There was a patience about the halflings as they brought her in their stead. Perhaps this was something they encountered often.
 
Henrick had forgotten what he came there about. Something told him that stealth was involved. There went that idea.
He had the name. Low-Crow. Funny sounding name, but he was in the middle of thespian central and could hardly judge. For all he knew, it was a requirement of the guild to have a flamboyant moniker, and he himself had only just escaped being named ‘Tourniquet’ when he was born, due to his ignorant mother thinking it sounded respectable. Low-Crow, he thought, you’re the boss.
 
"How can I help out this handsome fellow who has found himself in our midst?"
Henrick turned to see a dashing young half elf man staring at him politely with the air of a genial host.
"I was looking for someone," Henrick started, knowing that his lying would be of no use in this crowd, “by the name of Low-Crow."
The Elf looked puzzled for a moment before he resumed his gentility, “Ah yes, I know of that one. Would you mind accompanying me to where we may discuss the matter? We appear to be getting in the way." His voice was rich and buttery, the practiced art of dramatica flowing from him as though every syllable was scripted. He nodded to a brightly lit and less shabby tent to the immediate right. Nothin’ to lose, Henrick figured,and followed him in.

"Might I inquire as to your name, sir? Do call me Charlemagne." His host barely let him answer before he was brushing myriad dust from tables or straightening a shabby pillow and quickly speaking, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, but regrettably if there has been any loss of possessions or treasure then regrettably I cannot-"
"It isn’t about that," Henrick said. Not directly anyway. On second thought, he wouldn’t mind having his wallet back.
"Well that is a relief. So often I hear of such deplorable acts in the crowd of our fine show! We are merely the players, it is a pity that ruffians will take advantage of a rapt audience, and we occasionally get caught in a swarm of displeased patrons," he sighed and sat himself down, “Low-Crow himself had often been accused of such acts, hence my defensiveness, you must understand."
"Right." The grandiose language was infecting Henrick, if he didn’t catch himself he might reply as properly as this man in front of him
Charlemagne motioned him to sit opposite him in a rickety chair that looked equal parts bolts and driftwood, and one hundred percent uncomfortable. Settling his large frame was a tentative act made more awkward by Charlemagne looking on with unabashed interest.
"So do tell me," Charlemagne crossed his legs, “what brings you into the midst of our humble Guild faire?"
"You the boss here?"
"Far from it, my friend, but do consider me the welcome wagon, as it is said."
"Good, bosses don’t like me. Low-Crow has some property that belongs to someone I know."
"Would this someone be an employer?" Charlemagne raised a theatrical eyebrow.
"You’re a quick man, Charlemagne."
"Appreciated, sir. Low-Crow has… oft found himself in a bit of a lurch. We call him the Director of Acquisitions, often finds himself with curios, knickknacks and the like," he waved his hand dismissively, “None of his dealings are untidy, mind you, but occasionally one night someone wants an item out of town, and the next…. well, they may change their mind."
"Wasn’t the case in terms of my employer, but I’ll give you benefit of the doubt. He has one such ‘curio’ as you put it, and it should not be his."

Charlemagne pursed his lips with thought and readjusted his hands on his crossed knee, “Very well, this is clearly business to be ironed out between the two of you. You are aware that Low-Crow is not in attendance with us tonight?"
"That so?" Henrick leaned forward in his chair with a threatening creak.
"It is, regrettably. He has, flown shall we say? To the Faire’s last location to close out ties and suchlike. Excellent sort for finishing business, him. Tomorrow he should be arriving for the last night of our performances here, you’d do well to meet with him then."
"Any good time, you know of?"
Charlemagne tapped his finger to his lips, “Afternoon during preparation hours is our most active and least busy, you might be lucky enough then. If not, you’re always welcome to enjoy the show one more time and meet him afterwards, of course." His’s green eyes twinkled.
"Tomorrow it is." Henrick lurched out of the chair and headed towards the tent flap.
"Is there any other way I can be of assistance, my friend Henrick?"
He paused. “Don’t tell him I’m coming."
"My lips are sealed.”
 
 
As he stepped outside the tent, he reflexively checked the pole. There she was again, a tantalizing spiral of legs around metal. Henrick couldn’t resist watching.
"Anything I can do for you, sir?" asked a halfling with a syrupy grin. He was in orbit around Ruby and currently stopped in the path between her and Henrick. He seemed amused.
"Just getting some directions," Henrick said easily, but his glance turned back to Ruby. “She ever stop?" he asked, motioning to her.
The halfling turned around to look, and with a wistful sigh, “Not her."
Henrick decided to leave from whence he came. He knew this was a no-win situation, anywhere between a forbidden broad and a large organization of smooth-talking criminals who know you will be coming for them is bound to put a man in a tight spot. Best to keep things simple though. Tomorrow, he thought, Low-Crow will be caught.
 

An old project released in a book of short fiction and lore for M Hurston’s Ave Molech RPG setting. For the first time, I’m trying to complete it.