Post by Conan Breandan on Nov 14, 2010 0:57:42 GMT -5
"And that is all the Magic I will be performing this evening... " Conan said with a flourishing bow as he made his assistant for the evening reappear in a puff of smoke. "Can I hear some applause for Miss Browning here?" He winked at the audience, drawing them forward, into the act. "Thank you Miss Browning." He smiled at the older woman -- a school teacher, he thought -- and handed her down from the improvised platform.
He peered at the audience, knowing they wanted more. But what to give them... He looked up at the sky, as if for inspiration. A shadow crossed the nearly full moon. He gave a mysterious smile to the audience, knowing what they needed to draw them in. He produced a flute from the folds of his star-studded cloak -- he'd paid handsomely to have it enchanted to show the constellations as they danced across the skies.
He trilled an opening bar, a foreign tune that brought to mind far-off places and daring locales.
"This is a tale I once heard in the farthest reaches of the Great Desert to the South. The Bedouin tell this story around their campfires at night, the story of the Drinker of the Wind." He proclaimed, lifting the flute and playing a longer melody.
"The Angel Jibril descended from Heaven, he awakened Ishmael with a wind-spout that whirled toward him. The Angel then commanded the thundercloud to stop scattering dust and rain, and so it gathered itself into a prancing, handsome creature - a horse - that seemed to swallow up the ground."
The flute melody seemed to twine through the words, tying the words together. Conan looked out into the audience, holding them with his dark eyes, engaging them in the story.
"Allah was much pleased with this creature, it was swift and proud in battle, yet gentle and loving enough to enter the tent of its beloved master to lay with the children. He reached down from the heavens and called the first horse to him."
Conan played a long piece on the flute, the fierce swiftness of the horse intertwined with a gentler cord that that tempered its counterpart.
" 'I give you spirit from the Northwind, strength from the Southwind, speed from the Easwind, and intelligence from the Westwind.' While doing so, he exclaimed, "I create thee, Oh Aerion. To thy forelock, I bind Victory in battle. On thy back, I set a rich spoil and a Treasure in thy loins. I establish thee as one of the Glories of the Earth... I give thee flight."
Conan finished the story with a long melody that seemed to show the birth of the Aerion. He bowed as the flute's song came to a close.
"The Aerion, of course, is the ancestor of the Bedouin's wonderful Arabian horses. Muggles believe it is the origin horse... but of course we wizardfolk know better." He swirled his cloak around him, turning on his heel before disappearing with a loud crack.
The gypsy's voice echoed over the crowd. "Goodnight and thank you ladies and gentlemen!
---
Conan squatted against the corner of a building and watched the crowd break up. He lifted a flask from the folds of his shifting cloak and took a long swig. It had been a good night
He peered at the audience, knowing they wanted more. But what to give them... He looked up at the sky, as if for inspiration. A shadow crossed the nearly full moon. He gave a mysterious smile to the audience, knowing what they needed to draw them in. He produced a flute from the folds of his star-studded cloak -- he'd paid handsomely to have it enchanted to show the constellations as they danced across the skies.
He trilled an opening bar, a foreign tune that brought to mind far-off places and daring locales.
"This is a tale I once heard in the farthest reaches of the Great Desert to the South. The Bedouin tell this story around their campfires at night, the story of the Drinker of the Wind." He proclaimed, lifting the flute and playing a longer melody.
"The Angel Jibril descended from Heaven, he awakened Ishmael with a wind-spout that whirled toward him. The Angel then commanded the thundercloud to stop scattering dust and rain, and so it gathered itself into a prancing, handsome creature - a horse - that seemed to swallow up the ground."
The flute melody seemed to twine through the words, tying the words together. Conan looked out into the audience, holding them with his dark eyes, engaging them in the story.
"Allah was much pleased with this creature, it was swift and proud in battle, yet gentle and loving enough to enter the tent of its beloved master to lay with the children. He reached down from the heavens and called the first horse to him."
Conan played a long piece on the flute, the fierce swiftness of the horse intertwined with a gentler cord that that tempered its counterpart.
" 'I give you spirit from the Northwind, strength from the Southwind, speed from the Easwind, and intelligence from the Westwind.' While doing so, he exclaimed, "I create thee, Oh Aerion. To thy forelock, I bind Victory in battle. On thy back, I set a rich spoil and a Treasure in thy loins. I establish thee as one of the Glories of the Earth... I give thee flight."
Conan finished the story with a long melody that seemed to show the birth of the Aerion. He bowed as the flute's song came to a close.
"The Aerion, of course, is the ancestor of the Bedouin's wonderful Arabian horses. Muggles believe it is the origin horse... but of course we wizardfolk know better." He swirled his cloak around him, turning on his heel before disappearing with a loud crack.
The gypsy's voice echoed over the crowd. "Goodnight and thank you ladies and gentlemen!
---
Conan squatted against the corner of a building and watched the crowd break up. He lifted a flask from the folds of his shifting cloak and took a long swig. It had been a good night