[ THE DARK FAIR : OPEN STARTER ]
quite often the misfortune that seems to follow him is more eager at times than others. and truly - he sees it as such - a bouncing puppy, clipping at his heels and bringing with it incidents and accidents aplenty. something that has been personified in his mind - more vibrant and present at times than others. and oz seems to have no sway over when it emerges or lays docile.
he also has no fear of it ( personally ). perhaps that’s why he imagines it as a puppy, something loyal and keen and ‘not biting the hand that feeds’. for as much as those ‘incidents’ happen with significant frequency in his presence, they never actually seem to happen - to him. and thus far today, his dread companion seems to have been at slumber - though as oz makes his way through the streets into an open space, perhaps the raucous noise of the fair gives it cause to stir…
the first clue is when a baker with a pastry laden tray sidesteps around the sellsword - manages to take an entire three steps more before he catches his foot on a loose cobble and the tray topples - flipping hot fruit and sugar onto a small gathering drinking at an outside table. voices raise - skin scalds, a small pocket of chaos ensues…
…and oz does turn his head to look - bears witness to the event. closes his eyes tightly shut for a moment, but the chaos is still there when he reopens them. and there’s a silent plea - the matter is simple misfortune… and not his specific brand of misfortune…
….the next is a group of running children - youngsters caught up in the frenzy of the faire - eager to indulge in all of the delights. they swarm past him, parting as they move by, converging in their small group. the clamour causes one of the kings guard overseeing the event to step back, turn and watch their passing… but his sword sheathed to one side clips the rope of an awning, pressure enough to pull a small, poorly secured wooden peg from the ground. a quick whip of a straining rope and the side of the canvas tent starts to collapse… and like a house of dominoes the other ropes become untethered, each one failing with the additional strain - pinging and whipping with increasing force. one wooden peg fired out of the ground like an arrow from a bow manages to embed itself in the shoulder of an onlooker ( first blood ). one rope lashing across the faces of some standing close to the entrance… those inside the falling tent scrambling to escape…
…a barrel of brandy knocked over onto the street in the tsunami of panic is then ignited by a fallen torch. the flame spreading across the ground ( thankfully AWAY from the falling tent ) - and as the liquid spills carrying the flame even further, those rivulets seem to part, moving to either side of the sellswords feet until he’s standing - completely unharmed within a blazing ring of fire.
he could… should… intervene.
lend hand to those in danger.
but if the puppy has awakened, it’s having far too much fun spreading it’s misfortune. its… bad luck. barking and snarling and pissing flame.
so there’s every chance that anything he attempts will only make it – worse.
a split second decision and he moves. stepping over the flames, shifting to grab the canvas and heaving back - trying to lift it enough for those within to escape – a turn of his head and a bellow of sound through the yelling and clamour of those struggling within to whoever might be close enough to lend a hand…
“pull them out - quickly!!!”
The apple crunched between Hati’s teeth with a satisfying snap as she bit into its white flesh. Hmm. Hati wasn’t quite sold on fruit yet as food items, but this particular apple wasn’t bad by any stretch of imagination. She let its cool taste spread out over her tongue as she surveyed the clusterfuck before her, eyes bright in the illuminating firelight before her.
The scene had unfolded like a tableau of madness, fairgoers scattered this way and that, getting underfoot of one another, the guard stationed nearby to keep the peace ineffectually screeching orders a ways away like some gawking duck as the flames caused by the spreading brandy grew higher. She scanned the casualties of the evening.
One man on the ground near her feet, dazed and with a substantial shoulder injury. He’d live, probably. A few fools a few feet away clutching at their newly lacerated faces. They’d also live, albeit with new scars. Yet another man standing in the middle of a moat of fire like a sailor newly marooned, and he, too, would survive the night so long as he had enough awareness to know that he should perhaps move outside the circle of flames rather than stay in it. He knew what jumping was, surely.
That left the people inside the tent, some of whom hadn’t even noticed the encroaching flames and were standing there in stupid bewilderment as they watched the others scramble for the exit. Idiots.
This was not part of the plan. Typhon would have assuredly told her and the rest of his lackeys if he’d meant to incinerate everyone during the celebratory festival, and if he’d wanted it, he wouldn’t have blundered it so thoroughly. Most likely, this was the doing of the godling holding up the canvas tent for the luckless saps inside to escape. She remembered being told he’d been some kind of––what was it––sadness god? Hopelessness god? Maybe the god of hindrances, because it was way too early for her to be blowing her cover. Whatever he was, he had power enough still to really ruin her evening. She had to help, whether she wanted to or not.
With a sigh, Hati stepped over the man on the ground in front of her, muttering a quick, “Don’t take it out and you’ll be fine,” and righted a fallen kid back onto his feet on her way to the tent opening. Mindful of the fire, she grabbed the canvas flap that the godling held up.
“I’ll hold the tent. You go in, you look stronger than me,” she said, and took another bite of her apple.
