Dance is about emotion. It is expression ever-changing, subtle when it needs to be and evocative when unleashed. Every step, every pirouette, every bend—a word. Together, it is language given motion. Other forms of art are meant to be viewed or listened to; only appreciated from a safe distance. They can't touch you, and you can't touch them. But the art of dance isn't constrained by such a limitation. A dancer can invite you to share in their language, their form of art. Their audience need not always be strangers, but also partners: in joy, in sorrow, in love, in anger.

Elibor spoke two languages, but he was only proficient in one. He couldn't read or write Common very well, so he always had trouble expressing his feelings with words. But when it came to dancing, he was practically voluble. He could entertain onlookers for hours, stopping only to get a drink or give more direct attention to a client.

The young man learned the language of dance first from his mother. She was a courtesan in Pavicele, originally from the imperial capital, Arcana, and well known. Lesl was respected and admired among her clients and peers alike. Elibor was old enough to barely stand when he began to mimic her steps. He was a natural at dancing, and she was always so happy to watch him. Maybe it was because of his innocence then. She danced because it was her job, while her little Eli did it because it was how he best expressed himself.

But all that was in the past.

Having recently come of age now, Eli was alone. He stood in his mother's place, atop the stage she once brightly shone. He was a pale imitation, but her looks were there. One could see her in his soft brown eyes, the small nose and thin lips, the chestnut hair... His dancing called forth the ghostly image of the woman that once stood out among all the courtesans at the Rose Château. And on that very stage, his body moved to a tacit rhythm locked in his mind.

It was a while yet before the Château's regular patrons were expected to pay a visit. It was the perfect time for Eli to practice. The main floor was silent, save for the singing scrape of two steel-bladed discs in the young man's hands as they struck each other upon passing swings. Echoes of the chakram carried through the Château's decorated hall of soft red rugs over cold marble floors, sturdy stone pillars, and trickling fountains with statuettes of naked beauties.

When he finished his dance, Eli stepped down from the stage at the back of the main floor and tread barefoot to a small table beside a plush red sofa. He picked up a towel that had been laid out for him and dabbed off the droplets of sweat on his brow and bare chest. Leaning on the arm of the sofa, Eli felt relief as the tension in his calf muscles began to subside after several hours of non-stop training.

"Your pirouettes were quite exaggerated, today," said a woman's voice. Eli glanced up underneath the towel and regarded the red-headed proprietress of the Château with a blank expression. She was tall, curvaceous, and carried herself with refined confidence: a hand on her broad hips, one foot forward, shoulders back, and chest out. 

"Have something on your mind?" she asked.

"I'm just restless," Eli replied as he lowered the towel.

"Your movements suggest more than that."

The woman took the towel as Eli handed it to her. He pushed away from the sofa and stepped across the room to the lavish bar. A single bartender busied himself behind the counter, preparing for the evening.

"Water, please, Crasivus," Eli requested.

"I serve the ladies and customers of the house," groaned the brute of a man behind the counter. "Not you, street urchin." Crasivus looked every bit the sailor he once was. Sunkissed skin, bulging arms beneath a tight shirt, a peppered beard, and a stony expression that seemed rather out of place in Shalla's establishment. She only kept the man around because he was a damn fine mixologist, apparently.

"Oh for the astrals' sake, you imbecile, he's one of us," Shalla insisted as she moved behind the counter and glared at him. "Always has been."

The man narrowed his eyes before letting out a huff between his lips, the bottom of which protruded slightly from two sharp upward tusks. He grabbed a clean glass and set it on the counter before reaching for a pitcher of water.

"I don't see him tending to clients beyond shaking his ass on the stage once in a while," he remarked.

Eli ignored the scornful words, but Shalla stepped right into Crasivus' personal space. The man took a step back, but she stuck to him like glue.

"What you see?" she hissed. "Just how observant are you, Crasivus?"

Crasivus looked three times smaller in front of Shalla. "Er... I'm, uh, blind as a bat, mistress."

