Captain Jenno — Roleplayer Guild

Although Lynette seemed just so slightly irritated by the adjacent fire-spitter’s seeming popularity, Anemos didn’t begrudge him it: Honestly, he felt honoured to have even one person showing him such attention, so much so that the nerves had simply melted from him.
He’d been playing the role of Gales Tempesta for nearly fifteen years now, and this was the first time anyone had ever been so thrilled to meet him because of it.
That was not to say The Spectacle Rock Circus had a dwindling fan-base, of course: It’d been sizeable before Anemos’ time, and only continued to grow now.
But whilst Gales had many fans, Anemos had none.
The mask he wore on stage had become famous around the land, and even when he did reveal his face at the show’s closing, nobody took any notice.
Except for Lynette, of course: But the honour of being recognised, and appreciated, seemed to make the otherwise total anonymity seem worthwhile.
So he silently wished the sword-swallower luck: It wasn’t a feeling he’d have much liked to deprive anyone of.

“Oh, I’ve seen your show several times… you inspired so much of my act it isn’t even funny,”
Without Anemos even truly realising it, a light gasp escaped him, as he gestured slowly to himself, as if uncertain that he’d heard her right.
“My... my show inspired you?”, he asked, in a voice very low and soft.
Grout had once told Anemos that, if he became famous in person, it would go to his head: There was some truth in that, if ‘it’ was the heat rushing to his face again.
To think, a fan who knew his face: A fan inspired by him!
That was a performer’s dream. No, not just that… a knight’s dream.
He considered this for a moment, before realising that- like she before him- he’d been staring for a good few seconds.
He shook this off, and clambered around inside his own head in search of a response.
“Well, it-!”
He paused for another moment, and dropped his volume so as not to alert whoever it was Lynette was fearful of.
“Well… it was my pleasure, Lorelei.”

Then, she delved into her promise that she’d never reveal his identity: for which he gave her an appreciative nod.
“Nobody will probably recognize you… except my boss maybe— b-but I doubt he’d throw you out! Even if he did spot you in the crowd, you know? He’s always happy to take money from our competition… uhm… no offense….”
Honestly, the only part of the statement that wounded him was the apologetic smile that followed: As if she feared she might’ve offended him.
But he dispelled that fear immediately, he’d like to think, because he honestly couldn’t stop himself from laughing: Fyer reminded him of another penny-pinching oldster he knew.
One with a silly pair of eyebrows, for good measure.
“Haha, no worries! You’ve just described my boss,” he assured her, “I think I’ll just wear a mask, though, seems safer that way! I’m sure I won’t be tough for you to recognise, though.”
That seemed to put her at rest, to some extent.

“Maybe we could talk more about it later? I’m really interested in learning more about your act! Is there a time you could—“
Anemos once again had to resist the urge to flinch, as- seemingly from nowhere, for the second time that day- Marcus appeared between them, and instigated with Lynette.
There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t recognise Anemos, if Lynette had: And no guarantee he’d be as nice about it, either.
“Could… could… I mean if there’s a time you could come see the show, I can guarantee you won’t be disappointed, sir! Enjoy the carnival!”

As she turned to leave, he offered her one last response: A reply to her question, and also to her sales pitch.
“I’d love to,” was all he had time to provide her, as she departed. He smiled at her as she left, encouragingly, and then returned to leaning against the tree trunk.
The sword swallower didn’t seem all too clever.
Perhaps that was for the better.
Then, he looked down at the flyer, which he was still holding firmly in his left hand.
“Hah, well… guess I’m missing practice after all.”

“I beg your pardon, Seuhans?”, an authoritative, gruff tone scoffed from behind: The acrobat’s blood ran cold.
But he was an actor by trade, of some kind at least: When death defying stunts made the blood run cold, even behind his mask, it was the unspoken law to remain confident.
“I said I’m psyched for practice!”, he replied, back still turned to the fierce little old timer that stood behind him.
“Really now? Because it sounds like you said you were missing practice.”
“That’s the age getting to you, Grout. I’ll be the same one day.”
“I doubt it,” he grumbled.
“You’re right, I’ll also be a lot nicer. And handsomer.”
“You only get to pick one, son.”
“And you picked neither?”
“Why I oughta…”

Leaning forwards suddenly, Anemos narrowly avoided a strike across the back of the head from his crusty aged troupe-master, “Whoa!”
He span on the tip of his toes, and leapt back to create some space between him and Mutah, whom had since folded his arms and begun scowling in the most impressively sullen manner.
It almost transcended a scowl, the corners of his pallid lips somehow threatened to dip below chin level.
From this moment on, Anemos would mentally refer to it as “Mutahing.”
“Who was that girl?” he interrogated, Mutahing fiercely.
“When did you become a jealous girlfriend?”
“Anemos.”
“It was nobody, mother.”
“Anemos.”
“What does it matter?”

Mutah rubbed his forehead, clearly aggravated, before his scowl devolved into a thoughtful frown.
“Anemos, what’s that in your hands?”
“Huh? Oh, it’s, uh… nothing.”
“It’s obviously not nothing, you’re holding it. I can see it.”
“… it’s a flyer for The Black Marsh Circus.”
There was a silence, filled only by the sound of Mutah’s forehead vein throbbing.
“A… a what?”
“Grout, I can explain!”
“You better start quick, because I’m about to punt you over the city walls!”

Quick thinking time.
Anemos gestured after Lynette, “She was interested in their circus, that’s all!”
“Then why were you of all people talking to her? Why the hell have you got her poster?”
“Because I… convinced her not to go?”
There was a third pause, and this time Anemos could hear the distinct sound of metaphorical steam rushing from Mutah’s ears.
Slowly, the older man calmed himself, until he was speaking in a tone of mild interest as opposed to irritation.
“You… what?”
“Yeah, she didn’t recognise who I was, so I, uh… told her it was a terrible bore, and that Spectacle Rock was better. She gave me her flyer, it wasn’t like she was going to need it.”
Suddenly, Grout lunged forwards, and seized Anemos’ hand roughly.
In reaction, Anemos winced, as if he expected a left hook across the jaw: But instead, all he felt was the elderly man shaking his hand firmly.
“Att’a boy. If you aren’t playing dirty, you aren’t playing.”
“U-Um… thank you, sir?”
“No, thank you. Get outta here you scamp, go cause some more mischief. I’ll see you tonight, after practice. Which you’re definitely attending.”
“Definitely.”

“Before that, though. I hear the Prince is back in town.”
Anemos well knew that, but feigning ignorance, for whatever reason, seemed like the logical course of action.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah! I figure you and your old man should go and watch his speech, right? You guys are from that Ikana place.”
“Well, we’re from a circus family- y-yours, actually- but we did spend some time there when I was younger…”
“Great, great! You guys’ll definitely have to go and watch. Oh, and,” he seized the flyer from Anemos’ hand, and grinned (presumably, it was hard to tell with the moustache), “You won’t be needing this, I wouldn’t think.”
“Of course not.”
“Good,” he tore it in two, and then wandered off with a bounce in his otherwise miserable old step.
Anemos breathed a sigh of relief, and silently thanked the fates that he’d stored another flyer in his bag.
“Well, I guess if I’m going to watch the Prince’s speech, I may as well get a good seat now…”
And with that, he began wandering again, through the eastern gates and towards the northern district.

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Waltzing for Zizi

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