My Dm had us write a short bit encapsulating an important event in our PC’s lives, as a way to get inside their heads (and to get extra XP) and this is what I envisioned for Clirque.
At first, I am safe, I am home. Then a blast of heat and force, and I am falling.
Clirque awakes upside-down, halfway out of her makeshift nest. Its a chaotic disarray of woven sticks and twigs made comfortable with the rags of old blankets and clothes packed in with discarded feathers and interspersed with brightly colored fibers and shiny trinkets. Her nest lies in the slightly more secure corner of the remnants of an old attic. Clirque herself is a tiny little creature. At first, she’s all fluffed up from being woken so suddenly, but as she calms, her pale pink feathers lie flat to reveal a skinny fletchling. She rises to pull on some old, yet carefully tended raggedy clothes. She hops across the dilapidated “floor” to a large hole in the wall and cups her small scaly black hands under a dripping rain gutter and washes her face with it. She quickly preens herself, then hops out the window and flutters to the sooty streets below.
Clirque makes her way for her usual early morning rounds. First, a nice scream-sing across the rooftops to greet the new day. The local townsfolk appreciate this and attempt to shower Clirque with gifts, usually old boots, pots, or whatever they have at hand. Breakfast is next. She glides into an alleyway and swans her way through the streets towards the marketplace. She bobs and weaves her way through the crowds, plucking fruits and shinies from the stalls, until something new stopped her in her tracks.
A moderate-sized caravan had set up shop in the town square. Clirque didn’t have much of a memory, more memory problems so this was all brand new to her. Over her head, hanging from two poles was an indigo banner with “Master Kite’s Travelling Musical Menagerie” elaborately painted across it in silver paint. Ahead of her stood a mishmash of colored canvas tents. Not bothering to sneak anymore, Clirque wandered curiously among them. One advertised fortune-telling, others sold small trinkets, which should have drawn Clirque like flies to honey, if the music hadn’t drawn her attention. Just ahead of her was a makeshift stage, on it stood two bards playing a duet with a violin and a lute.
Clirque was in rapture. Enthralled by the melodies, Clirque practically floated towards the stage. She stood stock-still for the entire show, her gaze never wavered from the musicians. Her imitation of a blissful statue didn’t waver until the bards ceased playing. In a flash, she vanished, along with the instruments.
Clirque rushed home as fast as he dared, cradling her new prizes close to her breast. She climbed her way up to her abode in the attic. She got comfortable in her nest and started to pluck experimentally at the strings, the lute at her feet and the violin in her hands, attempting to imitate the movements of the conjurers she saw onstage.
Backstage at the caravan not too later...
“Hey, Elxian?” says a delicately featured halfling woman, as she looks around backstage.
“What is it Arie?” replies her finely dressed partner, a handsome half-elf. He’s sitting on the stage steps, resting from their performance earlier.
“Have you seen my violin?” answers Arie. She adjusts her large glasses.
“Didn’t you leave it over there?” asks Elxian. He leans back and gestures behind him.
“I thought I left it next to your lute backstage, but I can’t find either of them,” shrugs Arie.
“That’s strange, let me look.” Elxian gets up from his seat and looks around. He examines the area casually at first, but when he doesn’t see the missing instruments he searches more diligently.
We’d better go tell the boss. Looks like we’ve been burgled,” he says as he twirls a small pale pink feather in his fingers.
They go to see the master of their group, Master Kite himself. He is a large man, in more ways than one. He must have had some giant blood within him, as tall and broad as his frame was. Some dwarf too maybe, given how much hair sprouted off of him. (that or a bear maybe) His long bushy beard was seldom seen without a friendly smile, and his boomingly deep voice could be heard far from the caravan itself. He dressed finely as he could (as the leader should) but they could seldom justify the expense of a tailor so his clothes were often somewhat crudely patchworked together, but out of the best materials that they could muster. He listened to the report of two of his players seriously as he examined the pink feather, tiny in his hands.
“I’ll take care of this,” he promises, “Please tell everyone else to keep an eye out, though.” He walks away, and pulls several others aside and leans down to whisper in their ears and show them the feather. They nod and step away from the caravan, into town with a description of their missing tools and what the thief left behind. They return within a couple of hours with a description of the Summerbar slums’ most recognizable shiny-loving street urchin and a general location of where she lived.
“Tell my wife I’ll be back soon,” he instructs one of the stagehands as he leaves with one of his assistants. The assistant nods as they run off to give the missus the message.
Master Kite strides confidently into town, he and his associate head straight for the slums. Like most of the city, the slums are winding down in the hot sun for an afternoon siesta. For now, the bustling noises of the city are muted. This meant that they clearly could hear Clirque attempting to play.
At first, the sounds were more sour than sweet. More notes were out of place and out of tune than those that were, but as Master Kite approached the ruined building Clirque called home the ratio gradually shifted. His interest now piqued, Master Kite gestured for his follower to keep quiet as they carefully stepped into the building. They cautiously climbed the stairs, following the sounds that were rapidly becoming crude music. As they approached the attic, Master Kite peeked in to see Clirque in her nest with the instruments. He gestured for his follower to stay back, then entered the room.
He hop-steps carefully across the ramshackle floors towards the plinking fletchling plucking at their stolen instruments. It was a miracle he didn’t fall through the holey floor every time his giant boot came in contact with the frail wood. She pays them no mind. As he approaches, he looks at her appraisingly. He looks at how tiny and thin she is, and the state of the place she called home. But most off all he listened quietly to how she appeared to be rapidly improving at his performers’ instruments and how focused she was as she taught herself to play them. His eyes lit up as an idea formed. Then he cleared his throat to try to grab her attention. When that failed he carefully stepped closer to tap on her arm. And when THAT failed he tapped on the violin in her hands. That did it. Clirque jolts, only now noticing the large man in front of her. She pulls back as far as she can, and hugs the instruments protectively.
He clears his throat again, “May I just say that you’ve taken to those instruments quite well. You may call me Mister Kite, and I have a proposition for you. We’ll have to work on that voice of yours, though. Your volume is impressive, though your tune needs improvement.”
For as long as their group would be together this would be the most common line of questioning amongst themselves.
