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A legend of the wandering folk, a man known for his astonishing plays and intoxicating displays of images, brought forth by no more than his imagination and skills of illusionary magic. Known especially within the landscapes surrounding the great city of Terriador, he lives a live full of incredible appearances and sudden vanishing. With that in mind you will see how much excitement hit the people of the small village Forstwalden, east of Terriador, when one morning the labouring people woke to find a huge, colourful tent right on the market. On it's front a well crafted sign stood, announcing that this afternoon the first of his many shows will be held, and as usual for free it will be.

Especially the young and adventurous, but the old and melancholy too, were eager to see what story would unfold today here at the great tent of the artist.

By the time of the opening, half of the villages inhabitants had gathered in front of the tent. There was many a chitter and a chatter, when finally a deep, vibrating gong silenced them. Then, silent and steadily, gradient, the faint sound of celestial bells arose, dominated by a xylophone, that brought to them a happy melody, befitting the mood all of them felt, of light-heartedness and giddy. The vast curtains of the tents entrance unfolded and within they could watch flowers sprouting, growing and blossoming to the music, each opening bud a different kind of trumpet, joining the background hymn of bells, while all the while decorating the audiences way into the tent. And, rhythmically, though unaware of this, simply following the way of the tune, into the tent, quickly populating the rows.

In the middle of the tent, a simple wooden stage was made, of square boxes it seemed, and though its simpleness was different to the rest of the tent, no one bothered, all eyes fixed on that figure of a man. He wore a white costume of a fine demeanour, it's texture glittering and sparkling even when he stood perfectly still. Silver hair went down his back, framing a delicate, slim face. His eyes were closed while his tender limbs held a violin. Though the music kept playing, slowly descending, he stood, still as a monument.

When all were seated, the music gone, they barely dared as much as a mumble. The great musician still standing on the stage. The silence sank into them, and excited them more than any of the wonders already displayed at the entrance. Then, causing some to jump, a loud, mechanical click thundered, though the man on the stage made but a twitch. Another, slighter click, and another twitch. Like the figure in a music box, his spring being bent and slowly released, the men began to move his arms and fingers, casting a beautiful note from his instrument. And with it, he moved his upper body to the side, his hair falling with the grace of liquid stars, when soon an alternated version of the music arouse and he danced, mesmerized within his own song.

While the people listened and enjoyed the tender tones with many sighs and ohs, some realized the flickering behind the men, where a wall covered the back of the tent. Indeed, it flickered, spots of all colours flashing brightly here and there, when soon they harmonized, and the whole wall displayed a vale in the middle of summer, the grass full and the sky a cloudless blue. The sound of the violin was supported by the deep hum of a contrabass, when in the far back, over a flat hill, spears, banners and halberds arose. Heads and horses, warriors clad in armour, rode into view and toward the audience. Some gasped when soon they recognized the most important figure on the scene: King Mornigs, unifier of all kingdoms, father of their peaceful homeland. Though they saw them, there was no sound made by the horses nor the clattering armour. Rather, it seemed that all the faint instruments, of drums and guitars, were made by the different warriors. Soon they realized their king had the strength of the contrabass, and his horse the dominating bang of kettledrums.

Again they gasped, when from the sides of the wall were the image was, food soldiers, dressed in leather and crude armour, ran towards the shining army. The music swelled and filled, when soon a great battle began within the beautiful vale. But there was no blood, no screaming, just the wonderful music, and the acting and falling of actors on a stage, though kept within the wall they were. And when the battle was over, the mighty king charged, again, towards the audience, his face an expression of triumph and determination. He charged, his army followed, and suddenly they came all through the wall. The many hooves hit the boards so hard they shook and thundered, the battle cry all present. They charged way over the stage and when they reached the end, they took aloft and rode over the heads of the audience. The whole army flew in a circle and the wind caused by the charge took off some of the peoples hats, who just gasped with opened mouth and sparkling eyes. When again they hit the boards, they took a turn, and the King, laughing, drew his sword, willing to attack the artist. A cry of shock went through the audience, some yelled "Look out!", but the musician just stood there. Until the very last, when he threw his violin away - which then stood in mid air and kept playing on his own - when the musician pulled his own sword and parried the attack from the king. Steering his horse around him they kept their fight with a speed too fast for the eyes to follow. Where the blades hit, sparks erupted and formed little fireworks. The king laughed while the eyes of the musician kept calm and he wore his soft smile. Soon, the king would stop and the musician bowed deep, pointing his sword on the floor. With another triumphant cry the king took his army, rushed over the stage toward the entrance and out of the tent. Some would look outside to follow them, but soon the army had vanished.

The men on stage slowly rose and put his sword back into the well hidden belt of his costume. Then, he opened his eyes, looked at the audience and spread his arms. The music still played, but they answered with rising and clapping excitedly. All were thrilled and amazed by the show. And all the while the violin kept at its place, still playing. The musician took a moment, before, with a comical act of shock, he saw his violin, soon going directly toward it. He made a slight bow, gesturing the people to excuse the behaviour of his instrument. When he grasped it, it just dodged to the side. He apologized again and reached again. After a second fail, he lost his temper and made chase after the instrument. Especially the younger ones laughed aloud, while the musician made an act out of catching his violin, until he finally grasped it, causing a momentary dissonance within the music. While the voices, the instruments of the army had been long gone, there was still the contrabass, which slowly faded away, and so did the play of the violin.

