Gren post 13

More than half the people were gone, and he was still there. It was a sudden realisation, though he knew it shouldn't have been. It had been too gradual, and he had been too preoccupied. Four cups of tea? Three? This one was almost gone, as well. The pico nut pie, with its stickiness and warm spiciness and rich oily crust, had been quite comforting for awhile, but that had passed. Now his anxiety merely had a different tenor, deeper with less panic.
The remaining clientele was gathered in three groups. There was a thicket of standing people around one table, all of them having some sort of very animated discussion which Finghus couldn't make out. One table consisted of a court of people all hanging upon the words of a woman who was apparently quite well travelled. Her heavy accent was difficult to understand, which surprised Finghus, and she seemed to be from some distant part of Further Morvalia. The third group were all seated around two tables they had pushed together, and were being very restrained, almost reticent. It was this last group from which he occasionally received a quick glance.
The woman stood out, he supposed partly because the others were paying such rapt attention to her, but also because of her singular appearance. There were many of those still there who were dressed very eccentrically, but her specific sort of eccentric was perhaps engineered to be enrapturing. Her raven black hair was straight and very long and full, but seemed to originate solely from one area atop her head. It was bound there, with black lace, to the effect of a fountain cascading in locks down over her face and head, and down her back past the seat of the chair. The bare skin of her head and face, and of her bare shoulders and chest, was markedly white. The abrupt border of this alabaster expanse was a low, tight, black lace tunic, ending in ragged webs at her equally pale hands.
An elaborate necklace showered down over her chest in white stones and what looked to Finghus like it had the lustre of iridium. Her cosmetic was sharp and distinct. Firm black lines enclosed her violet lips, and surrounded her eyes with intricate patterns. As she talked, the great curving tresses that bounced down below her eyebrows, seeming short and close compared to the rest of her hair, reminded Finghus of a spider's legs, dancing along with her, arching over her forehead but kept from her eyes by the force of her will alone.
Only the waiter came out now. He was clearly asking the three groups, each in turn, if they wanted anything further. They had all said no. What would he do now? There was no one still inside the building, except those who worked there. He would have to leave, but to where?
The waiter walked over amiably and asked Finghus if he would like more tea. He hesitated for a moment, but then told the man no, and paid. He hadn't really thought of it until this moment, but as he handed the coins over he realised he had no idea how or where he might get more.
One of the groups, the quiet one, was leaving now, quickly gathering their things and heading under the entwined archway. Apparently in reaction to this, the other two groups began moving about in preparation to leave as well. As they all made their way out of the cafe and back up the avenue, the woman with the unusual accent seemed to join the other group, those who had been having the spirited discussion. Her retinue followed along, taking this opportunity to talk amongst themselves, and falling behind.
The last one passed beneath the vines. The waiter was inside.
Finghus hurriedly stood and, glancing back at the table to make sure he'd left nothing, went over to the archway. He hesitated, trying to appear as if he was trying to decide which way to go so it would appear to be mere coincidence when he followed those who had just left. He wondered if this show was for himself, trying to enjoy some illusion of self-determination.
After they had gone a respectable distance, past the cafes he had walked by earlier and up to the next intersection, he made a theatrical display of coming to a decision, barely preventing himself from saying "ah, yes!" and walked off after them.
Despite himself, he was walking faster than they, and after a few blocks had caught up to them. Without really trying to, he was virtually walking with them, or at least with the last few of the lady's court. They had wound around, down onto another wide avenue further toward the river, and as he followed the coterie around the corner onto the boulevard, he saw where they were headed. It was a theatre.
It was a large, formal building, amongst all the others, dark ornate stone, ancient and worn, but now brightly adorned and lit. The entrance was a great covered half circle peristyle, some ten or fifteen steps rising up to it from the street in great rings. The dark columns appeared to be heavily carved, but he couldn't see them well from here.
As he came closer, realising the first group must already be inside, he saw the columns were sculpted as bare branching trees, with scenes carved all over their dark stone bark. Hanging from sections of several of the columns, clearly sculpted for the purpose, he could see large vellums. There was the woman with the white skin and the accent. She was painted, very skilfully, on many of the vellums.
He dug with his tongue at a bit of pico nut stuck in his tooth as he mounted up the worn steps. Very satisfyingly, it popped loose, and he chewed it again in his front teeth, letting himself be distracted by the sweet, earthy spiciness. He knew he would have to pay to get in, but he didn't know how much. He didn't know how much he had left in his pocket either. It would be unseemly, obviously, to stop here at the top of the steps and start going through his pockets.
