ClownieBoo

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”

((How do you respond?))
 

The jester’s eyes trailed from the seat to the woman, a chipper smile pressing against his painted cheeks. With a careless grace, he dropped himself down onto the cushion with his knees near his chest, the sporadic jingle of his hat singing wistfully through the silence. Though a high elf, he’d no trouble making himself comfortable on the floor. After all, the nature of his profession called for the compromise of common comforts. That is to say, he was not unfamiliar with having nowhere to rest but the earth beneath his feet. He took a moment to inspect the low riding wooden table sitting crookedly between them. The wood was warped and reeked of ash and strange oils. Dents, cuts, and splinters littered its surface, wounded wood left neglected, dismissed in favour of the countless artefacts, trinkets, and alchemical tools it struggled to uphold. He held no judgment for these conditions. He hadn’t reason to. The illogical disregard for quality and general upkeep displayed by non-Mali was infamous in Elven culture, but if he had cared for such refined nitpicking, he would have remained in Haelun’or, just as his grandfather had advised.

He raised his head, being sure to keep his chin relatively low to what would have been expected back at the Silver State. His general rule of thumb when interacting with other races was that to be humble was to be accepted. His smile softened, his pale eyes as clear as ice, yet as soft as a still sea. They searched the woman’s face for connection in spite of the bowed, silk-woven hood shrouding her wrinkled face in shadow. “My name is Lente. It means ‘last song’ in Elven.” He paused, gaze drifting to the side as he scrunched up the knees of his pants. “Though, perhaps you knew that.”

A wilting chuckle croaked from his weary throat. He returned his eyes to her, though her silent, attentive stare told him that he was expected to continue. Back home, he would have simply been told to resume his introduction, typically in an elaborately rude or simply abrupt manner. But at his age, he had spent far much more time away from home than he had at it. One could say that home is where the heart is, but Lente’s heart was known to resemble the spirit of wind. It was only yours for as long as it was there. “You would not believe me if I told you such, but I am, in fact, a travelling jester!” Taking one bell-ended tail from his hat, Lente twirled it around his finger as if he were a child innocently fidgeting with a lock of his hair. His head lulled back to admire the tent’s ceiling, watching as the flickering flames of floating candles wove themselves into patterns most intricate.

“My profession of choice is not approved of back at the kingdom.” He stated rather matter-of-factly, still twisting the tail of his hat between boney, white-gloved fingers. He whipped his head back down, resting his chin atop the patterned knees he brought close to his chest. “You can imagine that a nation of high elves would be less than enthused by the ‘low-brow’ humour of a common street clown. For a kingdom with half its heart dedicated to the performing arts, how they do detest my slapstick!” he craned his neck to the side, brows dramatically furrowed to match the playful pout he’d pursed for himself. “Before I’d even learnt the art of comedic performance, I’d felt misplaced in my own kingdom.” His smile weakened, though he was quick to rest his gaze on the floor before shifting onto his knees, hat jingling all the while with a lilted distraction. “I did not understand things the way the others did.” He shot the woman an uneven grin to match the uneven shrug of his shoulders.

“I am of pure blood. My skin is fair and my hair just as waxen. My eyes are a muted and, when released from my hat, my hair curtains my face like a translucent silk. I am of average height and my weight is healthy. All evidence of my rigid Mali’aheral lineage perfectly evident in appearance alone,” he huffed, tilting his head to rest on his palm as he sucked his teeth through a bittersweet chuckle. Silence followed. His lips pressed together, the strength of his smile weakened. His eyes faltered, gaze drooping downwards, glazed over and unfocused, as if searching for words beyond what he could physically see. There was a jingle. He moved. He pressed his palm to the floor to keep him upright as he laid his legs out in the opposing direction.