Shalla smiled and patted his rough cheek. "As I thought. Now poor the boy some water and shut up."

The courtesans of Pavicele were powerful women entrusted with the secrets of countless aristocratic men. Shalla and her ladies were more than just girls peddling a night of pleasure. They were confidants and companions, shrewd and savvy politicians in their own right, and even philosophers and artists. Seduction was only a small facet of their trade. Eli tended toward the art aspect. He was a chakram dancer and ocarinist, just like his mother before him.

The young man quickly downed the glass of water Crasivus poured and then he stepped away from the bar. Eli grabbed a green leather jacket from the back of the sofa in front of the stage and threw it around behind him, sliding his arms into the sleeves. Drawing the hood over his brown hair, he hid his soft, almost androgynous face and then leaned over to pull a pair of worn boots out from beneath the side table. 

"Eli," he heard Shalla call from behind as he slid on his boots. "I have an old friend stopping by tonight. He's a bard from the college. I hear he has a job."

"What's the pay?" Eli asked softly.

"He didn't say, but it'll be worth your while. I promise you that."

Eli said nothing, but he gave a curt nod of his head before heading toward the double doors of the Château and exiting into the quiet street beyond.

Later that evening, the Rose Château was seeing a fair amount of business. It lacked the ruckus of a city tavern, of course, as it was an establishment meant for a more refined class of clientele, but it was nonetheless busy. When Eli returned, he entered through one of the side doors, as was expected of him. The actual courtesans, known as the Rose Petals, were permitted to enter through the main doors along with the Château's patrons, but Eli wasn't one of the girls. Shalla may have counted him as "one of us", but that was because of who his mother was. At the end of the day, Krusk was right: he was just an urchin.

Before he could show himself in front of Shalla's esteemed customers—most of them nobles of some degree or other—he would need to clean himself up and look presentable. Since male courtesans were unusual and rare, there wasn't exactly a fitting costume for Eli. Shalla suggested he simply wear what her girls did, and use his feminine features to his advantage.

To that end, he shut himself inside one of the back rooms downstairs, stripped out of his leathers and boots, and cleaned himself with a quick bath. With a razor and cream, he shaved away his youthful stubble and cleaned the hairs from his legs and arms.

From the wardrobe in the room, he pulled out a red tulle bi telli net dress laced with gold seams. It was a sheered tunic that draped down to the ankles, leaving the sides open up to the thigh to expose the legs and allow freedom to dance, and then open again from the top of the waist to the shoulders. Since the dress did little to hide the body underneath, he covered his lower torso with a crimson sash and wore a second around his shoulders, letting the front drop low enough to conceal his upper chest. Finally, he drew a mandil, a scarf, over the back of his head to obscure any masculinity left showing.

Some of the more selective clients loved this costume, and even though he was only performing, Eli felt like he was living as his true self. He felt clean and radiant, if only for a night.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

Eli turned to look over his shoulder as the door opened with a subtle creek. He saw Shalla poking her head inside.

"Oh, good, you're here," she said. "It will still be a while before my friend arrives, but we're short on hands tonight. Would you mind giving a performance? Carmella was slotted for this hour, but she's been called on by Count Brayshire."

With an affirming nod and audible "Mm", Eli reached for his things to collect his mother's chakram and two tiny hooks that had been clipped to the waistline of his pants. He pinned the hooks on the sash of his costume and from those, hung the chakram, one on either hip. Sprung pins ensured the discs wouldn't fall off from excessive movement, and that they would need to be lifted upward to be freed. Eli then picked up a ceramic ocarina, no bigger than a conch shell, which hung from a leather strap. He tied it loosely to the sash as well, ensuring he could easily pull it off if he needed to play it.

He followed Shalla through a cramped corridor, but broke off down a passageway that connected to the stage while she continued to the lobby to mingle with her patrons.

