Chapter Text
The circus is in town! (Yay!)
Okay. Not really.
BUT the faire is in town and the entire town has gone crazy for it. Everyone who is anyone is going to be there, jugglers, clowns, normal people, brightly dressed people….other…people.
Basically a LOT of people are going to be there and Jacques (humble brag) just so happens to be booked to perform. (He WILL take all your adoration and clapping now please.)
Still, before he can perform he needs to get there and that is not an easy job as the streets become far too busy to take a horse or carriage, floods of people moving towards the site of the faire.
“Excusez-moi, excusez-moi.” He seems to constantly be repeating as he bumps and jostles through people, already dressed in his performance clothes and finding it hard enough to move even without the hundreds of people all around him.
It is exciting though, the thought of so big a crowd, so many people all coming together to experience this event, to see what the day should hold. Oh, how his little heart beats in giggy thrill.
The crowd moves like the ocean waves, forward and forward. Except- perhaps- not…
Jacques is given pause as he sees a hunched figure heading the opposite way to him. Surely no one would miss out on the festivities of the day but this poor person doesn’t seem to have a clue what’s going on, dark round glasses over their eyes, a barely-there hat of no real design and a shawl draped over them to keep off the cold. People nudge right past them and Jacques stops, thinking what he’s going to do.
He’s no humanitarian, no great hero or honest fellow, but he can’t let this poor person get shoved about any longer, walking over and asking if he can place a hand on the poor old person’s arm to guide them out of danger.
“No need, no need. I’m just collecting alms for the poor.” The old man says in a shaky voice that has a distinct accent indicating he was not born here.
“Well, aren’t you a fine fellow? If you’d just come with me, monsieur.” Jacques guides them to the side of the path, “Now isn’t that a better place to stand.”
The hunched figure nods slowly before shaking their nearly empty metal cup, most of their weight pressed down on the walking stick they hold in their other hand, their grip shaky on that too.
“Alms, alms, alms for the poor.” He calls again as Jacques sighs, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a gold coin.
He places it in the cup and goes on his way, whistling to himself as he walks before humming and turning back to ask if the old man would like to come to his show. (He could make him a guest of honour, give him a spotlight to help the needy. Even offer to give the man..maybe 1% of the profits. The audience loves a good charity to donate to and feel good about themselves.)
The old man is gone though, only a grey hat that holds no form and looks as if it’s seen many better days remains, leaves blowing out from under it as if the man has been transformed into them.
“Strange day today.” Jacques mutters to himself before continuing on. That’s the THIRD old person who’s disappeared on him. What exactly is he doing wrong?
His day, as strange as it has begun to be, only improves further as he reaches the festival or faire (he has heard it both ways.)
People move aimlessly and with distinct aims in mind, sword-sellers lining the walkway, bards playing between the stalls, medicine being marketed alongside fresh meat. In the distance Jacques can even see a pig-wrestling arena. (He wishes, so bad, he could engage in that activity but, hélas, he can not get his clothes muddy.)
Instead he journeys over to stand around a fenced-in field, leaning over the wooden blockades to find himself lucky enough to catch the end of a fight.
(He assumes it’s a scheduled fight otherwise these people are far too respectful.)
Still, it’s impressive, Jacques having no real skill for grappling, to simply watch two men try and pin each other down. It would be erotic, maybe even a little steamy, if it was not for the muddy ground- the heavens having opened late last night.
“And time!” A voice calls and the pair split apart, rambunctious laughter falling from one of the men.
Jacques honestly can’t see why, just slightly too far away with the rest of the crowd to hear what words are exchanged afterwards but considering both the men are caked in slowly drying dirt, he assumed there should be nothing to laugh so loudly about.
Perhaps he’s hit his head- Whoever this man who’s slapping his opponent’s back is. Due to the mud he can’t distinguish his face, not even when he is declared the victor and asked to keep competing.
Strange as it seems, the man says yes, though he does request a moment to wipe his face down.
Jacques doesn’t stay much after that, deciding watching wrestling is not for him, even if it does seem fun from afar. (His mind is too focused on what could go wrong, the risks taking away most of the fun for him.)
He walks around the area for a bit, not focusing on anything but it doesn’t help move the time any quicker, the sun seeming to be in the same place it was before he arrived. (How long until his turn? Jacques is not an overly patient man.)
Walking back to the fighting field- because it is a field in which he saw fighting take place, he sees the same muddy fighter as before, a bit more cleaned up but not by much. Instead of fighting others now, instead he is swinging around a rope with a stone on it. (It’s not JUST a rope with a stone on it but whatever.)
Okay, now this is interesting.
The accuracy is outstanding, though not perfect- Jacques can not count the number of times he has attempted a similar trick and failed so he’s giving this man his flowers because flowers are due.
Maybe, just maybe, the man misses once or twice and Jacques can see a small modicum of anger building so he gives the man a little ‘help’ and maybe the man- after making the strike- turns to look at him with such an intense stare it causes the bard to step back a little.
He can’t know what he did..right? No one has ever known. (Except…maybe this man knows what he can and can’t do and he knows magic- at least a little- and he knows that shot was going to fail without a little bardic inspiration.)
Well…-Ignoring that. Yep. Definitely ignoring that. (Jacques walks away. He is not dealing with this today.)
