<span style="font-size: 85%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #BF4040">  The encampment stood just outside of town, a myriad of tents and caravans, lonely amongst the rolling hills of Balogna. It was quiet save the nickers of a few curious horses, tied up to the flowering apple trees just outside the perimeter. The sun, which had not yet peeked over the horizon, was prepared to greet the day, as early as it was. <br/>   The tents themselves were bright and medium in numbers, with perhaps fifty or so grouped together. Each tent held a sleeping personage; a member of the Laughing Kings Theatrical Group. To call them a 'Group' was somewhat unusual, seeing as how they had more in common with a pack of wild dogs or a dysfunctional family than anything else. Taking into account their fondness of thievery, they did seem to be an odd sort. Among these members was Alyas Byward, son of Alexander Byward; leader (to place the term loosely) of the Kings. A notorious early riser, it was of no surprise to the morning that he was, in fact, perfectly awake and ready to begin the disassembly of the camp. While their stay in Balogna had  been pleasant, the Group, as a rule, never stayed in one place for very long, to ease the spread of 'Ideas' that they might not be as cheery and kind-hearted as they first proposed.<br/>   To some, as it is often in the world, some people may find their cause just, while others do not. They found it perfectly acceptable for you to think whatever you pleased, as long as it didn't interfere with their business. Their business included all kinds of entertainment, such as fortune telling, play performing, and the ever-popular but cruel blood sports, such as bear baiting. Alyas occasionally found himself a member of the theatre performers but more often found himself as a simple con artist, using trick cards, cups and balls, and other things that convinced people into giving him their money. He played the harp as well, though the occasion for him to was rare, since he doubted his own abilities as a musician, and crowds heightened his fear of self.<br/>   He sat on his bed, plucking at the harp in his lap thoughtfully. It was too early to begin work, he figured, since no one else was up, and taking down a tent was usually, with the most ease, a three man job. His bright red tent, which also doubled as his performing booth, was in the shape of a square, panels of fabric flowing from the ground to four feet above his head, meeting in a point at the top. Most of the Laughing Kings shared tents, but Alyas had won this particular tent in a rather invigorating game of primero, to which he could have lost his tongue had he not slipped a winning card up his sleeve. <br/>   Alyas glanced around the inside of the tent, which was sparsley furnished at best.  A large oak chest which contained all of his belongings was pressed up against his bed, and an old, rickety chair sat in the corner, currently being occupied by a mass of pale orange fur. The creature was named Bordeaux, Alyas' companion of four years. Unlike most things in his tent, the feline was not won through a card game or sleight of hand, but honestly bought and paid for. Not one for bursts of compassion, that action had been out of character for Alyas, and the story of the two's meeting was quite unusual.<br/>As if in answer to his undirected gaze, Bordeaux let out a prissy yowl, stretching her lanky body over the edges of the seat.<br/>   "Oh, can it," Alyas complained. His voice was slightly hoarse, as it was most mornings, but otherwise his voice was clear, each word enunciated with care, at the perfect tone where you couldn't help but hear his voice in a crowd. He reached over his bed to grab a pillow, which he promptly lobbed playfully at the vocal cat. The projectile missed by a yard, hitting the tent wall with a muffled thump, causing the fabric to flutter before falling back in place. The cat, obviously used to these, what she assumed, displays of affection, didn't flinch but instead hopped off the chair and padded over to her master, jumping on to his lap, which was still occupied by the harp. He let out a muffled shout and pulled the harp out from under her, sending her tumbling in a comical way. He lifted the harp to his face and upon inspection found no scratches or broken strings, much to his relief. He let out a pent up sigh and reluctantly reached down to pat Bordeaux on the head. "Idiot," he muttered, not quite sure what he would have done if she had indeed broken one of his most prized possessions.