"Dialogue"
26th of Cylus 720
The streets of the Gleam were well named. Everything was so... shiny and new. Like a brand new puppet unwrapped from its boxing, the epoxy finish still evident and unmarried by use. Underneath it all, of course, Keque was well aware of the rot that pervaded the city at all corners. Yet for all that, it made his job there all the more necessary. He was there to cheer people up! And cheer people up he would.
It was, of course, highly inadvisable to walk the streets of the Gleam in clothing such as he kept in his hovel in the Shanty. He'd recently purchased a new fine outfit of motley to wear over his padded gambeson and armor. The motley was purposefully woven several sizes larger, so it could fit over his armor. Even the Gleam wasn't entirely the safest place, and there were those stretches of time during which he walked through the Shanty, where he'd be beaten half to death for even daring to wear such finery. Sometimes the best defense was to show that you had nothing worth taking.
He waited until he was on the outskirts of the Gleam, and then ducked behind a darkened alleyway, to throw his motley over his armor. It was still rather bright out. He might get away with silks in the Shanty after dark but during broad daylight?
Whatever the case was in the Shanty, he was in the Gleam now, and a certain level of decorum and class was required in order to thrive as a performer. He crept back out of the other end of the alleyway, and into the Gleam. There on those cobbled streets, he made his way between well-appointed stores and workshops. He followed the same path to his destination as every day he was at work. There, he took up a position at the street corner and unloaded his satchel. He opened it up and revealed the several dolls within. A King, a priest, a princess, two serfs, a cook. All that was necessary to tell a story of frightful humor.
The stall was small, but he'd set it up days before. Thankfully, the guild thugs hadn't visited it like they had the previous nights. Perhaps they had yet to find the jester's new performance location. But it was only a matter of time before he'd find it smashed to pieces in the middle of the street one morning. It was the way of things when your property didn't bear the seal of the Guilds.
Still dressed in his motley, he crept behind the curtain of his stall and drew it around him to hide his presence, as well as that of his crosses that he held over his marionettes. He chose to attach the crosses first to the priest as was his habit. He'd present the opening crawl in the form of a monologue, to grab the attention of passersby.
Keque cleared his throat, and then went on to begin his performance. The priest strode from behind the curtains and began laying out his little bit of religiousizing.
The priest gave a droning speech, on the Wounded god and this and that. The content wasn't important, and anyway, Keque was improvising for the most part. "The Wounded God requires blood! Blood of Martyrs, blood of you and me! Come to the chapel, and spill thy blood oh Heaps!"
Enter stage right, a pair of finger puppets, dressed in rags. These were the Heaps he spoke of. "Oh, but we must be going to..."
"To market!" Chimed the other. Pushing the other along.
A few children gathered around the stall at this point, and were watching with rapt interest as Keque played with his dolls. "Yes, to market for... a spot of bloodwine, we are trading our mutton!"
Keque cracked up behind the stall at the word 'mutton'. Good lord fleshies had such funny words for their foodstuffs! To conceal the break in character, he had the serfs shake in laughter.
But the priest, meanwhile, was not amused. He tilted the finger puppet over, it's satin robe spilling out over the stage and revealing a part of Keque's wrist. "You are Heaps, to bleed is thy duty to the Wounded God! So bleed peasants!" The priest went behind the stage for a moment, breaking the immersion of the onlookers for just a moment. But they were mostly children, and their bored parents. The children had low standards when it came to the virtuosity of a performance. Presently, the priest came back, with a large looking cleaver that was supposed to represent an executioner's axe. "Peasants must bleed for the Wounded God, he's thirsty!" So saying, the priest struck off the detachable heads of the serfs. Much to the delight of most of the children. Some of them cried, however, but most of them seemed to enjoy the bit of violence on display. A squirt of cherry juice exited the detachable beads that served as the serf's heads, simulating blood.
The play was over soon, and Keque ran out of ideas and improvisational energy. He stored the puppets in their containers, and stepped out from the stall in his Keque guise. There, he rattled a tin cup, begging for some nels from the parents.
Some of the children tugged at their parents coattails, "Oh please, give him more! We want to see him chop off more dolly heads!" Keque's mouth twisted at that. DId they not appreciate his fine art?! Were they only after gratuitous violence?!
What philistines, what vile and debauched... "Thank you!" He said as the parents began pouring nels into his tin cup. One after the other, they dipped into their pockets to get coppers, silvers, and even an odd gold.
Such a bounty! He should play with dolls more often...
He had a few more encore performances for the benefit of the children, keeping them occupied while the Parent(s) of each child went about their business in the good old lair. By the time they came to gather their children, Keque's fingers were beginning to ache from all the motions he made with those finger puppets. But he must suffer for his art!
