Pyrolatria

cns: (implied) mentions of sex and murder, alcohol, passing out (not due to alcohol)

The flames gently caressed the black skin they rushed along, like shallow rivulets, streams on obsidian, gushing sparky bursts into the air as the muscles moved beneath the skin below.

Inhale.

Exhale.

With every breath another three steps, a jump, a spin, with every spin another gleaming trace in the freezing winter's air. With every trace another wave of cheers, and with every wave of cheers Jonquil's heart beat higher. 

This was where he was alive.

Reyjonquilas Reyzquilaras, who proudly bore his mother's name behind his own, was a performer through and through. 

Born in the legendary City of Brass to a lesser Efreeti father and an elvish mother, his earliest memory was seeing the Sultan's court jester perform the ninefold Cinderdance in the Sultan's great palace.

Maybe that was the reason for Jonquil's obsession with the fiery performance native to his home plane, maybe it was predestined for him all along, or maybe something else entirely.

It didn't matter to Jonquil: The only thing that mattered to him was mastering the Cinderdance himself. 

And master it, he did.

 

The Cinderdance had ten folds, each increasing exponentially in difficulty. 

Of all the inhabitants of the City of Brass, only the royal court jester was proficient in all ten.

There was not a single dancer who could flawlessly dance the ninth and eighth fold either, and only a handful who had mastered the seventh.

The sixth and fifth were considered incredibly hard, measured by a mundane professional dancer's standards, the fourth and third were considered masterable within a decade of hard and dedicated study, the second was attainable within a few months, and the first and easiest fold was learnable by any competent dancer, given the right teacher and a few weeks of time.

Jonquil's teacher was a well-respected and practiced bard who had travelled the material plane and the plane of fire for many years and enacted the Cinderdance in front of countless amazed commoners already. As such his services as a private teacher weren't cheap at all, for he was proficient in four folds.

At age fourteen, Jonquil had surpassed him. 

Every waking hour he spent on studying and honing his skills, working out and sharpening his glimmersense, which was how the required predisposition for pyromancy was called in the Brass City.

Most of his ordinary school teachers understood, since skilled Cinderdancers were highly respected in the City, and turned a blind eye to his rather underwhelming scholastic morals. 

His aspirations and skills made him a small celebrity in the City, and among Cinderdancers many even called him a progidy. 

When he received a personal invitation to dance with the court jester himself, he was beyond thrilled. 

The night before he had to practically force himself to sleep, but when he arrived at the palace, there was no big crowd to greet or watch them dance, and he was instead asked to a small back room in the jester's chambers. 

There, the normally so jovial and cordial jester faced him with a decision. 

Either he were to leave the City of Brass before the age of sixteen, or he and his mother would have an unfortunate accident not a week after.

Terrified and disillusioned Jonquil, who at that time was working on the sixth fold, left the city only a few days after that encounter.

To his mother and friends he only explained he wanted to see more of the wide world, and despite this leaving them puzzled, most accepted the excuse.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Jonquil had stolen manuscripts from the court jester's private library that fateful night. 

They were the original works of the first Cinderdancer whose name had been lost in the sands of time, but his works were still well-conserved and handed down through the endless generations of dancers after him.

In them, detailled descriptions and guiding instructions explained how to master the higher folds of the dance.

And so young Jonquil took off on the great adventure that his life was set to become. 

While he made a living entertaining patrons and travellers in taverns and caravans with his dance, indeed seeing more of the world, he didn't neglect his studies much at all. 

Just that now, instead of just working hard, he played hard as well.

When a younger version of him had been a true one trick pony with a borderline unhealthy obsession, his time in rapidly changing social environments now taught him social skills, too.

Soon, the barkeepers and travelling salesmen not only let him stay for the unique and fiery kind of entertainment he provided, but also for the good company he made. 

So that was how and why a week ago he had been hired by Jorj Ikonora, a wealthy merchant who had inherited a considerable fortune and wasn't afraid to spend it on high quality diversion: Enter Jonquil. 

Every night at sundown he performed the dance and revelled in the awe of the nearly fifty travelling company members. 

Another spin, another flame on his skin, and then the performance culminated in a fiery finish combusted multiple meters up in the air. 

When the following wave of applause surged over him, Jonquil bowed down deep to the crowd, just like he had been taught years ago. He bowed a couple times and made sure to throw in the occasional wink or air kiss towards the more attractive members of his audience before he noticed someone who hadn't been there the day before. 

The unknown man was wearing a patchwork cloak in all kinds of colors over a bodysuit in bright red and yellow, and his hood covered most of his face in shadow; Jonquil could only see an amused smirk distort his mouth. 

What was even more strange was the fact that nobody else seemed to notice him; Even though he stood in the middle of the roaring crowd, they seemingly moved around instead of with him. 

When Jonquil came up from his next bow, the stranger was gone. He paid him no further notice, too overwhelming was the experience of being cheered at and later the beer and the embrace of the blonde stableboy Jonquil had been eyeing all day. 

But when he laid outside late at night, gazing at the stars and resting after the bath he'd taken to wash off the sweat of the performance, he saw him again.

Standing between two tents just a few meters away, the campfire between them illuminated the colourful garments in a mesmerizing way. 

For a second, neither of them spoke. 

Then the stranger raised his voice and the young Genasi froze. 

"Listen to me and pay attention, son of the flame, for I will say the following one time and one time only.

All your life, the fire within you will burn bright. But when the time comes and the pain of true grief strangles your soul it will quench your flame, and that very instant, you will breathe your last breath."

Every single one of his words sounded like it was coming from a hundred throats, voices young and old, soft and hard, happy beyond belief and so sad they wanted to die.

"When the ninth fold is finally yours, do not linger or tarry. You shan't ever stay still and truly rest, but this restlessness will be what sparks your greatness. 

Keep your fire alive, son of the flame, for it will nourish you on the long way to come. 

Such will be your destiny. We have spoken."

The stranger stepped into the light of the campfire, and Jonquil could for the first time see his face. It was a mad grimace, everchanging, displaying all the emotions under the sun at once, with wide open eyes crying tears of joy and sorrow.

Then he laughed, and Jonquil had never heard anything so terrifying and wonderful. He laughed so hard he had to hold his belly and bend forward, the laugh growing louder and louder until Jonquil snapped out of his paralysis and covered his ears.

But it didn't help, and when the laughter became too loud to bear, everything faded to black in front of the young jester's eyes. 

When he woke up again there was nothing there any more, only the embers of the fire in front of him, the stars above him and the breath of the stableboy in the tent behind him.

What a strange dream that had been, he thought. 

Jonquil stood up and knocked some snow off his back, when suddenly he noticed something. 

A frayed patch of deep purple and yellow cloth, right between his feet, innocent as a newborn, yet dooming as a guillotine.