<br/>   Light was now beginning to diffuse through the tent walls, giving the area a warm red glow. Alyas let in a deep breath to smell the fresh spring air. It was filled with the scents of wet grass and dandelions. The man had always had a fondness for the yellow-capped flowers, even though they were weeds. One of his first memories was of him asking his father why people hated them. Alexander had sucked his cheek thoughtfully before replying, "because they grow over crops, and destroy them." <br/>Alyas had responded quickly, being the optimistic child he was, "we could tell them to stop growing so much. If there wasn't as many, then people would think they were pretty." <br/>   Alexander had laughed, the way adults laugh when children say things that they don't understand. "You tell them then, Alyas," he said through his tears, patting the child on the head fondly. <br/>   Alyas stood and stretched, harp in one hand. The day had finally begun. He could feel the life of the morning spreading through the encampment, a kind of hum of energy. Noises began piling up upon each other, slowly at first, of tent flaps being lifted, people speaking in hushed tones, and the sounds of booted feet hitting the packed down earth.<br/>   Alyas, already being dressed, simply had to slip on his black leather boots, which were cuffed and rose to mid-shin, to begin the day. As the floor of the tent was laid with fine fabrics, the centrepiece being a skillfully woven blue runner, he refrained from putting his footwear on inside the tent, and so the boots were situated just outside the opening. The more boisterous members of the kings had once taken his boots as a prank, but once Alyas tracked them down, albeit barefoot, and whipped them soundly, there were no further incidents. <br/>   The tall man bent down to exit through the flap of the tent, blinking rapidly as his dark eyes adjusted to the amount of light outside his abode. Red sunspots danced in the corner of his vision for a while, as his tent happened to be facing due east, right into the view of the sun. Putting a hand over his eyes, Alyas bent down to put on his boots. He carefully tucked his pants into each, leaving a small amount of bagginess at the bottom.<br/>He heard a plaintive meow behind him before pressure was aplied to his curved back. Bordeaux was climbing up to his shoulders, which was her usual perch when travelling with Alyas. He stood, scratching gently behind the dainty cat's ear. <br/>It was now time to start the day. Alyas would take down his tent,  as soon as he found some assistants to take down the bulky mass of canvas. He wound his way through the brightly coloured caravans, easily a head taller than many people he passed. Most of them were middle-aged, with the worn look of someone who had been on the road, just on the edge of poverty. And yet, everyone he passed greeted him with a smile or a bowed head. One man gave him a pat on the shoulder, to which Alyas immediately grabbed the man's arm and twisted it behind hid back.<br/>   "Good morning, Jordan," Alyas grinned, pressing his nails into the man's clenched fist. The seedy-looking man flinched, making noises of protest as his hand was forced open. Inside was Alyas' spare florins, which, while not worth very much, he felt that they were his possessions and not to be taken by others. Jordan glared at him sullenly, sliding his hands over top of each other repeatedly. He was the resident sneak-thief, who slit people's purses during live performances. Unlike most members of the band, he seemed to have an incomprehensible need to steal, and thus no one liked him quite as much as he liked himself.<br/>    Alyas left the man after giving him a swift boot to the shin. Normally he would discipline the man further, as he was a believer in the punishment / reward style of teaching, but he was in a hurry today, as everyone else surely was. The set-up and take-down of camp were always the busiest days, starting early and ending late. While travelling was fun, it took its toll on them after weeks of motion, and they were always glad to set up camp at a town to perform. Even that would become wearing after a while, and they would once again long for travel. It was a convenient cycle that kept them motivated to keep going,  and there was rarely complaints. Some people had left the Group, or been forcibly removed from the Group over the years, but new additions were always made. It was amazing, the human thirst for adventure. Without it, Alyas and his father would still be butchers, constantly cheated out of their money. He couldn't dare to think what wold have happened if they hadn't forsaken that business. <br/>   As he made his way across the camp, more men and women began waking. Shouts and clamours for assistance now joined the fray of noises, dust from the ground swirling its way through the maze of bodies and canvas, carried by the breeze. Men easily outnumbered women four to one, seeing as how it was they who usually were present in these occupations. It was only recently that it became socially acceptable for a woman to be a stage performer, their roles before having been played by men. <br/>   Jumping on to a laden hand cart, Alyas was pulled to his father's tent before being noticed by the carrier, who threw him off, cursing him for his free-loading. Alyas waved the man goodbye, a smirk on his face, before ducking through the flap entrance of the tent into his father's presence. <br/>   His father sat at the foot of his bed, examining a map with a furrowed brow. Alyas let out a small cough before bowing his head respectfully. "Good