Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World - Chapter 7

I go almost straight to bed, and straight to sleep. I wake with the First Bell of Second Sequence, and even though I wrestle at length with whether to take my dance gear in a bag, or defy convention and wear it in the street, I'm ready to go by Two Bells - and when I open the door and step outside, my faux snakeskin outfit under a satin-lined coat of black velvet, a carriage stands there waiting for me...

We don't take the turn that leads to the front entrance of The Phantasia. Instead, we take the next one up the road, and stop on the left side of the street, where there are articulated metal shutters, and windows, but no actual doors.

"If y're worthy t'dance here, ye'll know the performers' entrance when ye see it", says the carriage driver as I get out. "May yer gods smile..."

The carriage pulls away before I can even think of a question, and I'm left on the pavement, alone, with no indication of what to do next - they can't possibly climb in through a window...

"Now, wait a minute..."

You'll know it when you see it, the driver said - and looking at the walkway, I can see a spot where repeated high-heeled footsteps have worn a slight indentation in the paving stones, and they congregate around a gap between buildings. A narrow space only a dancer could pass along, sideways.

I start edging down the passage, but even though I know this will be safe, I can't help but feel a little anxious, fearing that the gap will suddenly become that little bit too narrow, and before I realise it, I'll be stuck. If I turn even slightly to either side, I'll be trapped, wedged in.

It's foolishness, of course, for with a couple of words of Mystalornan, I could "magic" myself free, and be back at Ashyra's safe and sound in an instant, but that doesn't stop me feeling that fundamental, primal fear of being tightly enclosed...

About twenty feet in, the passage ends abruptly. The panic starts to rise - I daren't go any further...

No - wait. It's a subtle trick of the architecture. The passage turns sharply to the right, widening as it does so, opening into a tiny space, not much more than ten feet by ten, with a sturdy metal door in the wall ahead. The door swings open, inward, as I reach for it, and all there is beyond is a warmly-lit square room, walls covered with a multitude of posters advertising The Phantasia, some ancient, some much more recent - at least one features a skilful rendition of a pale-skinned woman with long dark hair; I suspect her to be what Witchraven used to be, for there's something about the eyes that say there's more beneath that almost ivory skin than flesh and bone.

At the centre of the wooden floor, there's a square panel of metal, again ten or so feet by ten, and this, too, has seen many sets of metal heel-tips. I stand upon it, and there's a click - and somewhere below, in the distance, a bell rings. after about thirty seconds, a bell rings above my head, three times, and the floor under my boots shifts, and sinks, slowly dropping those several levels that will take me to the secret under-street world of The Phantasia.

A system of slots and cogs lowers the platform into one of what I'm thinking are many rooms I've not seen before, backstage. Sshraada is waiting there, watching me like... like a snake watches a mouse, only I know she's not going to pounce. "This way", she instructs me, ushering me through the door and into a passage leading directly ahead, lined with doors. "She's waiting."

A whole spectrum of smells meet me as I walk down the corridor, in Sshraada's wake - machine oil and the unmistakeable ozone-tang of electrical equipment, most likely from the club's generators; a suggestion of lightly-fragranced steam from a door marked "Costumes"... and from the doors to my left, the vague hints of old sweat, mingling with several varieties of body-oil, and the distinctive scents of a number of types of leather, real or synthetic. This is where the 'magic' begins...

Up some narrow stairs at the end of the corridor, I find a large open area, dimly lit, with a ceiling not quite as high as that of the main performance area of the club. To my left, the entire wall is a heavy, wine-red curtain - I know it, and it tells me exactly where I am, and what lies beyond.

"Go on" says Sshraada, disappearing back down the stairs. "You're expected."

At the exact centre of the curtain-wall, I find a gap, between the two curtains that overlap so well, they almost appear to be one. Pushing aside the curtain to my right, I step onto the main stage, where the house lights are dimmed, as though ready for a show, and the stage-lights themselves are at a simple setting - a single colour, white, and stationary, flooding the dance-floor with the purest illumination.

All, that is, save for the every end of the "catwalk", where a single red beam shines down on high=backed chair with padded arms, and its occupant, her eyes glowing faintly, wings flexing ever so slightly in time with her breathing. "Thank you for coming", says Witchraven. "Now, if you'd be so kind - let me see what you have to offer The Phantasia."

I unfasten my coat, and let it fall to the floor. "I haven't finalised my body-paint ideas", I tell her, "so I'm not wearing any - obviously..."

Of course I'm nervous - but that doesn't excuse my sounding like an idiot...

"Relax, my dear", says Witchraven. "Please. There is nothing to fear..."

"Except failure", I intervene, light-heartedly.

"Nonsense", snorts Witchraven. "To fear failure is to have failed already - and you don't surrender so readily, do you? It simply isn't in your nature."

Again, my "mistress" displays evidence of knowing far more about me than I know about her. She doesn't sound like she's simply going to "fail" me arbitrarily, but I can't take the chance. I'll let her guide things from here... for now.