He walked through the tall carven doors, propped open despite the cold, as he began dwelling on how he detested the theatre. Plays. And the people who went to them, pretentious pseudo-intellectuals! In the back of his mind, he reminded himself the people from the tea house hadn't seemed that way. How ridiculous! He didn't even know them. The theatre, with all its preposterous histrionics and impossible perspectives instead of decent, believable storytelling.
Being stupid. Spoiled. What does it matter what I think of the theatre?
"Ah, you've come in costume! Wonderful!"
The ticket man's voice was like a wily conspirator. He looked unshaven and dishevelled, but clearly expected Finghus to hand him some coins.
"Twelve Mordinarion, please," with a raised bushy eyebrow and a knowing smile. He knew what the man looked like then. A beggar. A deranged beggar.
Finghus stuffed his hand in his pocket and brought out all the coins he could. Twelve Mordinarion! Could all plays be this expensive? Outrageous. It would be close, he knew, as he counted the coins out of his hand. The lustre of iridium glinting from one of them brought the woman back to his mind. Brought her chest back to his mind.
"Only Twelve tonight? Oh good," he said as he placed the coins singly in the man's hand, returning his odd smile.
"A bold choice... not many would come as Abognazzar after the fight." He bowed slightly and handed Finghus the ticket.
What in the world could that possibly mean?
He took several slow steps away from the man, not wanting him to continue any conversation, and took in the darkly luxurious lavender and black of the theatre's lobby. It felt cold and expansive, but somehow welcoming. Knowing. Like one who truly understands, but only because he has seen too much.
Beyond heavy velvet curtains, Finghus beheld a wholly different scene. It was suddenly bright, but a rich and languid brightness which didn't hurt his eyes. All around, his senses were bathed in sumptuous colour. Deep, flowing gold and shimmering brass. Kingly purples and violets fading into opulent blue. Luscious heavy greens and florid reds. Commanding all in the theatre were the sweeping golden draperies which still concealed the stage. Framing these, like the ornate jewelery of a mountainous giant king, were richly coloured medallions and roundels of fantastic size, cabochons of wood, lacquer, and satin.
He looked about for an empty seat, and finally spotted one which wasn't a mere solitary opening. He didn't want to sit immediately next to anyone. He made his way behind the seats, his gaze absently sliding over the two or three hundred people here, but still drawn toward the stage. When he was around the other side, he plunged reluctantly down the row, one of the last, with the space available. Perhaps this very part of it all was what he hated most about the theatre. The constant fear he would step on someone, or, even worse, trip over someone. He wished they wouldn't look up as they moved their legs to the side for him to pass. He forced on a weak smile of appreciation for those who looked. If only he could just continue looking at the draperies or the ceiling, but then he would almost certainly misstep. Rubbing past their legs. Were they angry with him? Did they think him a terrible imposition? Pretentious nits! Finally, he was past them. Why couldn't they leave more room between these seats and the ones in front of them?! He sat down heavily in the centre of the three empty seats.
How stupid. After everything that had happened tonight, and he was complaining about theatre seats! How small. He drew inward, pulling his coat tight about himself, despite the warmth of the theatre. He resolved to soak in his surroundings while he waited for everything to begin.
There were the musicians, up there just below the stage, and the wizard sitting there to the side of them, all of them apparently going through some last minute preparations. In a few minutes the light began to dim, and Finghus realised he hadn't seen its source anywhere as he had looked about.
As the light faded, a shimmering image grew distinct upon the stage draperies. It was suffused throughout with the golden glow of the fabric, but it was now a gigantic landscape. Sharp golden hills and ridges, dramatically barren, faded into a misty distance, from which rose up a glorious golden castle. The highest towers had glowing bronze domes. The sky rose golden, fading into violet, then deep blue and stars. The moon hung low in the sky, large and brilliantly blue in the unseen sunset, and another much smaller moon as well, even lower, a glowing violet behind the turrets of the castle.
This was to be Primordia then. A Primordian romance, or a 'romantic adventure' more probably. No wonder all the drums and horns among the musicians. The first image in answer to his imagination was the old stereotype, the voluptuous Primordian princess wearing only small bits of metal and jewelery. The image used to interest the common people in history. The image used to denigrate the past as primitive.
The draperies went back as the music began to build and pound. Impossibly, the landscape pictured on the curtain was revealed on stage, as though a portal back through... what was it supposed to be? Fourteen thousand years? Sixteen?... stood there before them. A massive golden beast with a rider could be seen coming forward from the mists about the castle, seemingly well over a mile distant. As he arrived directly on the stage, Finghus realised he couldn't pick out the moment it had become real. He smelled sand and a metallic tang. He felt a hot dry breeze wash over the audience. The magician here was excellent.
A deep, sensual female voice filled the theatre. "Come with us, as we travel back to a time when two moons rode the sky."