The bazaar was as much a social gathering locale as it was a market. Mothers browsing the produce, meats, and spices would often stop to chat and catch up on the latest gossip with friends they bumped into. Children laughed and ran through the crowds chasing one another and playing games. Men would stop at various stalls and shops to talk with the shopkeep. Pairs and groups of women sat around weaving looms prattling on about their children or recipes while they worked on their infamous hand-woven rugs. Men sat at the outdoor tables of taverns puffing on hookahs while they discussed business or political affairs.


In a courtyard just off the bazaar a group of women danced while men and women practiced playing the music that was native to their culture. Every now and again the music would falter and stop and the musicians would heatedly discuss what happened and what should have happened before they would start back up. The women would dance together, a couple stopping here or there to offer aide to another woman who was having troubles with a particular movement. At first glance all of the musicians and dancers had the same black hair, dark eyes, and honey-colored skin. But if one were to stop and watch, their eyes would soon be drawn to a young woman with skin a couple shades lighter.


While the other women wore outfits of bright pinks, blues, oranges, greens, reds, and purples that were glittered with shimmering beads and dangling coins, their tops matching their skirts, the woman with fairer skin was garbed in brown, black and white fabrics and leathers. There was a mixture of cultures and styles in her ensemble: a necklace made of lion claws, a gold arm cuff that looked like a snake, an elvish head piece and a second headpiece that dangled with cowrie shells, and numerous other bracelets, necklaces, and rings.


She didn't have the glitz and glam that the other dancers had, however there was a confidence in Nura's dancing, and a regal poise that demanded attention. When the music abruptly stopped once again, Nura's dancing ceased and she paused to listen to the bickering of the musicians. Two believed that they were composing in the wrong direction, the music was too slow and long and drawn out compared to the typically quick paced style that was common in the music there.


“I liked the way it was going,” Nura chimed in. “If you slow it down every now and again, you create a dramatic element. Here, try it again, I'll interpret it in dance.”


The other women stopped to watch, and the musicians repeated the song. Nura followed along with the tune's quick pace, and then when it abruptly slowed and drew the tune out Nura's body slowed. Her arms mimicked snakes, and her torso twisted. It seemed as if time had slowed, but when Nura's hips had finished following suit of her torso they gave a quick shimmy to mark the change in the music's tempo and the speed increased once more.


“Not everything must be quick paced or energetic,” Nura said as she continued to dance. “You can really draw a person in with extending, pausing, and drawing out some movements.” As she spoke of drawing movements out, she provided another example, shifting her chest to the right and slowly extending her right arm out to the side as if she were reaching for something. Her gaze caught that of a strange man and held it as she slowly retracted and snaked her arm back in and down her body. She offered the man a smile before turning back to the rest of the dancers and musicians.


She had learned to slow down and draw out movements from the kabaki dancing of Nisshoki, who's dancing was primarily slower and more dramatic. Nura had decided to try to incorporate some of those elements in the raqs beledi dancing that she had grown up learning, and had found the result beautiful. Clearly, many others did as well, for they attempted to mimic the slow, snaking arms that she had demonstrated.


Nura remained there for several more hours, dancing, instructing, and learning. But when the sun reached it's peak in the sky, it grew too hot for such things, and like most people in Abed, Nura sought refuge in the cooler, more shaded areas. She entered a little, hole-in-the-wall tavern, and greeted the tavernkeep by the name Suresh.


“You've only been here for one day, Nura, and Sultan Devdas Mahatma has already had one of his men come by with a letter for you,” the man said, handing her a slip of paper. “The usual?” he then asked. Nura nodded, and began to open the letter as she made her way to a cushioned alcove.


The letter read,”Most beautiful and talented Nura, I have heard word of your entrance in the great city of Abed. I am most disappointed that you have not come to see me upon your arrival. You could stay in my palace during your stay, if you so choose, rather than those lowly taverns. Please, do come dance for us again at this year's celebration to Madan, departed God of Lust and Fertility.  It would not be the same without The Snake Charmer.  I, personally, long for an encore of your last performance.”


