Cage, Gypsy and June

Evenfall is the busiest time for The Last Resort and its crew. Soldiers tired from a full day of training, patrolling, and general peacekeeping, fill every last seat, booth, stool, or empty patch of floor that they can find. It normally isn’t this crowded, but everybody knows that on Frevar evenfall, the Red Nightingale sings.

The air is filled with a strange mixture of smells. The comforting smell of fine wooden tables, the heady scent of strong ales, a slight undertone of sweat and steel, a hint of lost dreams, and curiously enough, the enticing smell of fresh-cut flowers. The rowdy buzz of excitement from drunk soldiers is deafening, but when Shepherd walks up on stage and clears his throat, the noise quickly fades away.

In a soft, noble voice that carries through the entire tavern, he declares, “Dear patrons of The Last Resort, it is my great pleasure to present to you our pride and joy, the Red Nightingale of White Crown.”

Nothing can be heard but the slight creaks of wooden chairs as the occupants shift their weight in anticipation. After a few seconds of anticipation that seemed to stretch into eternity, the heavy curtains begin to part. Against the dark backdrop of the stage, the silhouette of a woman with a lute, her figure framed by shining streaks of red reflected in the far away lamplight, can be seen. As her fingers begin to pluck lightly at the lute in her hands, Francine’s features are gently lit up as alchemical lanterns slowly flicker to life on the stage. A hauntingly beautiful voice fills the air as the Red Nightingale begins her performance.

A spirited melody. A mournful dirge. A soulful ballad. The audience is completely enthralled by the spectacle before them, only seeming to regain their mental faculties after each song to punctuate the performance with a burst of applause. To the spectators, the world begins and ends with Francine.

Suddenly, a lithe, red-haired woman with a green stud leaps up to the stage and begins singing along with Francine. Proclamations about her mother’s sexual exploits and other vulgarities are hurled at this strange woman who seems to be imitating their precious Red Nightingale. The beginnings of a violent outburst are quelled instantly as Francine, without missing a beat, integrates Gypsy into the concert, trusting in her incredible (if slightly annoying) ability to imitate the people around her. After all, Gypsy has spent many hours watching Francine practice her routines. She silently sends an urgent prayer to the gods as she spins in perfect rhythm with the next line in her song.

To the surprise of everyone in the tavern, Gypsy’s performance perfectly complements Francine’s as they begin singing and dancing in tandem as if they had been performing together for years. The audience is awestruck as Gypsy’s voice melds in perfect harmony with Francine’s, producing wonderful new variations to well-known classics. Bartholomew breathes a sigh of relief as he slowly sits back down on his well-worn seat behind that bar as he realizes that everything is all right.

The audience roars in approval as the show comes to an end. Flowers and coins rain on the pair as they bow and exit the stage, shouts for an encore following them in their wake. As the curtains flap shut, Bartholomew walks up to the stage and clears his throat, but this time it takes a full minute for the noise from their enthusiastic clapping, stomping, hooting, shouting, and whistling to fade away.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says with slight smile, “Francine Tallstar and Verena Gallante, the Red Nightingales. Thank you for-“

The rest is drowned out by the renewed cheers of the audience as they begin to revel and discuss the new songstress. Behind the curtain, Francine is laughing in relief and joy as the muffled cries of the audience surround them.

“You’re so good! And so beautiful! I want to be just like you! Can I sing with you again?” says Gypsy brightly in her slightly peculiar manner of speaking, a little oblivious to the loud applause around.

Francine grabs Gypsy and hugs her tight as she says in her ear “Oh, you precious, silly girl. You aren’t so bad yourself! What do you say we make this a regular thing and start working on shows together?”

A couple of hours later, as the night comes to a close and even the most dedicated bar patrons have left (or have been made to leave by Rattlesnake), Francine emerges from her dressing room and makes her way towards the bar, where Bartholomew is waiting. With an elegant movement of her hips, she sits on a barstool in front of Bartholomew. Many men (and women) would have killed for the privilege of becoming that very stool at that very moment. She sighs in a content, yet very tired manner, and rests her chin on her left hand.

“The usual?”

Francine nods with a quiet smile on her face, a few strands of her red hair falling between her eyes. Too tired to raise her arm, she begins to blow upwards in an attempt to get the rebellious tresses out of her face.

“Good show up there today.” Bartholomew says simply as he slides a golden cocktail in a thin, elegant glass towards Francine.

“Mm.” She replies as she takes a sip and closes her eyes in satisfaction, the slightly sweet and tangy concoction entering her belly and sending waves of warmth and fuzziness echoing throughout her body.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, taking a long pull from his own drink.

“…Nothing. Just tired.”

Bartholomew raises an eyebrow. Francine sniffs quietly and takes another sip of her drink. A full minute passes.

“It’s just that…” She pauses for a few seconds, seeming to struggle to find the words. “That performance earlier got me thinking. I’ve been doing this for a long time, right?”

Bartholomew gives a single nod in assent.

“Today, I realized that I haven’t felt that good about a show in… I don’t even remember the last time. It’s just so… draining, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do and all, but being this passionate, being this invested in what you do, it takes something out of you. You pour your whole heart and soul into a performance and you see the genuine joy and adoration on the faces of your audience and it’s worth it. I love every minute, every second that I’m on stage. It’s just that sometimes… Sometimes it feels like when you give yourself away that completely to a performance, the audience gets to take home a piece of you. A piece of you that you never get back.”

Bartholomew nods quietly.

“And it’s not even that I want those pieces back. That’s part of the job, and I’ve come to terms with it. I just… I wish I could be on the other side of that experience. To be the one to take home a piece instead of giving it away. Today, I got a taste of that when Gypsy started singing by my side. But…”

Bartholomew nods again, as if to say, “Go on.”

“But ever since I started performing, I found that I’ve been… unable to enjoy music like I used to. It’s like… I’ve been shown how a magic trick works, and suddenly all the mystery is gone. All the magic is gone. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t… get it back.”

She sniffles and smiles thinly as she drinks the last of her cocktail. As she sets the empty glass on the counter, Bartholomew coughs and fixes his gaze at something behind her. Francine turns around to find Cage fully clad in armor, magical lights illuminating his body while his cape flows in the non-existent wind. He looks absurdly heroic. Absurd, but heroic. Francine starts giggling, obviously struggling to hold it in but failing miserably. Cage strikes a heroic pose and Francine bursts out laughing, all premise of propriety completely forgotten. Shepherd smiles. It has been a long time since he has seen Francine this happy.

After managing to catch her breath, Francine approaches Cage, wiping tears from her eyes.

Smiling broadly, she puts a hand on his chest and says, “Thank you for that. Really. I haven’t laughed like that in a long, long time.”

Suddenly, the front door of The Last Resort swings open and a handsome, dark haired soldier with two red studs on his ear walks in with the air of confidence and swagger of a man who is as much at home in the battlefield as he is between the legs of a beautiful woman.

“Hello, love. Ready to go?” he asks Francine with a smile that would charm anything with a pulse. Probably some things without a pulse, too.

Francine nods her head casually, the slight reddening of her cheeks betraying her feelings for this man. She turns her head back to Cage.

“Thank you, again. I really needed that. You’re a good friend, Cage.” she whispers.

She then makes her way to the handsome soldier, a little skip in her step. He envelops her in his muscular arms and kisses her softly on the lips, lifting her off the ground and twirling her around in a small circle. Arm in arm, they wave goodbye to the crew of The Last Resort and step out into the night.

Cage hears a soft cough behind him. He turns to find that it is Shepherd, who is offering what seems to be a very stiff drink.