The Elven Art of Falling Gracelessly

Chapter 7: Dockside Disguises

“There,” Eryndor whispered, pointing toward a flickering lantern near the end of the pier. “She’s actually doing it. She’s meeting with the Southern Shroud.”

“Looks like my social schedule just got a lot more dangerous,” Eryndor added, his eyes fixed on the exchange below. “I really hope these guys are allergic to something, because if they are, I’ve got a backup plan.”

Aelith grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the shadows of a warehouse. “We can’t just stand here in our ceremonial rags, Eryndor. We stick out like a pair of sore thumbs in a glove factory.”

“So, what’s the move? We head home and call it a day?”

“No,” Aelith said, looking him up and down with a grimace. “We need a cover. And I know exactly where to get one that won’t ask questions.”

“Please don’t say the dumpsters. I’ve had enough items in my hair for one week.”

“Lorandir’s backroom,” she clarified, already steering him toward the merchant district. “Move. Quietly.”

Ten minutes later, Eryndor was staring at a sequined vest that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated eyesight.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eryndor said, holding the garment away from him as if it might bite. “I look like a disco ball that exploded inside a glitter factory.”

“Oh, shut it,” Lorandir Greenvale said, tossing a pair of flared trousers at him. “You wanted a disguise that says ‘wandering entertainer’ so you can blend in at the docks tavern. That vest screams talent. Or at least it screams for attention.”

“It screams for a doctor,” Eryndor muttered, looking at Aelith. “And what are you wearing?”

Aelith emerged from behind a screen, wearing a dark, modest cloak and a simple traveler’s tunic. “I’m the manager. I handle the coins. You’re the star of the show.”

“Why am I always the one wearing the feathers?” Eryndor sighed, pulling the vest over his head. “Lorandir, if I die in this, I’m haunting your shop first.”

“Just pay me the five gold you owe me for the harp bet before you die,” Lorandir grinned, ushering them toward the side door. “Break a leg, Silvaris. Literally. It would probably look better than whatever moves you’ve got.”

As they stepped back into the cool night of the docks, the atmosphere shifted. The Salted Cup tavern loomed ahead, a cacophony of fiddle music and raucous laughter spilling out into the salty air.

“Okay, plan,” Aelith whispered, her hand briefly touching his glittery shoulder. “We go in, we find a spot near the back with a view of the wharf entrance, and we watch for Lethielle and her friend.”

“And I don’t have to dance?” Eryndor asked hopefully.

“Unless the situation demands it. Stay low. Be unremarkable.”

“Aelith, look at me. I’m literally glowing in the dark.”

They pushed through the swinging doors. The smell of cheap ale, fried fish, and unwashed sailors hit them like a physical blow. The room was packed with elves of every social tier, most of them three pints deep into a very good night.

“Find a table,” Aelith hissed.

“I’m trying! There’s a guy over there who looks like he’s sleeping on his own beard!”

They maneuvered through the crowd, but as they neared the center of the room, the music suddenly stopped. A heavy-set elf with a booming voice stood up on a table.

“Alright, you lot! We had the juggler, we had the bard who couldn't rhyme ‘moon’ with ‘spoon,’ and now we’ve got some fresh meat!”

Eryndor tried to vanish behind a support beam. It didn't work.

“Hey! You there! Shiny!” the announcer shouted, pointing a thick finger directly at Eryndor. “What do you call yourself?”

“I call myself… leaving,” Eryndor squeaked, trying to turn around.

“Nonsense!” the crowd roared. “Get up there, sparkles!”

Aelith leaned into his personal space, her voice low and urgent. “Eryndor, if we cause a scene by refusing, the guards will be over here in seconds. They’re already suspicious of newcomers tonight.”

“You’re sending me to the slaughter, Aelith!”

“Go! Do the dance thing! I’ll keep an eye on the door!” She gave him a firm shove toward the raised wooden stage.

Eryndor stumbled onto the boards, his boots squeaking in the sudden silence. He looked out at a sea of expectant faces. In the corner of his eye, he saw Aelith disappear into the shadows near the harbor-side window.

“Well?” the announcer barked. “Give us the Silvan Shuffle! Or maybe a Golden Glide?”

“Right. Yes. The… the Quantum Jiggle,” Eryndor blurted out. “It’s a very modern technique. Very high-brow. You probably wouldn’t have seen it in the city.”

“Get on with it!” a sailor yelled.

The fiddler started a fast, frantic tempo. Eryndor stood there for three seconds, his brain a total blank. Then, his left knee gave a familiar, rhythmic pop.

