» A Break in the Routine, Open

[Masamba Kwasi]

April, 201 H.E.

Masamba liked the Thirsty Duck; at least, when it wasn't all that busy; early afternoon, or late morning. Crowds, and loud shouting, he didn't like. He made himself scarce as soon as larger numbers began to congregate at the bar. Lots of people meant lots of talking, and questions, always questions. They were so inquiring and nosy; it was really nothing to do with any of the strangers than inquired where he was from, whether he liked Tortall, what his history was, where he played, what he played, how he played, where he lived, what he was eating, whether he'd appreciate it if they bought him a drink, because they were enjoying chatting to him. Interrogating him, more like.

But now, in the uneventful hours between lunch and supper, and the beer drinking late night crowds, the Inn was relatively empty. The violinist had learnt over time that the best way to avoid being spoken to was to simply avoid people and places or times that would cause them to congregate in large numbers. Masamba cautiously weaved in between tables to a private and reclusive spot in the corner. He nodded solemnly to a waitress as he passed; his reluctancy to use words had been accepted by the workers at the Inn some time ago, and they knew what he always ate, anyway. A thick piece of bread with cheese inside. Simple enough. But the Zallaran treated the food as if it was a delicacy- savouring it graciously rather than gulping it down with some fermented ale. He didn't drink with his meal at all, in fact. He just ate it, slowly, carefully, and then, leaving his money on the table without a word, depart silently, and not engage in conversation with another soul unless the situation demanded it.

This rather odd way of frequenting the eating house had at first caused some amusement and teasing from the staff, but eventually, it had become their usual routine. They didn't ask the Zallaran about his country, like they had done at first, or pester him to have something other than his usual order, or beg him to uncase his violin and play, and they let him in peace. The Zallaran was satisfied with this unspoken agreement and it had gone on for a few years. Today he was in a suprisingly cheery mood, or at least, as cheery as could be shown by the introvert, humble and shy man. He even gave a smile to the waitress, revealing his shining white teeth under his dark complexion.

He slowed as he approached the table, suprised, and nervous, to see his usual table was already occupied. He looked at his feet, and murmed something incoherent. Then he raised his head and looked awkward.

"Excuse me," he said in his heavy Zallaran accented musical tone. He cocked his head and shuffled. "I..," I, what? Usually sit there, so you must move? I want you to shove off? He settled for something simpler, though it did not really help the situation at all, ".. am Masamba."

There was an moment of silence, and Masamba waited with almost fear. He remained staring at his feet.

[Faerra Críwen]

Faerra was exhausted. That was it. Plain and simple. Two shows in one day? Such a thing had never before happened in all of the Críwens' existence as a performance troupe, she was sure. It was a commonly known fact among performers that if you did your show too often it got old which made people less likely to give which meant that they would be moving on to the next city fairly quickly. But here in Corus everything was different. The people seemed to have an insatiable appetite for the band of gypsies. After each show they cried for more, more! and sighed with disappointment (some even shed tears) when they were denied. Fae had never had such a captive audience before and she was loving it immensely.

But, Mithros, was she tired. The young woman decided to go visit one of the taverns/inn places that she was always seeing but never going into. She chose the Thirsty Duck not out of any particular preference, it just appeared to be the closest at the time and she was tired. She and Flynn had juggled till she thought her arms were about to drop off; then performed some simple acrobatic tricks with the littler ones, then the finale. Again. Exhausting.

Faerra collapsed at a table in the corner of a room, pleased to see that the inn was relatively peaceful and empty. Although she loved being in the center of a crowd and meeting new people, all she wanted to do right now was put her feet up and nap. Food. After she ate something she'd feel better, she knew.

She ordered a simple meal. Bread and cheese with some of the roast fowl that smelled so delicious and tea. Fae did not drink alcohol; partly because it tasted so bitter to her and partly because she found it nearly impossible to do the tricks with which she made a living when she was even just a tiny bit inebriated. The maid who took her order smiled cheerfully at her, but looked at her with an expression as if she was going to say something. No, not a "hey how are you?" something, more like a "why are you sitting there?" something. It quite frankly puzzled Faerra. You'd think that no one cared where anyone sat in an inn, it was an inn for gods sake!

Leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes, the young performer allowed herself to drift in and out of sleep while she waited for her food. Brief catnaps often refreshed her far better than a full night's sleep could, she had found. After several blissful minutes, something alerted her to another presence. Opening her eyes (boy did she feel better!) and sitting upright, Fae turned to see who it was, thinking it to be the maid with her food. It was not the maid, however.