For the younger courtesans, this was probably the most terrifying part of the job. According to them, it wasn't keeping up with the secrets and politics that was hard, nor the rumination of poetry and philosophy. It wasn't even the more intimate moments with their clients that scared them. It was the stage fright; the nervousness that wracked them when stepping up to sing or play or dance. But for Eli, it was as natural as breathing...

As he stepped out from behind the velvet curtains, the patrons that sat closest to the stage lowered their chatter and turned their eyes up to him. Two bards on the far right of the stage saw that it was Eli by the fringe of his brown hair and the very distinct costume. They exchanged a brief few words with a whisper and nodded to each other while Eli lowered himself to a seated position, folding his legs beneath him and to the side.

With their drum and fife, the two bards began playing one of the pieces they knew he was well-practiced at: The Sands of Nasiriji, an instrumental folk tune of the nomadic peoples wandering the Nasiriji Desert. As they played the first notes, Eli slowly rose and removed the chakram from their clips. His grip on them remained loose and easy, and his arms swung low and gracefully as his hips twisted for the first twirl. He began slow and methodical, as the song did. His body told the story of shifting sands, the sound of wind blowing across a desert came from the singing of his chakram as he crossed them in the air with controlled juggles and twirls.

His position on stage signified the caravan's movements through the Nasiriji, moving ever onward, pausing only when the sands shifted wildly with Eli's spins and jumps. When the music picked up, Eli spun continuously for several seconds, like a raging sandstorm across the dunes. His arms fully extended mid-swing, and the chakram glistened in the light of the chandeliers above the lobby, casting sparkles about the room. By now, the eyes of every patron were on him, captivated by the story of a caravan bearing into a desert storm.

Eli's eyes remained closed throughout most of the performance, but the inclusion of a lute's strum caused him to open them. The instrument harmonized with the fife, but it wasn't part of the performance. As he twirled, he glanced first at the two bards accompanying him, but they looked just as surprised. Still, they played on and Eli danced. The lute was coming from somewhere in the audience, rising with the stinging fury of the sandstorm.

There!

Eli briefly glimpsed a stranger at one of the tables in the back. The wide black brim of his cavalier's hat, upon which a red feather was perched, cast a shadow over the face below. Their boots were kicked up on the table and they leaned casually back into their chair, strumming along to the music with their lute. They were audacious... but Eli was driven to dance along, even when the stranger raced ahead of the bards on stage. While the accompaniment struggled to keep up, Eli changed his pace to match the lutist. His dancing opened up a little more; bolder steps, wider swings, faster pirouettes.

A smirk formed on the stranger's lips. Had Eli been baited into turning over his performance?

With a final twirl, the sands of the storm eventually fell back to the desert floor, and peace returned to the dunes of the Nasiriji. Eli ended his performance, bringing his body gracefully back down to the stage floor, returning to the closed seated position he started in.

Applause erupted from the whole lobby. The bards, though ever so confused by the impromptu lutist, gave a modest bow of their heads. Eli stood and, maintaining the facade, offered the audience a lady's curtsy as he returned the chakram to the hooks on his hips. In the distance, near the bar, he eyed Shalla waving for him to come over.

The lad stepped off the stage and began to make his way across the lobby floor, but a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled with enough strength to see Eli tumbling around the arm of a sofa and squarely sitting down by a finely dressed human man with blond hair and a leering gaze. He wore a toothy grin and the strong scents of patchouli and lemon assaulted Eli's nose.

"That was a fine performance," said the patron. The hand on Eli's wrist remained locked in an uncomfortable vice, while the gentleman's free hand slid behind and creepily rested on Eli's opposite shoulder. "What's your name, sweetie?"

This, unfortunately, happened from time-to-time at a place like the Château. Some lower-ranked nobles, and wealthy merchants that managed to buy their way into Shalla's graces, lacked the subtle etiquette expected of a courtesan's patrons. Any gentleman that's been a long-time benefactor of the Rose Petals would know not to brazenly touch the girls like they're common prostitutes, nor would they deprive them of their freedom of movement. A courtesan defined independence. And in their relationships with the men they attended, they set the rules.

