Tabor DeTannia

Many people had it worse, he knew. Working the rowdy taverns near the Wall wasn't lucrative by any stretch, but it kept him going. Sometimes clowning around can get you where you want to go, and in his case, the clowning was quite literal. He'd worked hard to develop his juggling and tricking skills, and many bruises and cuts later he could now strut his stuff on the floor for whatever coin might be thrown his way. He'd work his way along the tables, down the bar, to the centre of the floor where the roughest fight watchers would carouse, juggling dagger, doing little tricks with fire, mixed with a few pratfalls. It was way more falls and way less coin.

But, as stated before, many people had it worse.

One evening some wealthy noble or other (who could tell those from the upper city from any other?) took a fancy to him and pulled him into a booth. It wasn't unusual. Many men took a fancy to him, and women too, though they were few and far between in this hall of barbaric sport and bawdy revelry. He never resisted their wandering hands, or avoided their tortured breaths; he knew not much would come of it, and it offered at least the chance of a few extra coin that evening. Rarely! But a chance. Yet this evening something was different, for he'd never received instruction before. The drunk man, quite unusually resplendent, told him of weird tales of some ancient rites that that was another thing the glorious Church had vanquished. The rites fascinated him, enough to committed them to the best of his memory. He'd toy with them when he was hiding back in his hovel, to pass the time before he ventured back to the floors of the taverns.

At first, his fire tricks seemed to flare up more than normal, as though he'd used too much oil. Over time, he learned he didn't really need oil anymore. He told no one. It was not safe to do that. His safety was suspect at best even without dark secrets.

Who knew what would happen if he let it be seen?

Tabor couldn’t remember when he first saw Rowf. There were so many buskers who came and went (and likely some who would never rise again, fates unknown). But when they first spoke, Rowf seemed to know a lot about him. Tabor admired Rowf’s observation prowess as much as he was both cautious and irritated. It was hard to find real allies in the stink, and the competition for limited coin was fierce, even amongst seemingly jocular folk like street performers. Yet Tabor could detect no trickery. Rowf was shrewd and spoke with wisdom beyond the years of someone who grew up in the stink.

The offer before him was enticing: undisturbed shelter and bodies for warmth, protection, and companionship. Something stable – which was something almost unheard of in the slums. He let Rowf leave without an answer, and set about following, debating his options he prowled behind his potential new friend. A quarter of an hour later, Rowf called back “I won’t lead you to my home if you are not walking by my side.”

Tabor smiled. Risks were always big in the stink, even doing nothing, and sometimes it paid to play into the risk. He uncoiled from the shadows and strode towards the boy standing out, unabashedly, in the open. Spinning a dagger on his fingertips with a flourish, he bowed. “Tabor DeTannia, at your leisure, m’lord.”

“Rowf is what my friends call me, and so too can you. Let’s go meet the others.”