Nura tossed the opened letter onto the cushions beside her, and lounged back on the cushions, deep in thought over what she had read. Suresh came by with a glass of water, a plate of fruit, and a small hookah of fruity tobacco. She ate a couple pieces of fruit, then lounged back in the cushions with the hose of her hookah.

There were a myriad of assaults and gentle caresses to every one of the senses to be experienced in such a locale as Abed. It is normal, however, for one to solely take note of the details which appeal to a personal paradigm. One of the handful of guardsmen patrolling the streets, for instance, might take notice of anything from suspicious activity, converse of political dissent, to any sort of opportunity for extortion (underpaid, as they were). A lover of the arts might appreciate the paintings and bead work. The intricate patterns woven into the rugs, shawls, and banners…the music reverberating from doorways and street corners…the beautiful bodies moving in time. A gourmand, the warm spices used in the region's cooking. Two particular scents that stood out were the cloves and allspice of a well-loved brewed beverage.

The energy which was put into so many things at once, so close together could be overwhelming to a newcomer. Indeed, it almost could be seen upon the features and in the gait of a man that stood out like a sore thumb in the city.
Almost.
He appeared listless and vacant, but at the same time profoundly lucid. His walk seemed hesitant, but at the same time quite confident and purposeful. His gaze seemed to focus on things here or there, but mostly held to empty space.

At one time, in ages past, the hue of the man's eyes would have made him an outcast among most cultures. In most lights, their deep shade of indigo just looked like an off color of blue. It was uncommon, but not so unique that it was unheard of. Those born with such a shade were once called "void-touched", and considered prone to insanity. They were treated with the same distaste of any sort of pariah, volitional or not. At some times, they were treated as lepers; others, as those that practice necromancy, due to the voices that they claimed to hear.

Those times were long past, but that did not prevent Ezra from being viewed with disdain in the places where he was known. The common people loved him. It was usually kings and religious orders that took issue with him. The Monk was known as a very vocal, staunch opposer of tyranny and corruption in any of its forms. His voice was just as well known for poetry and song, however.

Ezra took a bit of cloth from his trousers, and tied back his voluminous dreadlocks as he walked, careful to remove a small cluster of dried holly leaves he had tucked away some days ago. In that moment, his eyes had met the dark, husky gaze of a dancer whom he had not seen before. She gave smile of both confidence and demure. He returned it with a seemingly cocky, but endearingly awkward grin before she turned away. He had vanished into the throng of the talented woman's onlookers seconds after, just as distracted as he had been. In his wake, three guardsmen casually followed, their chain hauberks and bright Abed crests standing out among the crowd.

It could be surmised that he had shaken off their unwanted attention, as the same guardsmen were seen traversing through the crowd some time later.




With the sun at its zenith over Abed, Ezra had retreated to the haven of a local tavern, with full intention of providing the afternoon's entertainment. He had been down many roads with no company but his own, in silence. His voice required some use.
He was pleased to see the woman he had caught eyes with earlier that day enter as he spoke to the ambiance musicians as to what and how to play. Perhaps he could move her to a second performance.

The song was some sort of mantra. Only he seemed to understand its meaning, but its beauty was nonetheless apparent to all. Ezra had learned it when he was very young. A simple song that praised the divine, within and without. The sitars and single imported lute played softly in harmony, as the drummers gradually picked up rhythm.
With each new layer of rhythm, and each time the drumming sped up, Ezra's voice would recite the ancient words across a vast range, hold notes, and even change languages almost nonsensically, but still somehow harmonically. His performance was abstract in the extreme, and intensely emotional. People moved in their seats, and some stood to move out to the floor.

The letter, the hookah filled with fruity tobacco, and the food held Nura's attention for quite some time. She grew lost to her surroundings, and ceased to even puff upon the pipe of the hookah. Until music drew her back. Absent thought, her body had started to sway and move with the tune, gently urging her mind to return to the here and the now. The woman stilled herself, slowly closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. After releasing it, her eyes opened and settled upon the singer. From the peripheral of her vision she could see others dancing, however she felt no urge to join them. No, the half-elven woman was focused on the rise and the fall of the tempo, the strength and the weakness of the melody, the fusion of various languages at brilliantly placed points, and the tone and emotion with which the man sang.