Witchraven gestures in the air, a flick of the wrist ending in what doesn't quite manage to become a snap of the fingers. Semi-transparent orbs, like ghostly spheres of frosted glass, pop into existence in mid-air, at first in complete silence. As they drift closer to me, they start to hum, and that hum gradually metamorphoses into music - just the right music to dance to.

"Just do whatever feels appropriate", says Witchraven. "Don't try to force anything. The dance will come when it's good and ready..."

No warm-up - intentionally, I suspect. It doesn't take long for the music to get me swaying, gently flexing my limbs in the hot beams of the stage-lights. The heat reminds me of dancing around a camp-fire on Wyridaen, during those oh-so-carefree times I travelled with wandering desert-folk - and my body remembers those times, too. The dance, it seems, has decided to make its appearance...

My hips move in undulating circles, my legs writhe inside my long scaly boots, ever so slightly damp down to the soles with hot sweat. It's the smallest of sensations, like a butterfly's wing against your cheek, but to me it's the most exquisite of experiences. My moves after that are driven by the hope of experiencing it again; crouching, extending a leg, shifting my balance this way and that so that I'm on the tips of my toes, left foot, then right.

I manage to keep enough of my mind on the performance to at least try to maintain some semblance of choreography, moulding my movements into something like a routine, based the actions of a snake. It's raw, perhaps somewhat unfocussed, but I hope Witchraven gets the idea...

"No."

The music stops. What did I do wrong? Is that all I get...? "I'm sorry...?"

"You are not even close to achieving your potential", declares Witchraven. "Tell me, have you ever received any proper training?"

I've worked out with Tinashae in the past, but not for quite a while now. I've had neither the opportunity, nor the time - and I still don't know where Tinashae disappeared to after the trouble on Wyridaen. "Not recently", I admit. "I didn't know you wanted trained dancers."

"If that were so, you would never have been allowed to set foot in this club as anything more than a member of the audience", says Witchraven firmly, but without seeming to chastise me. "We encourage unschooled talent here - after all, I would never have danced here had I been expected to provide evidence of formal qualifications."

She stands up, hair almost falling to the stage - as do her wing-tips. "I think you will do well here", she says, walking towards me, "but only if you will allow me to pass on what I have learned here..."

She strides closer, and I'm watching for any signs that she might be another Talona, thirsty for the... company of her own gender. I don't see any, but Witchraven has a similar aura of power, magical power, and she wears it well, as though she was born to it? Another question in search of an answer, and maybe I stand a better chance of getting that answer if I have Witchraven as my dancer teacher...?

"Firstly", she says, standing behind me with gloved hands on my shoulders, "we need to understand each other."

I thought we already did, I feel inclined to say, but I stop myself, knowing full well that Witchraven doesn't mean "understanding" in the sense of language. She's talking about something deeper than that. "Tell me", she continues, "what is your home-world like...?"

"Great spires of crystal, and forests as far as you can see", I reply. "Magic is everywhere - in everything."

And if we're to "understand each other", we both need to share. "And what about your world?"

"This is my world", she answers. "Where I come from is another matter entirely, and a question to which I still have no answer. It may very well be that I was born... beyond this Realm, for there are no others like me within it."

She's not playing by the rules - she's hiding something. "And those 'like you' would be... what? You're already aware I'm not just some dancing-girl. I can handle more... esoteric concepts than most, I assure you."

"As should be expected for someone spending any time in the company of beings such as Talona, and Darkhawk", sighs Witchraven, her hands slipping from my shoulders. "How small we must seem..."

Her mind touches mine. There's no violence, no hostility, no attempt to invade or damage - Witchraven's thoughts simply, and briefly overlap with mine. I "see" worlds shake as great powers engage in celestial combat...

...stars sputter like candle-flames, and go out...

...regal figures gather, and talk, with others not quite like them. They seem... older, darker - less human...

***Demons?***

***Titans***, replies Witchraven, with some reverence. Is it respect for masters that I'm feeling? No... family.

I see the end of ages-old rivalry, the foundation of a buffer-zone between disputed territories - a cosmic playground for the children of both sides, Titans and... gods. Together, yet still apart, they forged kingdoms of their own from the raw stuff of reality...

***And this... "Realm" is one of those kingdoms...?***

***It is.***

***Your kingdom?***

***Lord Serpentine's kingdom. A broken kingdom.***

Another conflict erupts before my mind's eye - a misunderstanding of some kind, the first violence this "no man's land" has ever seen. Planets are shattered, their atmospheres spilling into space, but somehow life clings to those planet-shards. In the wake of such destruction, peace is restored, and with it comes a plan to put right the damage done to those broken worlds - and I think I hear ticking; a million clocks, or more, it seems...

Witchraven retreats from telepathic contact, and the visions of what-has-been cease. "Enough", she growls - there is displeasure in her voice, but not, I sense, because of me. "Be here an hour before the others tomorrow, and we will begin properly. Attend all the available training sessions, as well. Given that I have shared more than enough with you this day, I expect nothing but your very best - and that, I suspect, will be something to behold."

