La Ville Lumière is city of art, music, love and, most importantly, magic. Even in its modern form the lights were dazzling, the heat that rose from the streets into the cooling night air heady and thick. Everywhere one looked there was passion, from the quarreling lovers spouting French curses from wrought iron balconies to the tourists on the streets anxiously clutching their paper tickets and anticipating a show.
As a city of Art, Paris always had a show, and in many cases a show before the show, and one before that. Performers crowded around the venue like garishly covered ravens at the hangman’s noose, plying their trade with every gimmick and gizmo, every flourish and flair, and every performance one would expect from such a culturally rich society. Mimes struggled against invisible foes, singers warbled their latest tributes and plucked at their various instruments, statues in golden and silvered paint made subtle and deliberate motions to attract the eyes of those who waited. All of these performances and more vied for the attention of the crowd, but barely an eye graced their works.
Eclectic and inviting as the collection may have been, the art of the street performance had been ruled by a singular figure for some months now, a man known only as The Magician by whisper and rumor. As his name suggested he was a performer of illusions and impossible feats, and as the air of mystery around his name would suggest his true identity was quite unknown. It was never known when he would appear, or where, but even other performers would become enraptured when he did.
So it was tonight, as the lights of the very city itself seemed to bend and break to allow his entrance, a flash of smoke and glitter that suddenly blew over the crowd to announce the man as he walked from it upon thin air. Hovering over the crowd as he was every eye cast skyward, perhaps seeking a glimpse under the velvet mask or maybe entertained by the spectacle. With a cape as dark as the night itself, a cane of apparently solid ebony, and a top hat that added a near foot to his stature the black domino mask added to the mystique of the hovering performer.
Fireworks erupted in the sky, seeming to surround The Magician before he dropped to the cobblestone below, a sizable hole already cleared for his show by the more cognizant onlookers; those who had seen his shows before. With a flash of emerald fire The Magician’s cape swirled as he turned, arms raised high to the rising cheers of those who had come to see. Many held tickets in their hands, though it seemed most had gathered for his show alone. With a few more turns, the crowd’s excitement building with each round, The Magician lowered his hands in a soft, placating motion.
Every throat fell silent, and in that silence a whisper broke through. ”Est-ce que tout le monde est prêt pour un spectacle!” The locals, of course, heard this in their mother tongue and paid little mind to the words in the throes of the massive cheer that rippled through the crowd. Had the masses been less entranced perhaps they would have noted that the tourists, those of many different nationalities, also seemed to understand the words. Before the fervor could die down a torrent of those emerald flames swept before the crowd on the ends of his billowing cape as he walked the perimeter of the people who had gathered. Though they licked at their feet, though the green fires roared in their faces, nothing more than a warm breeze caressed them.
The Magician stopped, framed by the walls of the nearest alleyway, with his hands held palms down at his waist. A hush fell over the masses, an expectation of whisper and awe. Somewhere the soft, mellow sounds of a theatrical score sounded from an unseen piano as The Magician’s hands twitched; as if they commanded the music to rise from the stone streets themselves. ”Ce soir, j’ai un spectacle très spécial pour vous!”
”Tonight, I have a very special show for you!”
The music rose as his hands reached his ribs. Prismatic sparks began to spill from beneath his cape, the emerald of his flames joined by reds and yellows, blues and violets that dazzled the eye. Where the sparks landed roses appeared, their colors dictated by the little motes of fire they were born from. Though no spark touched the people in the crowd, and no person in the crowd made to touch them, the roses were snatched by every available hand without hesitation. Mementos to seeing a local legend live themselves.
”Ce soir, je vais vous montrer un miracle que je ne peux pas accomplir seul.”
”Tonight, I will show you a miracle that I myself cannot perform alone.”
The music hit a crescendo as his hands reached his shoulders and the shower of sparks ended suddenly. Deep echoing booms, like that of a massive bass drum, shook the ground from all directions.
”Sans plus tarder, permettez-moi de vous présenter mon assistant pour la soirée. Un grand coup de main pour La Marcheuse de L’ombre!”
”Without further ado, allow me to introduce my assistant for the evening! A big hand for The Shadow Walker!”
Again it seemed that the instant translation was lost upon the crowd as the drumming stopped, the cape twirled and The Magician stepped away from the face of the alley in a swirl of green flame and black fabric. Raucous cheers flew up with another flurry of fireworks; cheers for The Magician, and for the petite, quite surprised looking Shadow Walker as she stepped from the alleyway to be presented to such a large crowd.
The entire performance, it seemed, had been timed for the moment Pepper walked through her gate.
