20th of Searing, Year 4618
Thomas was learning that Daravin wasn't as bad as he'd feared. His schooling had taught him that it was mages leading mundane people around on collars, or tearing them apart limb from limb for not smiling at them in the right way. While he wouldn't rule out that things like this happened in Daravin, it was not nearly so commonplace as he'd heard. If he'd had a choice, he wouldn't have signed up with the Prancing Prattlers at all, but the leader was a friend who also happened to know a bit too much about Thomas' other activities, and after he'd accidentally given an entire town an unfortunate case of dysentery, Thomas Worth was a bit too regionally renowned to be selling cure-alls, at least until people calmed down about what had been a perfectly honest mistake.
In any case, he'd signed up and almost hit the canvas roof when he found out they were heading into Daravin. He was convinced they'd all end up imprisoned there, or experimented on by evil mages, or taken as playthings, or worse. So far, it had been almost tame. Certainly, the roads here were not as dangerous as other areas of the continent, which was a pleasant change of pace. His beloved wagon had been repurposed, draped with garish but cheerful cloth cloth to make a little awning. His beloved sign was stored under the floorboards of his wagon, out of sight for the foreseeable future, because Magnus wanted him in character as Altair the Clairevoyant as much as possible.
Thomas was not overly fond of being Altair, but he didn't see much point in arguing with Magnus, who as far as he knew was one of the oldest in any of the traveling circus troupes. Anyone who could survive for decades in an industry like this probably knew what they were doing. So he put on his silly little costume: Red linen pants that clung to his waist before ballooning out cartoonishly his thighs and then tightening again at the calves, presumably to show them off. Red cloth shoes, dyed to match the pants, that were little more than clogs with a soft cloth skin. No shirt, just an odd purple vest that Magnus furnished for him. Privately, Thomas had spent a few minutes trying to determine what it was even made of before giving up; it moved like cloth but felt like old leather. It also itched terribly until he covered it in alcohol overnight, hoping he hadn't just received one of the best and most stubborn audience members an actor could hope for: scabies.
Magnus also gave him a stupid hat. It was too small to actually cover his head. Instead it perched on there like a lady's fascinator, but with a domed crown. It did, however, have a big golden star on it, which he was rather fond of. It was dumb, but it did glitter prettily in the light of his shaded tent.
He was no stranger to what most people were really here for anyhow. When ladies, and it was mostly ladies, visited his tent, they were usually looking for some reassurance, spoken in a deep soft voice by an attractive shirtless man. He'd not expected Daravin clientele to buy Altair's claim to clairvoyance but it actually worked better here than most other places. Very few people seemed to expect him to actually be able to do much magic. The few rubes who did were easy enough to cold read. His more savvy clientele would make an arch comment about his title and he'd demur and joke a bit about it, a clear acceptance that they knew it was a bit, but without breaking character.
If people didn't want to hear a prediction of their future, there were plenty of other activities. There were games of skill and chance, a lady who swallowed swords and breathed fire without the aid of magic, a small chamber of musicians, and a juggler in addition to the usual sale of exotic comestibles: fried meat on a stick, sweetened roasted nuts, and refreshing is slightly watered down cider. It was enough to provide a diversion for an hour or two, and more if people cared to dance for a set. He'd been attached to worse, certainly.
As he finished up with his latest client and assured her that a good marriage proposal would come through if she had only had faith in her charms and the love she could give, he found himself wondering if anything interesting would happen that night, then admonished himself for inviting misfortune. Boring was good. Something interesting in Daravin would most likely be something dangerous.