“Oh boy,” he whispered.

He started by swinging his arms, but because of his oversized sleeves, he looked like a bird trying to recover from a concussion. He took a step, slipped on a patch of spilled grog, and did a complete 360-degree spin that ended in a nearly-split position.

The crowd gasped.

“He’s… he’s incorporating environmental hazards!” someone shouted.

Eryndor, realizing he was currently not being arrested or murdered, leaned into the chaos. He hopped on one leg, flailed his arms to keep his balance, and performed a series of rapid, jerky lunges that looked exactly like he was trying to dodge invisible bees.

“Look at that footwork!” another patron yelled, slamming a mug on the table. “It’s so erratic! It’s avant-garde!”

From the side, Aelith watched with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. She looked from Eryndor—who was currently vibrating in place while miming a tree in a hurricane—to the crowd, who were beginning to cheer rhythmically.

“He’s actually winning them over,” she murmured to herself. “The absolute idiot is becoming a legend.”

Eryndor was sweating now. Every time he stumbled, he turned it into a pose. He tripped over his own sequins, performed a frantic tuck-and-roll, and emerged pointing at the ceiling like a triumphant statue.

“More!” they screamed.

“I can’t… more… my spine is… screaming!” Eryndor wheezed, his voice lost in the thunderous applause.

He scanned the room while he ‘choreographed’ a series of frantic shrugs. At the back window, he saw Aelith go rigid. She wasn't looking at him anymore.

She looked toward the door. Lethielle was there. She was standing in the shadows of the vestibule, handing a small, rectangular object to a figure shrouded in a deep-grey cloak. In exchange, the hooded stranger held up a small glass vial filled with a faint, pulsing violet light.

Aelith caught Eryndor’s eye. She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then toward the door.

We need that vial, her silent look said.

I am busy being a disco god! Eryndor’s panicked face replied.

The music reached its crescendo. Eryndor knew he had to finish big. He took a running start across the small stage, intending to do a simple theatrical bow. But as luck—or his lack of it—would have it, he stepped squarely on a stray piece of lemon peel.

“Wait, no! Gravity, no!”

Eryndor took off. He didn’t just fall; he launched. He sailed off the front of the stage with his arms extended like a majestic, sequined kite.

The crowd cheered, thinking it was the grand finale.

He didn't hit the floor. He crashed directly into a group of people moving toward the exit. Specifically, he slammed into a tall, hooded figure who had just stepped back from Lethielle.

OOF.*

They both careened into a stack of empty crates near the doorway.

“My apologies!” Eryndor yelled, his face buried in the stranger's scratchy cloak. “That was intentional! Part of the show! High-impact art!”

The hooded figure let out a low, dangerous snarl and tried to shove him off.

“Eryndor, look out!” Aelith’s voice cut through the tavern noise.

As he scrambled to his feet, tangling his glittery vest in the stranger’s buckles, a small object rolled across the floor between them. It was the vial. The violet light flickered inside it like a trapped heartbeat.

The hooded figure reached for it, his movements sharp and fast.

“I don’t think so!” Eryndor shouted, his instinct for physical comedy kicking in. He didn't use a punch or a kick; he simply fell forward again, his shoulder connecting with the stranger’s hip just as the man bent over.

The figure staggered back, his hood falling away to reveal a pair of sharp, angular features and skin the color of deep twilight.

“A Southern Shadow,” Aelith hissed, appearing at Eryndor's side with a blur of silver movement. “Give us the toxin, and maybe you get to leave with your head.”

“You are a fool, little mentor,” the stranger spat, his eyes darting toward the vial that had rolled into the shadows beneath a table. “You think a dancer and a manager can stop the eclipse?”

“He’s not a dancer!” Aelith shouted over the resuming music. “He’s a disaster! And you’re standing right in his path!”

“She’s right!” Eryndor agreed, grabbing a nearby chair. “You don't want to see my second act! It involves props!”

The tavern was still cheering, unaware that a state-level conspiracy was happening ten feet from the bar. Lethielle had already vanished into the misty street, leaving her associate to deal with the sequined menace.

“The vial, Eryndor! Get the vial!” Aelith commanded, drawing a concealed dagger.

“I’m on it! Or near it! I’m in the general vicinity of it!” Eryndor dived toward the table, ready to snag the proof they needed.

But just as his fingers brushed the glass, a heavy boot came down, pinning the vial to the wooden floor. Eryndor looked up into the cold, murderous gaze of the assassin.

“Wait,” Eryndor grinned weakly. “Before we start fighting… did you like the dance? Honestly? On a scale of one to ten?”