morning, father." He used the full title, not a more endearing term like papa or dad, not because the man was cold or their relationship was distant, but because it just seemed proper. Alexander looked up, smiling. The man was blonde, with shaggy long hair all about his face. A beard covered his chin, giving him the appearance of a wizened lion. He had strong brow creases, caused by his evident fondness of using his eyebrows to convey emotions. <br/>   "Come and sit, m'boy," Alexander beckoned, patting the space beside him, "I need your opinion on something." His father often asked Alyas for his opinion on anything from food to business transactions, something that Alyas was glad to do. It made him feel important, integral. That need was deep set in most people, him perhaps mroe than most.<br/>   Alyas sat obediently, gazing  intently at where his father's index finger was resting on the map. It was a map focusing on the trade and highway routes of the states, and his father's finger rested on their current location, Balogna. "We could," his father began, moving his finger along a thick red line on the map, "head along the East route, play it safe. We know the towns there, we do our business and get out with a good amount of gold, as per usual, or we could go North. I've picked out a safe line of towns to make our way along, but it could be risky, adding more on our radar."<br/>  Alyas nodded thoughtfully, pondering the map. "I think it's worth it to leave the beaten track," he mused, "that area's got quite a few of the richer folks who could do well to part with their money." The thought of the upper class made his face slide into a displeased grimace. Leeches, who worked off the efforts of the middle class and shunted the poor into the back alleys, where they couldn't be seen, even the Priulis. The Laughing Kings considered it their duty to make those people feel cheated, a small satisfaction for those who had lost their homes or even their families to idiocy.<br/>   "Very well." Alexander rolled up the map smartly, tucking it back into its red leather storage tube. He turned to his son, a twinkle in his eyes. "But you weren't here for this. What's on your mind?"<br/>   Alyas grinned. His father was sharp, as usual. Alexander not only managed the money, routes, and business of the Group, but was also one of the stage performers. He had been running the company for nigh on three years and, though he was older than most in their company, wasn't likely to give up any time soon. Under his father's watchful green gaze, Alyas chose his words carefully. Even the tiniest careless word could tip his father off to his plans, and it was a discussion he reserved to have with his mother only.<br/>   "Where is mother? I wish to speak with her." Alyas knew the woman was flighty, and the person who was most likely to know her location would be her husband. His mother was trouble sometimes, wandering into town on days she knew full well they were supposed to hit the road, or going off the trail in search of berries. A trait that could be considered foolish or adventurous. Alyas had always admired her sense of spirit, but was still grounded enough to find it somewhat over-the-top.<br/>   Alexander chortled, standing up from the bed with a grunt. He was a somewhat portly man, the very opposite of his beanpole son. It was often a joke among the Band that Alyas would someday shrink and stretch, to become the exact likeness of his father. He had become horrified by that thought and strived to grow in height all through his teenage years, though he had give up around the age of twenty, when the measuring stick stayed resolutely in the same spot for several months. He didn't like the concept of becoming either of his parents, but rather thought to be a unique man, the only one in all of Italy.<br/>   "Your mother, eh? While you always make time for me, you sure are a momma's boy, aren't ya?"<br/>   Alyas hid his rolling eyes behind a blink, bored by his father's constant idle chatter he deemed important to create after a question was answered.<br/>   "-why I remember you, at the wee age of three, holding on to her skirts and wailing fo-" Alyas paid no heed to his story, having heard it before. He instead focused on getting the dirt out from under his fingernails, hoping that they would stop at a town with a bath house on their journey. He was a clean man, preferring not to be covered in grime. It also didn't pay to be dirty, as he seemed more beggar-like if he retained the smell of horses and the earth.<br/>   Bordeaux let out a plaintive mew, reminding Alyas that she was there, and that they had not yet had breakfast. <br/>   "-you ran and ran, but she just couldn't stop laughing for the look on your fa-!" Alyas interjected quickly, his calm, patient demeanour at its last legs.<br/>   "-I'm sorry father, but where is she?"<br/>   Alexander balked slightly at his son's impertinence before answering with an air of reluctance, "she's gone to the cook's tent for breakfast."<br/>   "I see," Alyas bowed politely, turning on his heel to leave the tent, "good day, father."