However... Eli wasn't about to cause a fuss and risk revealing his true sex.

"E-Elaine, my lord," he replied with a high tenor to his voice, faking a feminine tonality. It took years of practice to use it in conversation, and fighting the changes of adolescence when he started learning the trick wasn't easy, but he could pull it off well enough to get by.

"A lovely name for a lovely bird," said the man. His hand let go of Eli's wrist, but it began to move to the lad's leg. It caressed him through the sheered dress and started to move inward, dangerously below Eli's waist.

If he didn't move or do something to stop the man, Eli would be found out. The scene it would cause could damage Shalla's reputation.

"Uhm... my lord...," Eli began. His voice cracked a little under the stress, so he stopped.

"Call me Skylar, little bird."

"Er... Sky-"

Suddenly, from over the left arm of the sofa, a man rolled backward and fell across both their laps. His buttocks fully collapsed onto Skylar's hand, pinning it down and preventing it from molesting Eli any further. By the red feather of his large hat, the boy's unexpected savior was none other than the lutist from before. Hazel eyes peered upward from Skylar's own lap, and he was beaming a charming smile at the would-be assailant.

"Why, good evenin', my lord, Viscount Skylar Remey!" exclaimed the lutist, loudly at that. His obnoxious hat fell off his head and onto the empty seat next to Skylar, revealing knotted curls of raven black hair. Confident and steady, the stranger prattled on and held the noble's undivided attention. "I must say, you are lookin' most lambent tonigh'! Your scintillating salacity is filling the room with a pheromonal distress, seducin' only the contemptible scrutiny of the other... clientele."

Eli lost the man at Skylar's rank and name. The rest was muddled gibberish, but the viscount seemed to catch on. The lord looked about the room. Several pairs of eyes were on him, and all of them cast glares of disapproval.

The viscount cleared his throat. "Ah, yes... You're quite right."

"That will be enough now, Mikael."

Eli, Viscount Remey, and the lutist all looked over to see Shalla towering above them beside the sofa. She appeared as calm and elegant as ever. Eli couldn't see any signs of malice toward the patron that got too handsy and broke the rules.

The eccentric lutist rolled off Skylar and Eli's laps, falling face down but on his hands atop the rug at their feet. With a light push, he gracefully bounced upright and snatched his feathered hat from the sofa. Eli was so taken by the stranger's unabashed behavior that it took him a moment to realize Skylar had removed the hand from his leg.

The man named Mikael gave a bow to Shalla. "Of course, madam!"

"Elaine," Shalla said, looking down at Eli now. "Come with me, girl. You're needed elsewhere for the time being. I apologize, Viscount Remey, but I'm afraid this one is ill-suited for keeping company. Might I recommend Braylin, tonight?"

Skylar seemed disappointed. "The country girl from Practus again? Fiiine."

With Eli spared any further humiliation, he followed Shalla through the lobby and up a marble staircase to the second floor. As they walked toward a secluded seating room reserved for smaller parties of guests, Eli heard strumming behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mikael in tow, playing a quiet tune on his lute.

"He's the friend I spoke of earlier," Shalla said. "Mikael Falril is a wandering minstrel of some renown, trained at the college here in Pavicele."

"'Twas just a branch of the main college in Simridal back in those days," said the bard. Mikael's eyes met Eli's. "So you're the lad Madam Shalla has spoken so highly of."

"Lad?" Eli asked, using his effeminate voice, turning to Shalla as they entered the drawing room. She closed the twin doors behind them.

"Yes," she said, "he knows that 'Elaine' is actually Elibor, the oldest of Lesl's two sons."

"And the surviving one, at tha'," Mikael said nonchalantly as he fell onto a soft ottoman and perched his lute over a crossed leg.

