<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Burning Man was not a terribly formal event. Nor was it meant to be. Black Rock City came to life once a year in The Middle of Nowhere, Nevada, built from endless caravans of vans, RVs, tents - anything attendees could drive in, pop up, or construct in as little time as possible. By the time the semi-circle of vehicles and temporary accommodations had fully formed, it looked not unlike the world's biggest traveling circus - minus the elephants. For just over a week, performers and onlookers would become part of what was arguably North America's biggest moving piece of art, coming away with a fairly even ratio of enlightenment, hangovers, and heat exhaustion after spending days outside at the tail-end of a desert summer.<br/>
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Vasuki was nothing if not acclimated to the blistering heat of Nevada in August. Birthed in the south of Asia some ages ago, for the vast majority of his existence he had known nothing but scorching heat. It suited his kind. Those born of sand and scales did best in warm climates, and he had been no different, so while attendees of the festival popped in and out of medic vans seeking treatment for sun stroke, he was happy to simply lay out a blanket and bask in the heat. Without a cloud in the noon-ish sky, the temperature was nothing short of brutal, but Vas barely broke a sweat. It would have been a miracle for him to even tan any further; the sun simply had no lingering effect on his skin, <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fimgur.com%2Fa%2FdFD7jyv&amp;hash=e78d7ecf3076699fbc180ea468944641" href="https://imgur.com/a/dFD7jyv" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">even in his grungy getup</a>.<br/>
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His companions, on the other hand, were not so fortunate. "God, it's hot," sighed a slim, delicate slip of a thing as she sank down onto an empty square of the blanket. Legs bent, she rested her elbows atop her knees, reaching with one hand to adjust the dark, wide-brimmed hat on her blonde head. Compared with the tall figure sprawled out beside her, she appeared quite diminutive. When they stood side by side, she barely reached the center of his chest when balanced on her tiptoes, and his chin if she wore heels. Vas had more than once used the advantage of his height to carry her from bars when she had drank to excess, or to drag her away when her hair-trigger of a temper put her in a fighting mood with whichever unfortunate soul crossed her. <br/>
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"So go back to the van," he replied at length, gesturing to <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fimgur.com%2Fa%2FSLLgxtz&amp;hash=cc58646bf31eb4cf9059b17d261cb5a1" href="https://imgur.com/a/SLLgxtz" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">the Dodge Xplorer</a> behind them. "The AC sucks, but at least there's shade."<br/>
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<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fimgur.com%2Fa%2FglPde60&amp;hash=0b4785a31873a5e63eab08444eb20432" href="https://imgur.com/a/glPde60" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">The girl, Pixie</a>, made a face and squinted beneath her shades. "I didn't blow a whole paycheck and a half on my ticket just to hide in the van. Plus!" She brightened up and bounced in place, giving her friend's leg a gentle nudge with her boot. "I'm waiting for that guy with the mutant vehicle. You know, the metal gator-looking thing we saw coming in. I think his RV is around here somewhere..."<br/>
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As she began glancing around, Vas nudged his sunglasses down to see her clearly, grinning at her effort to see through the sea of vehicles to find the object of her lust. "Down, girl," he teased. "It's only day two. Do you really want to blow through your whole supply of condoms before the weekend even hits?"<br/>
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"Hey," she complained. "If I recall correctly, you were pretty busy at Coachella. We barely saw you 'cause you spent the whole first weekend with that pill peddler with the weird hair."<br/>
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"First of all," Vas muttered dryly, shutting his eyes to rest as the sun warmed him, "his name was Jackson. And the hair wasn't weird, it was a mohawk."<br/>
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Pixie made another face, this one teasing. "Who wears mohawks anymore...?"<br/>
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This time, Vas laughed. "I don't know. To be honest, I wasn't really into him for his hair anyway."<br/>
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The blonde giggled, twisting to wipe sweat from her brow onto the back of her forearm. "It was the abs, wasn't it?"<br/>
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"Definitely the abs." Vas snorted dismissively, though it did nothing to displace the half-grin on his lips. "Besides which, he looked damn good in that kilt. Anyway. Where are the others? I thought we were playing today."<br/>
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Pixie peered off into this distance, though this time it was not in search of her infatuation. "They went to find ice so the beer stays cold until tonight."<br/>
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"See, this is the benefit of hard liquor. No need for ice."<br/>
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"Some of us have taste buds," she chided, swatting at him playfully. "You killed yours with that turpentine nonsense."<br/>