That sounds rather like a "You can go now" speech - and as I go to get my coat, I can sense the minds of the dancers arriving for their practice session. The hour is up, it seems, and it's time for me to make my exit, as I telekinetically collect my coat, and follow Witchraven up to the balcony, to one of the doors leading off from the more private seating area that I was unable to explore yesterday.

"This way", says Witchraven, holding a door open for me. I step through...

...and then, I'm back in the loft at Ashyra's house, standing at the round window, facing the rest of the room. I don't need to look round to know that magic has been at work, but as I turn, out of sheer curiosity, the evidence is quite literally staring me in the face, as a three-dimensional "after-image" of Witchraven's smiling face recedes into the glass, blurring into the spirals of coloured squares much like a computer image decreases in resolution, pixellating...

"What is it with me and demi-gods?", I sigh to myself, helplessly. Everywhere I go, I seem to attract the worst kind of attention.

I shed my snake-skin, bathe, slip into my Moonlight Laqzuri boots and a dressing gown, and go downstairs to set about preparing a meal for when Ashyra gets back. She's certain to have questions, and I better have something on the table to take her mind off questions when I quite simply can't give her answers. A lot of what Witchraven shared with me was plainly for my "eyes" only, and I can't help but feel that maybe I "saw" more than my teacher-to-be intended. Even now, I can still hear that ticking, the echoing sound of a great mechanism, grinding away through the ages, across the vast gulf of space from somewhere best left unexplored...

I shake such thoughts out of my head. No point dwelling on any of that when there's cooking to be done, and I'm going to need to be fully rested, physically and mentally, for tomorrow, when my training really begins.

At the very least, it's going to be... interesting.

Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World continues...

Zohra-Zel was one of those place in the Realm of Serpentine known only to those who needed to know about it, and visited only by those few who were certain that such a place would either hold what they were seeking, or lead them to what they sought. Zohra-Zel was a "non-place", not a fragment of a planet, but a conglomeration of old space-sailers, broken-down ships bound together for mutual support centuries before in a region where the celestial winds did not blow, and which had been added to time and time again over the passing years. From that great scrapyard, a world had gradually formed; a sanctuary for the despised, the feared...

Marishanna felt quite at home there.

No-one dared to cross the path of "The Silver Death", even though she was no taller than a child. Likely adversaries already knew of her deadly skills with a blade, and the terrible weapon she carried, and anyone who was unaware of her reputation were certain hear numerous tales of her deeds, her powers - her tastes - more than enough to cause the unwary to steer well clear of her. Be they truth or wild exaggeration, Marishanna cultivated any and all rumours - it paid to keep any and all enemies off-guard.

Of all the outcasts and criminals who had "washed up" at Zohra-Zel, there was only one Marishanna ever wanted to see - one Farrio of Sabduri, a trader who served as a "middle-man", connecting those who sought an item or service with a likely supplier - for a price. Recently, Marishanna had engaged in a long-term business relationship with the man, making deliveries to Freeport - and one customer in particular.

On this day, Marishanna found Farrio at one of his favourite haunts; a tavern whose name had long ago been lost to memory. Only when the bar had emptied of those wishing to avoid her did she approach the man, a scrawny figure in moth-eaten garments that once, years ago, could have been called "finery", and sit across the corner table from him.

"And was the...lady pleased?", asked Farrio. "She should be - the lengths I have to go to in order to get her precious artefacts, and it'll come as no surprise that I don't like having to deal with... them."

"I get the same reaction as always", Marishanna replied. "Not a word - no thanks, and no explanation."

"You get paid - I get paid", chuckled the trader. "We should be thankful for that, and keep our mouths shut about everything else."

Marishanna shook her head. "But before we do that, you might want to hear that Freeport has a new arrival - a new Raven, I'm thinking... she's not from around here, and she feels... mmmm, special."

"Another out-Realmer?", muttered Farrio. "A problem?"

"Could be", purred the swordswoman. "I got close enough to taste her aura, and it was uncomfortably similar to the aura I pick up from Witchraven's artefacts."

"Too similar to be chance?"

"I could believe them being from the same universe", Marishanna replied. "That realm and this have... touched before, according to our buyer, but the energy, the life-force - in both, it has the same world of origin. A world where magic is as fundamental to life as the air they breathe, the water they drink..."

"You sound fascinated, my dear", observed Farrio. "You intend to explore this further...?"

"To her limits, and beyond, if necessary", insisted Marishanna. "I hate complications, but should they be unavoidable, I intend to make the most of them..."

Posted at 21:39 on 23.02.2012


~ o O o ~


Previously...
Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World - Chapter 7 - 23.02.2012
Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World - Chapter 6 - 21.02.2012
Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World - Chapter 5 - 19.02.2012
Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World - Chapter 4 - 17.02.2012
Mane-of-Night And The Brave New World - Chapter 3 - 15.02.2012