When the song had ended, Nura leaned over several cushions and beckoned the musician over with hand gesture and words alike. "Maestro, please join me! What are you drinking? I will buy!" Nura said enthusiastically, giving a smile that silently said she would not accept no for an answer.


“It is not often I run into a fellow traveler,” Nura remarked when he joined her. “I simply could not pass the opportunity! I am Nura.” As she extended her hand across the low table in introduction the numerous bracelets on her wrists jangled.


“Please, if you would like,” she motioned towards the hookah, indicating that he could smoke from her hose. Smoking hookahs in Abed was much the same as bathing, a social affair. “The lyrics of your song are as diverse as my attire,” Nura noted with a smile. “I heard Mamlakee, Itjivutian, Nisshokese, Abedic. I consider myself quite the scholar, especially of lyric and story. I could recite the entire works of Tarlos the Dreamwaver, Barynor the Warrior Poet, Alden the Lord of Lyrics, Manton the Philosopher, and Marius the Igniter. I am also friends with and familiar with the works of many current artists.”


People were social creatures. Artists attracted other artists and those who appreciated art. Most artists rarely left their city. Nura made friends with many of them, and always had someplace to stay wherever she went. And though it was rare for a traveling bard to run into another, they all seemed to know of one another. Local artists would tell Nura of the last bard or poet or minstrel to come through, and tell her their story or song. They likely spoke of her to the next who would venture through an take notice of the art they were trying to sell. Word of mouth was an artist's best friend. The more people who spoke about you, the more wanted to see or hear your work.


“I find it odd that I have not heard this song before in any of my travels,” Nura continued, lounging back on the cushions and curling her legs up beneath her. “It is a beautiful piece. Did you compose it yourself, or is it another artist's work? And tell me, are you as diversified in artistic skill as you are in language, or is music your preferred method of expression?”

Ezra had been disappointed at first that the woman had not danced, but that soon faded as he lost himself in song. So lost was he, in fact, that it took several moments to lucidly reply to the offer of company. "Coffee, with cloves and honey," he spoke, with a gracious wave of his hand. He approached her slowly, and returned her smile warmly, and yet, there was a certain aloofness to him that could not be placed. It was unclear if it was intentional, so as to distance himself, or if he simply walked about with his head in the clouds. He took a long drink when it was brought to him, his throat parched. "Possibly the greatest thing to have been discovered in Abed," he remarked with a refreshed sigh.

"We are all travelers, in one way or another," the Monk observed, as he reclined next to his company, and crossing one leg over the other. He let his arms expand and rest easily over the back of the cushions. The ironic contrast in the openness of his body language to his social demeanor was almost comical.
"Ezra," he offered with a note of hesitancy, taking her hand, but politely declining the hookah.
He tilted his head as Nura spoke of herself, her leanings, and her interests. Despite his apparent nature, he was a very attentive listener. He watched her as she spoke, as though committing her every word and mannerism to memory.

"Not particularly odd. I am its author, yes. I am known of, but not known…"
He trailed off and paused.
"I enjoy words. What they can invoke and evoke. Whether in song, or simply on parchment. I am also adept at all arts of physical expression."

The last bit that Ezra had shared could have easily held an undertone or overtone of innuendo, but no such suggestive inflection was added, neither in facial expression or tone of voice.

"Speaking of which, I believe I witnessed you in the bazaar earlier in the day. I am curious as to what more you can do. I would have lingered to watch, but I was…distracted."
He paused as he saw two guardsmen enter from his peripheral, but did not look their way.

"Perhaps we could perform together? That is, if you don't mind."

“Yes, that is true to some extent,” Nura bit at the philosophical observation. “We travel to far off places in our dreams and stories. Our voices carry song, which travels to the ears of others who carry our song to new places. We touch the lives of those around us, make an impact on them, leave a piece of ourselves with them and they travel with it. Simpler yet, we travel with each step we take, even if we never leave the place we were born in. You and I traveled from the door to these seats. But, you knew which fashion of travel I had implied.”