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It was his turn to make a face. "It's called Woodford Reserve, you damn heathen." Vas reached for his friend's arm and pulled her down, sending her into a fit of laughter as he wrestled her into the blanket, prompting her over and over again to rescind her choice of words.<br/>
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The other pair in their group, stepbrothers Beau and Jake, rejoined them shortly thereafter, having procured enough ice to keep their cooler stocked for the rest of the day. Only one location in Black Rock City made the precious frozen chips, and naturally it sat far away from their camp. Worth it, they had exclaimed upon returning, fishing six-packs of beer that Vas wouldn't drink from the van before setting up their gear to play. Jam sessions generally went over better while mostly sober, but the group intended to maintain a steady buzz through the afternoon, before the inevitable hedonistic wonderland of the festival began to form after dark. Until then, the foursome would drink and play music.<br/>
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The latter came especially easy to Vas, who had strummed guitars since time immemorial. He remembered the lute as it took prominence in the Renaissance. He remembered the <i>vihuela </i>from 15th century Spain. He even remembered Baroque guitars with an especially strong fondness, but in contemporary North America, he had grown far more used to the heft, tension, and tone of an Ibanez. He owned two, both of which sat in the back of the van, but when he joined the others for their afternoon session, it was with <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fimgur.com%2Fa%2FZGG1pmY&amp;hash=2d618ef5bf258cee7a50a2523cdb9b06" href="https://imgur.com/a/ZGG1pmY" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">the acoustic-electric, its broad front panel stained with a vivid blue sunburst</a>. The weight of the strap felt right bearing down on his shoulder, the tension of the strings pressing into his fingertips, and once the foursome had knocked back one drink each, they tuned up and stood behind the van to play.<br/>
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By the time sundown approached, their lot was overheated, mildly intoxicated, but content nonetheless, more so when they drew a crowd of elaborately dressed, gyrating figures passing by on their way to more bombastic exhibits. Their playlist was an eclectic one, not catering to any specific demographic but then, they hadn't come with the intention of playing more "formal" sets, if any notions of formality existed in Burning Man at all. People wandered in and out as they pleased, stopped to watch and left at their leisure, off to take in as much as they could before their vehicle passes expired. No commitment required. Just how Vas liked it.<br/>
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While Jake rapped away at his portable drums, Beau plucked his bass guitar, and Pixie belted the lyrics to <i>The Chain</i>, Vas strummed along on his trusty Ibanez, moving idly with the rhythm. They had played Fleetwood Mac so often by then that he felt the melody in his bones, knew every adjustment in pitch, every tempo change, and he loved this one the best. A long break sans vocals toward the end of the track afforded him the luxury of an improvised guitar break, which he took gladly for when Vas played, he played with his soul. Played sometimes to the point of exhaustion, until his fingers ached from friction caused by the strings grinding into his flesh. It was a familiar ache, but a necessary one. It sustained him - in every sense of the word.<br/>
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More than anything, Vas enjoyed watching the crowd as he struck the strings, complementing the melody of Pixie's vocals. In their current audience, he saw much of the usual - the stolid toe-tappers, the animated lip-syncers, the subdued harmonizers, the Snapchat wizards. For the short time they listened, Vas basked in their appreciation for the material, drank in their enthusiasm, craving it as a junkie craved a hit. In his core, he could feel every hint of fleeting adoration, could account for every soul who paid attention, but the longer he played, the more he began to focus on just one. One who stood alone, but <i>belonged </i>without a doubt. At first he couldn't place them, but when he began paying closer attention, he found his gaze traveling toward one man at the back of the crowd, and Vas knew instantly that he was different.<br/>
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The nameless man looked the part, from his shaggy hair right down to the fabric on his back, but he almost seemed... clueless. Vas imagined him to be somehow tailor-made for the people who frequented art and music festivals, yet separated from them by an impenetrable transparent sheet. Perhaps not introverted, no, not even out of his depth. "New" was the only word that came to mind. New like a transplant from the farm to the city. New like a singer on their first audition. New like he should have still been wrapped in cellophane. Without actually speaking to the man, he couldn't have possibly known where all this <i>newness</i> came from. But once he made eye contact from that short distance away, a half-smile tugged at his lips and he decided then that one way or another, he would find out. Vas wasn't exactly in the business of picking up strays, but he made exceptions for especially good-looking strays.</span>