“Some outsiders believe that blood is what will make or break your status as a High Elf. Others think that academic knowledge is what will thrust you up and across the social hierarchy. Both are truths. They are common truths, but they are also wrongfully seen as broad, all-encompassing truths. A good High Elf would know that true knowledge is upheld by the foundation of contextual thinking. Even I myself know that. Blood is not inherent to high status. It is inherent to those who are, at minimum, a little more than the common filth of an outsider. My lineage is impressive, yes, but all it supports is my right to live in the city. Beyond that, it is a mere decorative to my current status.” His head swayed to the side, watching as his hand picked at the mat beneath him with an absent-minded boredom.

“And as for knowledge? Tst,” he snickered, smoothing the mat with his fingers. “Knowledge comes in many forms.  Academic, philosophical, and artistic intelligence is most revered…” he paused, eyes rolling up to meet that of the woman’s, “but social intelligence is expected," he sighed, sitting back up to recross his legs as he stared down at the pair of folded hands that lay between them, “I am afraid my ability to learn did not extend quite so far.” From beneath Lente’s hat, an ear twitched. His eyes were drawn, as if magnetised, to the sliver of light sliced from between the curtains of the tent’s entrance. A faint pitter-patter had stolen his attention. Beneath the entrance, the dirt darkened. Spot by spot, speckle by speckle, the ground outside was decorated with tattoos of dampening rain water. Each sky-fallen tear reignited the stale, earthen aromas culminating beyond the thin fabric of the tent’s walls.

“My stupidity mocked, I was left unpopular with my peers. My parents, they were ever so patient. They assured me that other forms of knowledge were much more highly regarded and that dedication to such would be sure to cancel out my social blunders.” He glanced at her, smile stretching with restraint as his forehead crinkled. “It did not.” Scooting forwards towards the table, he settled his elbows atop it, face framed by the palms he’d perched it on. “As logical of a race as we are, we are not immune to hope. I believe their insistence on my studies stemmed from a place of self-assurance rather than reassurance. After all, I was their final song.” His eye twitched.

“My parents were both incredible bards, you see,” he began, folding his arms and leaning back until he lay across the ground, staring up at the sect of candles circling above his head, “and both incredibly impotent.” Round and round, he watched the sticks of wax hypnotise him with a ring of warm glimmer. It was if he were watching shards of sunlight come together to try and reform a long broken halo. If he squinted, the flickering flames would melt together until said halo was complete. “Procreation is already difficult for Elves. The biological clock ticks rapidly in comparison to our lifespan. To add to their troubles, my parents married late due to being so… particular about their companions. I believe it was their picky nature that had lead to them being such successful musicians.” The erratic symphony of rain conducted outside of the tent grew more confident.

“It did not help that their luck with conception was so unfavourable. Many of my brethren which had come before me were lost long before they’d even arrived. Such physical, let alone emotional, hardship was too unbearable for my mother to continue with. While desperately advised against, it was concluded that my mother may attempt to carry just one last time. After that, their reproductive organs would begin to cease fruitfulness, making pregnancy beyond that point near-fatal” Lente raised his hands above his head, using his fingers to follow the outlines created by the dancing candles as they weaved for him new shapes and figures told simply through mere miming.

“All of my siblings were named. Before each attempt at conception, my parents would write together a duet titled whichever name they would choose to bestow upon their next child. Each song was one of hope for the future, love of the present, and mourning for the past. Upon learning that they had just one final attempt left at conception, my parents mutually decided that failure to bear a child would conclude both of their careers. Along side their passion for parenthood, their passion for music, and thereby life, would have to die with it. If they failed to carry again, the song preceding that child would be their last and they would not allow themselves to continue composing.”

He paused, taking a moment to crane his head up to meet the woman’s eye, flashing her a grin as he gestured vaguely to himself. “By the very definition of my name, you can tell they were not hopeful.” He rose back into a sitting position, rapping the tips of his gloved fingers rhythmically against the table. “However, for once, luck was on their side. I came into existence, then named after the hopeless song which conception had preceded my own. I was their one and only child, their only shot at a true, complete family” He paused, taking a moment to rest his chin atop the back of his hand as he carefully studied the assortment of tools splayed out in front of him.

