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We’re just performers, thought Crow. Why do we need military training? Weapons to them were only meant to be stage props, were they not? What was Isen thinking?
The young man was seated at the center of the stage, on a makeshift throne decorated with snakeskin cloth and animal skulls. There was also a human skull on the floor beside his dark boots. How he came by it, Crow wasn’t quite sure. Like himself, the young man was dressed all in black. His coat front was sparsely covered with decorative badges. His long sleeves were shredded at the cuffs, and his pants ripped in some places, not due to wear, but in a manner of style. He wore a leather belt set with jagged spikes, and a necklace with a little silver skull hanging from it. His hair was long, sweeping past his slim shoulders; it kept falling forward in front of his eyes, obscuring his pale face, which made it difficult to tell his mood by his countenance, as any expression he made was largely hidden behind the black curtain.
As he looked around the theatre, Crow could see the lineup of people stretching to the back of the room. There weren’t that many, but it was nonetheless a sizeable group.
Earlier that month, he had been out on the town putting out notices and posters, which Isen had filled with words and phrases targeted at attracting a certain kind of individual. They were largely designed by hand, with the help of a few friends, and were decorated with ghoulish images of ghosts and skeletons, dismembered limbs, and other dreary things which were sure to offend the delicate sensibilities of their wider community. Crow had even gone so far as to put some of them up on the outer walls of some temples, uncomfortably aware that this was a thing many people would consider to be crossing a line.
Glancing around at the people assembled there that day, he could see that their campaigning had succeeded in bringing together misfits and rebels of all kinds. The question was, which of them were suitable to join their band?
He glanced over at Isen, watching him assessing them, with his elbows propped on the arm rests, hands on his chin, head in an alert position, and eyes likely staring intensely at each applicant in turn, sizing them up, assessing their worthiness.
One man had come forward, dressed in a mossy-green cloak clasped by a crimson flower brooch, his gristly brown hair flowing down over his wide shoulders. He stood confidently before the macabre throne, looking upwards as his host examined him.
“You’ve told me what you can bring to the stage,” said Isen, “Now tell me, how would you define the traits of knighthood? What kind of knight would you be?”
The others stood far enough away that they were not able to eavesdrop. Only Crow was close enough in proximity to hear the conversation.
The man in the green coat cleared his throat and spoke, in a smooth, confident tone.
“The traits of knighthood are high valor, and the desire to do good for the people. As a knight, I would provide a light in the darkness, and be a savior to those who are powerless. I would fight against evil, and live my life in accordance with the will of the gods… I would—”
“That enough,” Isen interrupted. He tossed his hair out of the way, and Crow could see one side of his smiling face, as he shook his head. “I believe you misunderstood our appeal. Did you think we were recruiting for the king’s guard? Over here, we’re more likely to serve the devil than to serve god. Actually, we don’t serve anyone, but we do the devil’s work nonetheless. In our band, the mask you wear on stage cannot be vastly different from who you are at heart.”
He scoffed, ignoring the other man’s incredulous face drop, and waved his hand before him. “Dismissed.”
Crow couldn’t help but wonder too, as the man finally got the message and walked off towards an exit, his gait dazed and bewildered.
Why was he asking about knighthood, and weapons? Crow himself loved to collect them as much as any of the other boys, but they were performers, not warriors. The weapons they kept were more for show and decoration, and were sometimes used as stage props, not meant for actual combat.
This was not what Crow had expected when he helped him set up an audience chamber. They were looking for a new lineup for a theatre act. Since when did it begin proceeding like a call to arms?
It was one thing to boast of breaking boundaries. It helped the image, gave them character, and that was vital to stand out among other, similar acts. But there were times such as this that Crow wasn’t sure if it was all just talk.
If his friend wanted to make it real, it meant crossing a line, using their magic in a way that would go far beyond enticing and repelling the sheep of the world through an infernal illusion.
One time, another friend had asked Isen if he was looking to make an army, or a troupe of traveling entertainers. And Isen had replied, with a curious smile, “Why not a little bit of both?”
Watching him and listening to him make one rejection after another with casual confidence, one could not help but wonder whether one was worthy enough to be accepted, and if so, how on earth had he, Crow, passed that assessment which others could not seem to comprehend? Had standards remained unchanged since their beginning, or was Isen looking for something even darker this time?