The choice to ignore any strange behaviour in an environment that is already strange- their own world basically being the ‘Renaissance’ that these fairs are claiming to RE-create- goes well for Jacques as he grabs lunch, spending a little more coin than he would usually, simply because he feels like treating himself after helping that blind beggar and that rope/grappling man. (Though both are almost equally creepy to think about)
He wouldn’t normally have such well-cooked carrots- He’ll have you know. Today feels special though. Maybe it’s the arcane magic he is tuned into or maybe it’s simply him trying to cope with an impending sense of dread, but today feels different and Jacques chooses to see that as ‘special’ and not ‘ahh, ahh, ahh’.
After lunch he walks around some more, stopping at a few stalls to see what they offer. He has no real need for potions, especially not ones that he finds the seller reluctant to tell him what exactly is in them. He doesn’t need a sword or a set of knives, he knows people who would lend him those weapons should he ever need them.
So, he mostly spends his time flitting between stalls and spending most of his time looking at clothes.
That is why he is surprised when someone should shove past him.
It causes him to stumble, unprompted attacks not being his forte, and he barely steadies himself enough to turn and look at them before they are long gone, the person having gone at quite a speed. (Though he can see the billowing fabric of the end of a hat trailing behind for a couple seconds. -That hat must be massive- he thinks before brushing himself off.)
They must be running from s-
“MEGAN!” Is all the warning he gets- a very loud and growled warning that he distinctly feels he would not wish to be on the other side of. He’s honestly heard that sort of warning before. It usually happens after sleeping with-…ANYWAY! It simply rattles his ears.- before he is shoved again, this time it is his own fault as he jumps slightly and tries to press against the row of clothing in front of him to hide from the shouting and the shoving he is expecting but his foot slips slightly and he ends up having to steady himself back, expecting to go ass to the ground.
Lucky for his beautiful outfit he does not go ass over tea kettle -whaaaat ever that is- and instead finds a hand pressed between his shoulder-blades and another just above his ass that pushes him up and prevents him from falling.
“I swear to whatever god you made a deal with, this is getting worse. Sorry.” The voice that was shouting, all intimidating and angry, says now, in a tone that is still tight but distinctly softer.
Spinning on his heel with some flair because he feels like he needs to make up for the tragedy that was almost falling like an idiot in front of this person, Jacques offers his brightest smile and kindest nod as thanks as he greets the person.
What gives him pause though is the fact this person looks distinctly like they do not want to be here.
What is giving that impression might be the well-muscled arms the woman is wrapping around herself or the sword and knives or the cat parched upon her shoulder.
(Okay, it’s none of those things, it’s the tapping of her boot and the fact she refuses to meet Jacques’s eyes.)
She looks nice, a similar (enough) age to him, shorter than him, tied and braided-back hair that is a nice dark brown probably most similar to wet fertile earth (Okay, maybe not the best comparison for a beautiful woman but Jacques WAS raised as a farmers son…he’s allowed to compare things to dirt.)
Her clothes are nice, a black and red colour scheme that never looks bad on anyone, though the sleeveless shirt does make Jacques glad he is facing her straight-on rather than to the side.
“Thank you?” He tries, seeing if that will open her up.
She nods once, brow furrowed, before the pale ginger cat on her shoulder meows and the woman takes off running again.
Between the shoving and then the weird brooding of the short woman Jacques hadn’t really paid attention to the cat but it was cute- from the little he saw of it. A lovely ginger tabby with big brown eyes and his claws dug deep into the woman’s shoulder.
“Oh shit, MEGAN! MEGAN REVERSE THIS SHIT! MEGAN! CLARK SAYS REVERSE THIS RIGHT NOW! HE’S ADORABLE BUT UPSET!”
Rangers man. They are WEIRD!- Jacques does not want to know. He really does not want to know.
It is quite rude she didn’t introduce herself but oh well, Jacques has places to be and people to entertain.
“Master Jacques!” Someone calls for him and besides making him seem more important than he is, it also has the added benefit of alerting him that his time is here.
“Yes small, presumably orphan, boy?” Jacques responds as he once again turns to address a new person. (Boy, he is meeting so many new people today. This must be a record!)
“They need your amazing skills to entertain.” The small, cute but barely alive due to some medieval illness that he got from working because child-labour is legal and amazing in this world.
Ah ha! His time!
“Lead the way to my stage.” He tells the child, moving through the crowd of people until he is on stage with only a whip and a smile. (and his clothes. AND HIS CLOTHES!)
He firstly- and always- has to advise the audience that he is a professional and he is not an adventurer, he does not wish to be an adventurer so anyone looking for a party member please look somewhere else.
Now with that out of the way he performs a couple tricks, feeling people’s excitement grow as more gather.
Feeling it is time and they have a nice crowd, enough gathered here to almost rival the number of people he’s seen ENTER the faire today, he begins finishing up.
He finished as he always does, with a song.
“Now, dear audience filled with many friend faces, you get to pick what we finish with! Let’s hear some shouts!”
Oh he enjoys this part of the set, hearing people’s requests and trying to decipher them. So far not many good ones. He- as much as he might want to- can not play “That old song my grandad used to sing when he got 3 flaggons in him in the pub.”
It’s familiar to hear so many shouts as the sun sets, the crowd fairly alive with ale and cheer and a good-day’s enjoyment.
So why is Jacques’s sense of danger going off?
From the deepest darkest depths of the crowd he then hears it, the voice and words that keep him up at night as they haunt his every nightmare, always present, always following.
“Power word: SLAYER!!!”
Oh fuck you too.