Eli felt a flicker of anger after the comment. He turned and took a half step toward the smugly smirking minstrel, but Shalla's voice stopped him. "Easy, Eli," she said with an air of caution. "Despite his inclinations for provocation, he's not here to pick a fight with you."

"Helluva way to start off," Eli quipped with his true voice.

Mikael playfully plucked at the strings of his lute and, with a silky baritone, began singing a short verse...

"From the fire in the young man's eyes,
A burning rage betrayed his size.
And that is when he did realize;
His stratagem he should revise..."

Shalla placed a hand on her hip. "Hardly fitting of a tavern in Berton," she criticized.

Mikael shrugged. "What can I say? I lack inspiration."

"Yeah..." Shalla dropped her hand and opened one of the doors to step out. Before leaving, she looked back at Eli. "Give his offer a fair chance, yes? I dare say you could use this opportunity."

Before Eli could ask what she meant, she closed the door, leaving him trapped in the room with the whimsical bard.

Trying to find a way to start a conversation while Mikael strummed along and hummed to himself, Eli began, "Uhm... I suppose I should thank you... for your help downstai-"

"Is it stuffy in here?" Mikael suddenly asked, jumping to his feet.

Eli glanced left and right. "Er, not really?"

"No, it's quite stuffy." He spun around on heel and saw two doors with square glass panes leading out to a veranda. "Ah! Fresh air and scenic moonlight! Perfect for a serenade!"

Stepping up onto the ottoman and back down on the other side like a child playing on furniture, Mikael strolled over the doors and pushed them open. "Come on, now!" he called back to Eli, who was just standing in the room still with a dumbfounded expression, trying to work out if the stranger was putting on a very long performance or if he was truly so odd.

The young man followed Mikael outside. Cool moonlight washed over the reflective white stone veranda, illuminating the two of them from above and below. The gold lining of Eli's costume glittered in the night and his svelte figure beneath the sheering was more visible in the moon's penetrating light. When a sudden breeze rapidly billowed the fabric, he raised a hand to brace the headscarf.

Mikael, having hoisted himself on the parapet around the veranda, sat with his back against the stone exterior wall of the building. One leg stretched out on the balustrade while the other dangled freely over the balcony floor. Looking up into the night sky, he began playing a remarkably different tune than his freestyle strumming. It actually sounded pleasant to Eli's ears. Soft and gentle.

Again, the bard sang.

(Adaptation of "Geisha" by Karliene Reynolds, 2020. Lyrics altered by myself to fit the setting.)

Timeless
Like a lotus
Exquisite artistry
Beauty
All take notice
Goddess
Of pure fantasy

Who are you, Geisha?
Jewel of far Nawon
Who do you dance for?
Do tears fall
'Neath the porcelain facade

Love is
Not what she gives
She is
A lure from a dream
Illusion
Of perfection
Hides a girl
They will never see

Who are you, Geisha?
Jewel of far Nawon
Who do you dance for
Do tears fall
'Neath the porcelain facade?

Mikael stopped singing, but the song continued to play from his lute. Eli, meanwhile, felt a well of emotions rising from his core. Another breeze came, and this time he did nothing to stop the wind from carrying his headscarf. It took off and lightly flew across the veranda. When it began to cross Mikael, the minstrel stopped his playing and snatched it with delicate fingers.

"Ho there, fair lotus," he said, speaking to Eli. "Did my musical mirror reflect a troubled soul?"

The young man clenched a fist and drew in a deep breath through his teeth, stifling a snivel and desire to weep. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Are you just here to taunt me?"

Mikael feigned a hurt expression. "Taunt?" he repeated. "What amusement would I glean from treadin' all over the tortured? Only sadists and monsters do tha'."

He allowed a moment of silence to fall between them before he spoke again.

"Shalla says you have the voice of a bard in ye, boy."

"I dance more than I sing," said Eli.