<br/>   Alexander watched him with a curious look in his eyes before nodding his head in return, "good day, son." Alyas went through the tent flap, and his father was left alone.<br/>    Alyas was smart enough to shade his eyes this time, though the full force of the sun was not positioned at the entrance this time, as it faced north. It was convenient, he mused, that his mother was at the cook's tent, as Bordeaux was becoming quite irritable, swatting at his ear and meowing disdainfully. The prissy creature didn't have to work but still demanded to be fed and cared for, yet she still had more integrity than the nobles.<br/>   The word 'tent' to describe the cook's residence was under exaggerated, being easily the largest tent in the camp, able to fit everyone under its one canvas roof. It was more accurately a marquee, used by the Group for the gatherings of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  On occasion it was used for parties or important announcements. During this time of season the walls were rolled up, leaving only the tent posts and roof. The wooden tables holding this day's first meal were visible, along with scattered seating. <br/>   Being hungry, the rich smell wafting through the area made him feel slightly light headed. The smell of bread dominated, accompanied by the light scent of wine. It was a common drink, and while Alyas didn't enjoy the taste, it was better than drinking the filthy river water.<br/>   He entered the tent, eyes scanning quickly for the shock of brown curls that constituted his mother's physical essence. Other than that feature, the woman was quite bland in appearance, but her personality was anything but. She was an integral part of the Group, though many might not know. She was the kind of person to do something with no expectation for reward or praise. A fine example of a well-bred lady, though Alyas' view of her might be biased, and people's opinions are always fluctuating. He was one of the few women he respected, alongside Victoria Romano, another member of the Kings. He grimaced at the thought of her, not through hate, but more a gamely rivalry. Her fortune-telling had lost him out of a rich-looking couple who took to her 'prophecy' that they would met a strange, tall man, intent on taking their money. While this had been completely true, it lost Alyas out of some perfectly good business. He planned on enacting his revenge soon enough. He had learned this information in a rather winding way; gossip was the favourite pass time of the group, and it was quite difficult to keep any secrets. <br/>    Alyas didn't see mother among the heads in the tent. He still had a task to complete, however: breakfast. He seated himself in a black chair, his weight pushing the legs into the damp earth. It had rained quite a bit the night before, the feeling of dampness still hanging lightly in the air. <br/>   Alyas' thoughts of the weather were interrupted by a small cough behind him. He turned to find himself in the presence of a fair-faced child, with blonde curls and a hopeful look on his face. In his arms was a wicker basket with two handles, which he had to stretch with fervency to grasp. Within the basket came the smell of ripe fruit, evidently containing some sort of breakfast pastry.<br/>   "Care for a sweet roll?" the child asked politely, his voice pleasantly clipped in a respectful tone. He wore a rich blue tunic and a hat that was much too large for him and subsequently flopped into his eyes. Alyas knew him as the son of the cook, a helpful lad that was always willing to assist, especially if he received a reward afterwards.<br/>   Alyas smiled, giving the young boy, likely around the age of ten, a pat on the head. "Thank you, Nicholas," he said, taking a roll from the basket. He took a bite, closing his eyes to savour the taste of flaky pastry and ripe strawberries. After a few moments he peeked open one eye, still feeling the presence of another. He found the boy still standing there sheepishly, as if waiting for something. There was a moment of reluctance before he reached into his pocket and withdrew two florins, which he then tossed over to the boy.<br/>   The boy cradled the coins like precious children, grinning broadly at his new found friend, Alyas. "Thank you, sir!" He tottered away, walking with a strange bend to his knees in an attempt to keep the basket from shifting. Alyas finished his sweet roll thoughtfully, and cast his gaze over to the north. The marquee was a few feet from a sloping hill, revealing the landscape of Italy in all its splendor. Green hills, dotted with yellow, stretched for miles before abruptly quelled by equally green mountains. The occasional group of trees clustered together, a dark speck that was overwhelmed by larger colours. <span style="font-style: italic">To fly above all of this,</span> Alyas mused, <span style="font-style: italic">would surely be a dream.</span> The tasks of the day were soon required to be done, but for now the hopeful man sat, thoughts cast towards a bright, magnificent future.</span></span>