WHO: Kvothe and OPEN WHAT: Magic (and a little bit of self pity) WHEN: Sunday afternoon WHERE: Around STATUS: OPEN/Ongoing WARNINGS: TBD
Kvothe was used to being in places he hated. The time he'd spent in Tarbean were some of the darkest in his life, and he'd not much enjoyed hunting bandits in the wilds for the Maer, either. But in all those places, he was free to leave as he wished. He was Edema Ruh, and his heart felt most at home on the road, not tied down to one place that held him like a mouse in a trap.
The tavern didn't open until five pm on Sundays, so Kvothe decided to use the time to get some air. The town was small and confining, but he hoped the crispness of the fall day would soothe his unease at least a little.
Being here was just so unlike home. Nobody here knew his name or his stories. Nobody here was interested in hearing them. Harry Dresden had knowledge that he desperately wished for, but apparently saw him as a young monster, a demon to be controlled, or burned with ash and rowan. He wasn't used to the treatment. He didn't see why he deserved it, either. He'd worked hard for what he had, worked hard to build his image of himself, and here...well, here he had none of it.
He was angry, and felt downtrodden. He enjoyed his work at the tavern - his music was the one thing keeping him sane. It always had that effect; as long as he had his music he was able to keep his hand on things. But he wanted to be doing more. He wanted to be more.
He sat on a bench by the river, the wind ruffling his flame-red hair and making it look as if it was standing on end, like a true flame. He'd left his lute back in his room - there'd been no need to bring it out on this outing, so he simply stared over the water and pondered how much he hated his sudden irrelevance and anonymity. He was irrelevant. He was anonymous. It seemed wrong in so many ways, after all he'd done to make himself who he was.
He grabbed a leaf idly, and bound it to the other leaves on the ground around him, then lifted it, watching the rest of the leaves dance seemingly dance on their own as he moved the one between his fingers like a director conducting a symphony. It was a useless bit of sympathy, but it occupied him well enough for the present to keep him from falling into a pit of self-pity. And that was something.
"Rise, leaves!" he cried in a commanding voice, "Rise and dance!" There was a bit of amusement in his voice, but it stopped short of laughter.