It was a middle-aged man, probably a little older than her father. Distinctly not Tortallan. Zallaran, Faerra knew. She had met a family on her family's travels, and this man had the dark skin and eyes and build of one of those. He looked exceedingly startled to see her. His eyes went to the floor and he mumbled something indistinguishable. Fae leaned forward just in time to catch the words, "Excuse me." The man's voice had the roll that distinguished those from Zallara, that musical lilt that made every fiber in Fae's being thrill to hear it. Without even realizing it, a pleased smile had spread across her face.
Faerra lifted one hand to wave cheerfully. "Hello Masamba!" she greeted him with all the warmth as if she had known him her entire life and thought very well of him, indeed. "I'm Faerra. Would you like to sit down?"

[Masamba Kwasi]

The woman sprung up and grinned so enthusiastically he stepped back and started a little in suprise. ""Hello Masamba!" she greeted him much to loudly for his liking. "I'm Faerra. Would you like to sit down?"

Well, to be honest, no. He examined the woman. She was dressed like a circus performer; part of some kind of troupe or something. Gypsies. He had always thought of them as wild, exuberant people; too full of energy to ever settle in one place; too colourful and different to ever quite fit in anyway.

She was adorned with so many bracelets, bangles, necklaces, along with bright clothing, that Masamba felt he almost had to squint to look at her. It was funny; in Zallara, like Carthak, their dress and culture was colourful, musical and exuberant by nature; but he had never fitted into that. Anyway, the war had changed all of that anyway. Culture hardly mattered now, it was your survival.

Masamba didn't consider himself safe, even now. Tortall was like a different world, and much more stable, but it was not a haven. Crime seethed in the city and foreigners weren't quite treated with equality. Just like this gyspy girl, they didn't belong, even if they were so talented people accepted them and were friendly and welcoming.

All of this ran through his head pretty sharply, and he was still completely undecided on what to do. He clucked his tongue and clenched his hands.

"Um.. I usually sit here," he said softly, shyly. He was too nice to imply with a sharp tone that this meant he would like her to leave, but was rather scared the woman would take this statement as open to invitation for him to join her. Which he didn't really want to do. He stood still, unmoving, not making this situation any easier for himself. He wanted to put his head in his hands and moan, or start rocking onto his heels, or to curl up, but he didn't. He just stayed where he was, eyes on the floor.

Luckily, the waitress had seen the situation and appeared at his side. She glanced at them both, and said to Masamba, "There's a free table there," pointing out another secluded table nearby. Masamba shook his head; he didn't want to sit somewhere else. He wanted to sit here, but on his own. The waitress misinterepted what he meant. "You want to sit here with.." she paused, not knowing the name of the stranger. Masamba said softly, "Faerra," which was silly because that made him seem like he knew her, so he would want to sit with her, but he didn't, and he didn't.

The waitress shrugged. "The usual food, though?" Masamba gave a small nod. There wasn't really much point in trying to get out of this anyway, and he was hungry. He sat, and looked at Faerra silently. He wasn't one for making conversation. Anyway, he'd come here to eat, not to meet strange colourful women.

((Aw, poor Masamba, he's stuck with Faerra now.))

[Faerra Críwen]

((Oh, how sad for him. Hopefully this won't be too painful. ))

Since her meeting with the young boy called Alexander, Faerra had become aware of some things. One was that---contrary to her expectations---Corus was just another city. She had thought the people would be different here, perhaps more open to people of different races, breeding, and background. She had thought that perhaps she and her family would be accepted for who they were; maybe they would be see as who they were and not what they were. Maybe she could make friends. Maybe she would no longer be defined by her station and seen as a gypsy (whom folk generally thought thieves and cheats) but seen as herself: Faerra. Yet on the first day her romantic ideals were shattered by her brother getting into a fight because some fellow had made some inappropriate remarks regarding the Críwens (particularly the females). The boy she thought was her friend apparently was frightened half to death by her and, well... things were not going the way she planned. It seemed that the capital city in Tortall was just like any other city in regards to prejudice against other peoples.

The second thing she had been made aware of was the fact that she made people uncomfortable. She did not know quite what is was; perhaps her boundless energy? Her extroverted self? The fact that she performed for a living? Faerra honestly did not know, but she hated it. She wanted friends. Real friends. Friends whose last name was not Críwen. But she didn't know how to get friends and be herself. It seemed an impossible dilemma to which there was no solution.

So when Masamba said softly, "Um... I usually sit here," the welcoming smile faded from her face. From the way his eyes remained fixed on the floor, the tone of his voice, Fae could tell that the only thing the Zallaran wished was for the performer to be miles away. She sighed in defeat, even other foreigners wanted nothing to do with her!

A waitress came before the young woman had time to collect her plate and mug and relocate. She suggested another table for the man to sit at. Fae was about to pipe up and say that she would move, he could sit here, Masamba shook his head and said he would like to sit with her.

Liar.

The waitress moved away after taking his order and the man sat as quietly and carefully as if he were perching on eggshells. He looked at her cautiously, it was clear she made him uneasy. Pitching her voice to a much softer level---he seemed to be the extremely shy type---Fae told him, "I won't bite you know. Gypsies carry many things, but not rabies."