Nura sat up and took up the small pair of tongs that were sitting beside the glass hookah. With gentle grace she turned and shifted each of the three pieces of coal that sat atop the bowl. The water bubbled as she took a deep breath of smoke into her lungs to test the placement and the heat. Nura exhale a great plume of smoke, like a dragon, ensuring not to rudely blow it in Ezra's direction. After shifting the coals just a little bit more, she set the tongs down and lounged back once again, hose in hand.

“I suppose it would not be particularly odd if this was the first time you've shared the song,” Nura remarked. “But if you've shared it before, and at other locales, then it is odd that I have not heard at least a verse from someone at some point. As I said, I get around,” she added with a smile. “Like art, I cannot be contained.”

The half-elf took another puff from the hookah, released the smoke, and then took a sip of rose water, basking in the smoothness and the coolness of the liquid as it ran down her throat. The musicians continued to play, but they were hardly as alluring in their craft as Ezra had been. Still when a song ended, Nura offered her support by clapping.

“Well, who is ever, truly known?” Nura questioned. “I think of all the people who have met me, I am the one who knows me best, and even still there are parts of me that I discover. Change is the only true constant in the world. What you think you know about someone today could be the opposite a season from now. And certainly, one cannot be known when they shroud themselves in mystery and vagueness.”

The last part was a poke at Ezra, though in a playful manner. As far as Nura had seen, he seemed to like to weave confusion with vague responses that answered both yes and no at the same time, answers that could go one way or the other, answers that gave little away and yet urged the other party to dig deeper only to uncover more half-answers.

“ALL arts of physical expression?” Nura asked, emphasizing the first word and lifting a brow. She chuckled lightly, her dark eyes shimmering, and took another, smaller puff from the hookah. “I may have to challenge that claim.”

Nura slung the hose over the hose port and ate a couple more pieces of colorful fruit. By the way she ate - a piece here, another piece several minutes later – it was clear that she was a grazer. Suresh stopped by to check on their drinks then looked at Nura and shook his head with laughter on his lips.

“This girl! I swear, it is a game of mine when she comes in, to see how many different people I can sit, one after another, at one table, before she has finished her meal,” Suresh teased. Nura knew it was all in good fun. Suresh and Nura were good friends.

“What is the record at, now? Four?” Nura asked.

“Five,” Suresh answered.

“Wait… no! That one who had to leave not even half way through his meal didn't count!” Nura protested. “Besides, it's much healthier for you to eat numerous smaller meals throughout the day than it is to weigh yourself down with an abundance of food in three meals… or in some cultures, two.”

“If you say so,” Suresh replied, taking Nura's empty cup.

Nura turned back to Ezra. “Suresh is a good man. I used to pay him for room and board when I would stay here. When he realized that he was making extra money on nights that I would dance, he refused to let me pay him. When word of mouth began to travel, his taverns began to swell with people when I was in town. Whenever people would see me here they would beg me to dance. Some outright harassed me, and Suresh had to kick them out. But we figured a way to quell people's desires and give me some peace. We began to advertise when I would dance. After the first night, Suresh insisted that he needed to pay me with the amount he was making.”

“She tried to refuse, but I would not take no for an answer,” Suresh had come back with another glass of rose water for Nura, and then wrapped an arm around her shoulders and looked at Ezra. “This girl, here, is the light of my life. If anyone hurts her, they have to answer to me. Yes?” Leaning in, he whispered to Nura,”Two guardsmen have entered. They may be seeking a reply for the Sultan to the letter that was left for you.”

Nura smiled, but it was such a smile that was difficult to tell if it was meant or purposely placed.

“I think I will do an impromptu dance,” Nura said. “Ezra's song was beautiful, and he has offered to play another. I simply cannot pass up the opportunity to dance to one of his songs.”

Suresh nodded and then said,”Alright, I will send the boy to bark on the streets.”

With an influx of people, the guard would not have the opportunity to ask her for a response to the Sultan. With some luck, she might also be able to slip away from having to make a reply… at least, for the night. A boy, perhaps ten years of age, rushed out the front door of the tavern. Nura's sensitive elvish ears could hear him running down the street shouting out,”Nura, The Sword Dancer, will be performing with music by Ezra at Sigree!”

“By your lead,” Nura said to Ezra, with a slight bow to her head.