“I grew into quite the unpopular child, urged by my parents to take to my studies as compensation for my social ineptitude. And so that I did! I wanted to impress my peers with knowledge far beyond their scope, bedazzle their minds with intricate detail thought long lost to time. So, I went where any smart little Elf goes when in pursuit of affection. I went to the library.” Plucking a dainty wooden spoon - though it more resembled a vaguely carved twig - from off the table, Lente studied the woman’s gaze in search of disposition. Luckily, she seemed unbothered by his actions, and so he twirled the spoon between his fingers.

“Of course, I couldn’t just go and pick up any little book I so pleased. I had to choose my knowledge wisely. If I were to invest such time and effort into academic pursuits, it had to be for something socially substantial. Something unique, something…” His eyes rolled up to eye the ceiling, waving the spoon in circles with an absent-minded impatience. He paused. He locked her gaze. “…almost unheard of” His smile softened at the ignorant bliss of his memory. Between an assortment of clay cups and glass bottles sat a small pile of ash, surely no bigger than an anthill.

“So, I ventured to the back of the library. Surely, all the most popular and well-received books would be placed towards the front, the lesser known classics and recent releases perhaps settling themselves around the middle. But the back? The very, very back of the library? Could there be nooks and crannies even the others had yet to venture to? Scarcely explored literary genius hidden between dust and forgetfulness? Truly, it would have been unwise to not at least check, no?” His focus returned to the woman. “I found no such thing.” Using the tip of the spoon as a guide, Lente split the ash into three unequal groups. “Instead, what I found was not forgotten, but merely ignored, punished with disregard for the crime of its irrelevance,” he chuckled, tapping the spoon against the table. “Sort of like myself, really!” Returning his focus to the ash, he reconstructed the two higher, much smaller piles that sat side by side above the larger one beneath them. With the curve of the spoon, he carved them out until they were round, relocating any access ash to the pile down below.

“Most of it was about the arts. Not just the High Elven arts, but the arts of those who lay beyond the glistening borders of the Silver State. Books about comedy, practical illusions, rude, contemporary humour. I particularly remember the jesters. They were by far my favourite. Here I was, a mere Malii trapped within the confines of my own foolishness, isolated for my social stupidity, berated for unintentional slights against my peers… and then there they were… Men and women who brought only joy and laughter, even despite their own childish blunders.” Lente shaped the bottom pile into a slim, worm-like figure, gently nudging its two ends up until they near reached the other piles, midsection remaining firmly planted in its original place. “They were allowed to fail. Encouraged, even! And even though people laughed, the fools were no less loved. The public would pay them, stop to watch them perform, applaud them for the simple act of bringing joy to others just by being whimsically daft.” Lente tidied up the ash’s smile to compensate for his own fading one. How he hated to be so publicly miserable, for he found despair was just as contagious as laughter, if not more so. He could do little to help it, however. Perhaps it was in the nature of his people’s curse to bear such sorrows.

“I was so, so jealous of them. I wanted to meet them, to act like them, to be them. Perhaps I knew that there was no changing whatever it was that made me turn out so viciously wrong, and so I just wanted to escape into a reality where being myself was not condemned as a sin, but revered as if holy.” With the flick of his wrist, the bowl of the spoon spread the smile of ash out across the table. “By the time my parents had come to discover my newfound appreciation for all things gauche, it was far too late to snip my budding desire, for it had already bloomed into something most profound, something expansive that grew beyond the kingdom walls. They were, of course, unimpressed. Such love, time, effort, sorrow, and exhaustion had gone into raising me, and yet I desired to play the lowly fool? To bring shame to their reputation via disgrace of the arts?” he scoffed, carelessly tossing the spoon into a small silver pot sat beside him.

