Smiling Death

A slash of silver flew up into the air above the stage lit platform, the lithe acrobat spun elegantly below, preparing for her next catch of the dazzling blade. She made sure that she spotted the blade all the way around in her turns, positioning herself just to the right, in order to catch the hilt of the dagger in her stronger left hand. The crowd giggled and gafawed and cheered at her feet, writhing around in time with the music, utterly encapsulated with her show of skill. As the dagger landed neatly in her palm, she made sure to cast one of her feindishly devilish show-smiles, trained to the pin, to the audience, making the chaos and applause impossibly louder.

As she ducked her head in an over dramatic bow, she snuck a glance to the only person who stood higher than her on this stage. A dark smirk surrounded by auburn brown curls met her gaze, where she spied a glimmer of pride twinkling in his oaken eyes.

The King of Latinium. The most powerful man in a vast kingdom of forests and snow, the captain and controller of a nation brimming with wonder and culture and strength. The Judge, the jury and the justice, and ruler of many…

But most importantly, reveler of the many extravagant arts, and partier like no other.

On this particular starry night, Torrin had been scheduled to perform in the Great Hall of Urchin castle, and ancient ball room covered in lavish designs and paintings. Along the upper floor of the hall, which overlooked the ball room below, was lines of intricate designs, telling stories of battles long won and myths of once powerful heroes. It was Torrin’s favourite room in the whole castle, which was home to many a rooms indeed. And tonight the king had ordered her to perform to the company of a foreign kingdom, who were here to engage in some form of ‘royal duty’ to which she was not allowed to be made privvy to, with her being only a loyal servant. But… she got paid to perform so perform she must, whether she knew why or not. Besides, it was her very favourite thing to do anyway.

Finally, after finding the approval of the kings face, she rolled up from her final bow, grinning like a wild cat up to the ceiling, her green and black striped leotard glittered in the bright lighting, emphasising the long mesh sleeves and acrobatic slippers that helped her glide along perfectly during any performance. The sound of the still cheering crowd rattled her ears, just as the bells of her four pointed jesters hat jingled in time with the beating of her heart. She was the star, the sun and the sky in that moment. She was no longer just the king’s jester, but a skilled performer, taking her final bow and absorbing the joyful energy from the crowd.

Slowly but surely, the music’s tempo began to slow and the massive red curtains started to close around her little raised platform, cutting her off from her moment. Beyond the curtain, Torrin could hear the crowd continue to clap, but now inbetween the ruffling of lavish gowns and coats as the guests began to rise from their seats. A shallow rumble of nattering also filled the space behind the curtain, the atmosphere upheld and the audience happy.

However, it was a different story on the acrobat’s side of the red velvet. She stood there silently. Alone. Absorbing the muffled energy from the ball room, to which she had now been cut off. The adrenaline still had her heart beating to the sound of the music that had faded out moments ago, and her body was lathered with fatigue from that gripping performance she had just put on. The curtain was a harsh reminder that she was not of their world. For, when on stage, it was as if she was the most important thing in their lives. The many kings and queens of the many distant kingdoms had seen her sell her skills on this very stage, applauding her art and enjoying her presence. But, although she had made a small name for herself, known across the continent as the Smiling Jester, she was just that. A jester. A king’s servant. She was paid like a king’s servant too. Enough to get by, enough for a treat every now and again, but nothing lavish. Sometimes in the castle, she heard merchants whispering of acrobats as rich as emperors in other cities, wealthy enough to afford to put on valuable shows for anyone they like, and earn an absolute killing for it. But she was as skilled as any of these other jesters and performers, and yet she found herself counting pennies. All because she could never quite scrounge enough to move out of her castle lodgings. For, if she could travel, she would be sure to set up some kind of travelling circus, or similar. Find some other kindred spirits or unknown talents and recruit them for her cause. She could perform for royalty, but instead of then being cut off after his , she could dine with the king and queen themsleves.

The dull red curtain fluttered in the slight breeze of the ballroom. She shouldnt get caught up in daydreaming. Wasnt good for the soul.

She went over to her knives table, flashy and glittery just like her costume, and lay out the various daggers that she had used for her act. Real blades, crafted by the castle official blacksmith. They would cut into an apple as easy as any other sword that the knights wore. Often, performers in her similar proffesion of knife throwing would opt for a lighter, duller prop blade, but Torrin found that the threat of accidently killing herself infront of the most powerful people in the world often made her performances cleaner. Death was an excellent deterrent of mistakes. But also, if she did slip and a knife went rolling, she would risk killing someone in the audience. And even though she would be a nobody without them, she would never be one of them. She was not treated as one of them. And a dangerous, disgusting voice inside herself knew that she would not care if the blade of a dagger slipped into the skull of the round, sweaty men that ruled the land.

Anyways.

She gathered her water skin and rag to wipe the sweat from her brow, and removed her sweaty jester’s hat. Her hair underneath was a little moist, but relativly still in tact. She had brushed it into two low space buns, a classic hairstyle for her performances. It fit nicely under her hat, kept her hair out the way, and she looked super cute whilst wearing it. It was a winner all round. Other times she did two little braids, but they were less reliable, and on some occasions had gotten a little frizzy or out of shape whilst she was on stage. She remembered her sister used to sit and plait tiny braids into her hair as a child, where they nearly reached her waist. She’d watch in the mirror as her sister’s lithe fingers twisted and knotted her hair for hours, before then sitting down to do her own. It had fascinated torrin as a child, for she had never worked out how to do it herself. Ever since her sister, one of the King’s knights, had left to go fight in the far east, she had had to find her own hairstyles. They never lasted more than a day or two, not like the braids that Ryllin used to do, but she dealt with it. A puff or plait would have to do.

She made her way down the lengthy corridors of the castle, turning down several hidden servant’s passage ways in order to make her journey back to her dorm slightly faster. She carries her knives in her left hand and her water in the other. She didnt like to leave her knives by the stage, in fear of someone stealing them, or hurting themselves, or doing damage with her dangerous weapons. She briskly made her way down a long flight of winding stairs. She peered out of one of the slits in the side walls to find the moon bright and full, indicating that it was late, and time for her to get snuggled into her bed.

Just as she turned down onto her corridor, she felt the eery prickle on her neck of someone watching her. As she turned, she felt a hand grab onto the back of her neck and slam her into the brick wall.