a late autumn wasp

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Who: Everyone!
What: A harvest festival and talent show.
Where: Howl Barrow
When: Misdi, the first of Maryden.
Notes: Players are encouraged to invent NPCs, talent acts, or have their characters participate in the show. Have questions? Need to plot more? There's an OOC post for that.

The Zygoda squats in Howl Barrow like an extravagant toad, weighted down by enough decorative architecture to make a baroque angel blush. Live colourful birds - of which an alarming number appear to be cockatoos - roost between the columns and pillars of the facade. The light-up sign outside declares THIS NIGHT ONLY AT THE ZYGODA; AUTUMNAL FESTIVITIES; AMATEUR NIGHT; EVERYONE WELCOME; HARVEST PIES!

The street beneath it has turned into a carnival in its own right; there are tents and stalls selling anything from fortunes told, candy, face paint, and odd little handicrafts. There are street performers and vaudeville artists putting on shows that invite bystanders to join in. The crowd appears to be in a good mood, happy perhaps to be able to let lose and blow off some steam in a friendly context for once. Some wear masks, others are dressed in finery, and others still look like they just got out of work. No one seems to mind either way. The theatres doors stand open, inviting those who wish to step inside.

Comments

[goodeintentions]

Aimery had dressed down but forgone a mask, figuring his not being in a suit would be enough to make himself if not disguised then at least not as stuffy and proper looking as usual. That was a decision he reconsidered a dozen times before he went on stage, and he almost didn't even follow through on that thanks to his nervousness about his voice.

But he managed. Despite the bitter, self depreciating content of his song, he played it the same way his father and Guiraut had, all jesting playfulness, using his hat to wave or gesture when appropriate, and making it clear the audience was welcome to laugh at or with him, whichever they'd rather so long as they were entertained. Maybe the basic accompaniment the volunteer band played for him didn't quite fit the tune of the song, and maybe his voice was a little higher pitched than was suited for it, and he wasn't sure if his accent enhanced his translation or made it more difficult, but Aimery felt he lived up to his lineage quite well. He was no troubadour, yet even with a lack of practice he was a passable joglar.

It was a strange feeling, that. Liberating, perhaps, to sing a subtly revealing song for an audience of strangers. He could see why his father loved it, but once was enough for Aimery and he was happy to exit the stage and reclaim his seat when the time came, albeit with an awkward smile that was some mix of embarrassed, proud, and breathless.