“I was permitted a trip. During my adolescence, I was set to explore the far corners of the land in search of my true calling. My parents believed that my interest was a mere rebellious phase caused by my displacement in the social hierarchy, that upon meeting with the lowly plebeians of the non-Mali, I would return with a greater love for real academics.” He paused, his features relaxed, yet his expression pained. He folded his hands together neatly, eyes swimming in the sight of the ash. “I returned 17 months later; A year spent exploring, and half as much just to make the journey home. Though years are measly to us Elves, my impressionable Malii brain had soaked up the so-called bad habits of my experiences. I spoke beyond Evlen tongue, adopting the words and phrases of other languages into my own everyday speech” He scoffed, raising a brow as he raised his eyes to meet the shadow the dwelled beneath the woman’s cloak.

“They were… less than impressed, to say the least. I suppose they’d figured that further effort would be wasted on what I had inadvertently proven to be a lost cause. They were quick to pack and leave me behind with all but a trace! My father’s father took to raising me from then on. Though not even he approves of my choice in profession, he had but one heir and his wife had long since passed. Unlike my parents, he hadn’t any other family and, again unlike my parents, he appraised the value of my blood far beyond the value of my reputation. For a man such as him, it made more sense to reinvest his efforts into his last of kin rather than his reputation when such was to flee as quickly as his life.” Lente’s eyes widened, lit by the candles and shining with more than just their flickering flames. His grimace was quick to be replaced with a far more palatable grin, hands clapping together with an innocent excitement. “And that is what brings me here today! I’d spent many a century in these lands, so much so that they’d grown too familiar. I chose to spend the last few decades isolated within my home, caring for my grandfather as I allowed the world around me to refresh itself into something new before my next departure.

Now, after all these years, my boyhood begins to escape me. While us Elves are cursed with such torturously long lives, they do not last forever! None can escape the dawn of maturity, nor may we reverse it. After all, every Spring must end in wait of the Summer, and I would like to reinvigorate my love for adventure before such occurs.” A corner of his mouth twitched, a bottom eyelid following suit. “…However… there is but one thing I must mark from my bucket list before the opportunity dare flees. I am but a humble travelling jester. I live through my heart, not my wealth. I’ve no qualms or grudges to hold when my presence is so fleeting and my outlook is so high. It feels as though my optimism precedes me and that it shall succeed me long after I am gone. I would like that, to spread joy and delight far past my own expiration, for what is the value of my long life if not impactful?” His smile stretched through a bitter tut, pressing his palms against the table with an impatient drumming.

“But if I am to leave such influence behind, I believe I must be of pure heart and of stable mind. Do not be mistaken, this ‘purity’ is areligious and my stability strictly emotional. After all, I wish not to live a holy life, but rather just a happy one. That is what I need you for. Every day, even in my most euphoric of instances, I am tempted to give in to the overwhelming need for sorrow, the folly of my people’s curse feeding from my concession like some sort of parasitic worm.” Dramatically, he swung his head back, throwing the back of his hand against his forehead. “Woe is me, for I am plagued with emotion! Including that of golden misery!” He chuckled, straightening himself up and smoothing down the creases of his pants.

“I fear the only way I may sully the call of acal’s weed and prevent it from tainting the soil of my soul is by tearing it from its roots! I must confront its source and rid of it whilst I can, for time rests not on the side of vengeance, my good friend!” He rolled himself onto his knees, slamming his elbows atop the table, pots, pans, and trinkets clattering as they rode the wave of aftershock. His hands were bound tightly together in one interwoven fist, thumbs pressed just beneath his nose as he stared at her with wide, glassy eyes.

“I beg of you, please, my fair lady, do feel for the root of my grief! Rip it out from whence it lay and bring it to me so that I may discard it! Though I am no academic prodigy, not even I can live in peace without knowledge of its whereabouts.” His hand freed itself from the lock of the other and whipped up to yank down the hood of his hat, bells shrieking in a harsh eruption as they bounced against his back. “For whatever you want, for whatever price you may desire, please! Find me my parents, for when they chose to leave all of me behind, they’d unknowingly taken a piece of my heart with them!”