At last, there was silence again. The great, slender men bowed.. All the people applauded, whistling and yelling their excitement. Though short it seemed, it had taken a while, and with some reluctance they left their seats, knowing the coming shows would be even more rewarding. And soon they realized the sign outside had changed into: "Entrance Fee to Every Show - 2 Copper".

---

Thus a few days went by and shows were held of all kinds and wonders. As it was custom, some day the tent would not appear with the first rays of sunlight. The people of the village would sigh, but smile, for they knew the great entertainer would return soon enough. For the time being they had had their share of it all.

In the night before the artist and musician had packed his belongings into a backpack and hid all the money he had made in some of his many pockets. A men of trickery as he was, there were some secrets even about his clothings, some of which taught and given to him by his parents. More than this small amount of luggage he did not need. His powers were strong enough to create the illusion of a tent and insides, while the boards and ranks for seats and stage were usually provided by a carpenter at the marketplace. He wasn't the only wandering entertainer in this small world.

His path led him north, through a valley, into a forest with thick underbrush. He rarely paid much attention to his surroundings - a side effect from living with illusions and shadows all his life. So it came to happen that the great man did not notice the absence of night creatures, nor the deep silence that had fallen about the place.

A figure appeared not far ahead of him, distant and hard to see first, but coming closer. In the dark it was hard to make out any facial features, or what ever he wore. The musician stood, and soon the stranger was before him, a well pronounced goatee now to be seen on a lean face.

"The sun protects you, wanderer."

The musician smiled and bowed, though not giving any answer in return. He was fascinated by the setting here, in the middle of the night, and felt a curiosity about what more might come from this.

"You have made quite good money within the small village you now leave behind, haven't you?"

He cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. Indeed he had, as he always would. Not only were the folks always willing to pay him in full, but it was also a sport to him that he would line his pockets by stealing theirs in the very middle of his shows. Money, to him, was a fascinating thing of sorts. It had no value, no artistry nor craftsmanship of quality. It was nothing but coins, yet some strange magic he did not yet understand made people do anything for it, and, more importantly, _give_anything for it.

"Not a man of words after all, are we?"

His mind had wandered off, but now he focused on the man before him yet again. He had pulled a messer, a long knife with a small protector, pointing it at the musician. From the sides of the underbrush he heard other men approach, probably holding their weapons ready. That, indeed, was interesting.

"What is it, now? To scared to use that sabre of yours? Or is it fake just like you?"

Smiling, with a spark of joy in his eyes, he took three steps back. Slowly, so they would not expect him to run off. He lowered his luggage and, from a small case, he took his violin. Honour,_he thought, _buys your enemies time.

But a few lost their composure that moment. They rushed at him, weapons raised to attack, but a sudden invisible force hit them in the guts and they flew back. Where they had meant to jump at him, a rune hovered in front of the musician, casting off a soft glow, while the musician tuned his instrument and made to play.

"I know this stuff!" One yelled. "It'll protect him, but you can smash the rune with your weapons!"

Again they roared, running forth to smack the strange magic. The entertainer put his bow to the strings and drew. Not the soft sound of a violin, instead a thundering growl of an earthquake erupted from the instrument. It didn't throw them back like the first wave, but it trembled through their guts, their sight shaken, their charge slowed. Only one of their lot withstood the thunder and reached his target, slamming his weapon down at the magic.

~dance~

The word was spoken softly, only he could here. His eyes wide, he glanced at the man he meant to kill for all the money he had stolen from him, his family and friends. Yet the mace fell from his hands, and he did as he was commanded. To the music of the violin, now more and more present in the darkness of the forest, he began to dance.

"John! What are you doing, get a hold of-"

~dance~

Another weapon dropped, and the man who had come to shake his comrade free now too danced. The strings sang their song and another wave of growling thunder washed over the remaining ambushers. They saw silver strings appear on the joints of their mesmerized comrades, which went into the air, where giant hands pulled and guided them like a puppet master. The entertainer went forth, toward the lot. Between and past the dancers, blades of light flashing for an instant, slashing at the necks. The men had to witness how the heads of their comrades rolled off. Their bodies kept dancing, forced by the unforgiving strings of the puppet master. The music pitched, stinging in their ears, and soon more blades flashed towards them. They slashed at them, the men saw their clothes cut. Some of those free of will even saw their arms or legs cut off. Their minds shattered, they ran off.

The music haunted them, out of the forest, while the musician composed a befitting fade out, an ending to finish this exciting night show. The images faded, and he turned to the two men who had danced so sweetly for him. These now lying on the ground, curled into balls, reduced to crying infants, shaking with panic. Still humming the tune he had just played, he returned to his packages, storing his violin and eating an apple from his backpack. Everyone loves my plays, he thought. And he smirked, remembering what his mother would have said. They have no choice.