"Some bards don't sing at all. There're story tellin' bards, bards that only play an instrument or two... Also, bards like yours truly. We're the best kind, in my humble opinion: minstrels of many aptitudes and talents. We sing of heroes, and everyone else sings of our singin'!"

"Humble, huh?"

Mikael smirked. "Your dance earlier brought the desert to the Rose Château," he recounted. "But as I hear tell, you've never set foot outside Pavicele. You were born here, when the city was gettin' off the ground and the courtesans first moved in. Your mother came from Arcana, the capital of the Empire, where she met your ever-absent father."

Eli stared up at the stars.

"When she died... you remained here. And your life's been hell ever since."

"Shalla told you about my past. Get to the point, please."

Mikael slid off the parapet and then leaned back against it. He looked directly at Eli. "Would you like to see the desert in your dance, boy? The real one?"

So this was the opportunity that Shalla spoke of? Was she trying to push him out, for his sake?

"I hear it's empty," Eli said.

"No, lad, this city is what's empty." Mikael countered. "Nothin' here for ye but conniving' nobles and thieves. But out there-" he gestured with the neck of his lute, "-beyond the walls, beyond this lonely isle... a life of adventure and freedom awaits."

Eli scoffed and turned to face Mikael with a look of disbelief. "And what makes you think I'm cut out to be an adventurer?"

Again, the bard wore a smug look.

"Wits developed and sharped under the ever-mindful tutelage of the Thieves Guild. The body and agility of a dancer, honed through years of rigorous practice. The skill of a bard, refined with the instruction of Simridal's most respected courtesan."

Eli felt a tinge of warmth on his cheeks. It sounded like Mikael was recounting accomplishments, not what Eli had always considered tools of skulduggery. He almost felt ashamed.

"All you need, lad," Mikael continued, "is a bit of magic to pull it all together. A bard's charm isn't just in the smile, ye know?" He playfully strummed a few notes from his lute while flashing his thousand-gold grin.

But Eli laughed and dismissed the creeping thought of how fun adventuring could be. "Please, I'd never make it out there. I can't even wield a sword properly."

"But you don't need a sword, do ye, boy?" Mikael pointed toward the chakram at Eli's waist. "A single cut from those would leave a nasty wound, am I right?"

Eli placed a hand on one of his mother's chakram. The cold blade on the outer edge was sharp to the touch. Admittedly, he had used them before as weapons. Though... he failed to actually do anything; to protect anyone with them. But if travelling the world would give him the skill to fight and defend someone. If facing real danger head on is what he needed to stand before him, then...

"Alright," Eli said, his voice barely a whisper.

Mikael leaned forward a bit and cupped a hand behind one of his ears. "What's that, now? You need to speak up, lad."

"I said alright," Eli repeated, a little louder that time.

"Hmm, I dunno," Mikael teased, spinning about on one heel. He plucked his lute again and started to pace around Eli. "Ye sound a wee bit humble, boy. Or do ye believe adventurers are all unassertive, commonplace, half-committed quibblers? If you'd rather remain here with the prosaic malcontents that flock to Shalla's bosom, then-"

"For the gods' sake, you irritating little man!" Eli bellowed. "I'LL DO IT! I'LL LEAVE THESE WALLS! I WANT FREEDOM!"

Mikael had stopped right in front of Eli. He wore a softer, more genuine smile now.

"Once you leave, I won't let you return."

Eli breathed easy. "I know," he said.

"It'll mean givin' up any burdens; leavin' them here."

"I know."

Calm serenity befell them. Eli was confident in his answer. Annoying as he was, Mikael drew out a determination that the boy buried a long time ago.

"Well then...," the minstrel said, exuberantly strumming his lute. "One last song and dance for the evenin'? T'would be a waste of such fine lighting if all we did was stand about and chat."

Eli smiled. It was the first real grin he wore in years. Mikael may have actually been caught off guard by it. The young man unhooked his chakram and balanced himself on one foot, holding his body in a loose neutral stance.

"On your lead then," Eli said.