<span style="font-size: 15px">Heat graced the roof of his mouth, and a blade the walls of his throat. Thin waxed ropes flossed through his nostrils as he hung weights from his septum. His limelight wasn't under the dark ceiling of a tent but the scorching heat outside, intimately close with the onlookers, all their disgust and awe close enough to wallow in. Kevice practiced tricks of the body's limits and challenged extremes of discomfort. He swallowed swords and spit fire with nails hammered into his nostrils, going as far as to let a pretty guest pull one out if they were confident enough to step forward. His attire was loose fitted and revealing, a marvel of patterned, eastern silks that made kevice look far more exotic than he was, once a boy off the streets who did petty stunts for coin. Some where painful, but the attention too enticing to scare him away. He wondered if it was that "brashness" as Mathis called it, that landed him here, surrounded by oddities and outcasts. Kevice called it bravery. If one of those wire walkers fell, they might've broke one of their skinny little legs. Him though, he could lose his face in a flurry of flames if he weren't careful.<br/>
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He saw a large, hulking form in the corner of his eye, Rakkurat, a beast who wandered the fairgrounds when not on his act. Kevice anticipated what he was waiting for, closed his own show with a final flair and patted the big guy on the arm as he past, a thick sack full of sharp objects and heavy tools thrust over his back. Mathis wanted him, surely, which meant the prince and his goon failed to go out on time again.<br/>
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When he got inside the man was yelling, frantic, but not out of control. Mathis was doing his best to maintain a middle ground and standard of self control amidst whatever kiddish tantrum his stars pulled off now. Kevice's own complacent attitude didn't help the ringleader calm down at all, he was nearly pushed out by an oh-so kind hand on the shoulder after gathering some gear for a bigger show. Torches, pokers, anything that would amuse a distant audience.<br/>
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It was a fairly decent distraction, if he were allowed the priviledge of bragging, a right he felt was his by birth. Though the scrabbling tattoos that covered his body depicting laughing demons and ogres were a black blur to the crowd, he did best to make his fiery breath reach the rafters, and tossed knives high enough to where the sunlight cast through the holes of the big top refracted off it's jagged edge. It was never a bad trade, to have some time on the big stage. The people were in greater numbers, and though less personal, every sound they made only encouraged a larger spectacle. A change in lighting by the circus' many assistants signaled his leave, to soon be replaced by the big finale, prompting kevice to sneak out of place for those to replace him.<br/>
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Mathis was sighing, the poor old man, withered by the burden of dealing with such a mess. It pissed off the tatted half-elf a great deal as well, if Vasyli were on his level, sleeping in a group bunk each night and bathing with the whole lot, eating in a small, on-site cafeteria, he'd get fired fast as a shot. Kevice hated status, everything about it, whether it was jealousy or the feeling that it sheltered men like that from real problems, there was nothing good about special little perks and a high pay raise. He was content to take his coin and spend it on the nightlife, it was enough to lick sweet salts off a beauty's back if he was willing to skip a few meals. That was all that really mattered outside the joys of work anyway.<br/>
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His boss, their boss, thanked him. It was sincere, Mathis didn't seem like the type to lie, maybe embellish the truth now and then, but never lie. Regardless Kevice didn't take it to heart, shrugging it off and calling it a night. He did his part, it was fun, he was allowed a breather, ignoring the chatter and roaring that echoed across the fairgrounds from the big top as it's finest show was able to resume. One day they'd mess it up, fall on their faces, maybe even literally. He didn't know which one he liked more, or disliked. Mister Pretty was annoying in his elegance and stuffy facade, loud at times, and Kevice was the only one allowed to be loud. The human however was just unremarkable, a tag along, in a way he understood Vasyli's sentiment. There was nothing special about extra weight, he himself would outright refuse to be given a second hand just to toss flaming spokes off of.<br/>
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It wasn't outrageous to say that most of the elfkind were less docile and more territorial than the actual minotaur on set.</span>