====September 18, 2013
====Cerise, Hannah
====Cerise brings the gift of fire dancing… finally.

Who Cerise, Hannah
What Cerise brings the gift of fire dancing… finally.
When There is 1 turn 2 months and 12 days until the 12th pass.
Where Galleries, Southern Weyr

hannah_fire_dance.png cerise2.jpg


galleries.jpg

Galleries
Stone benches rise, black and showing the lack of polish from a thousand seats — by the look of it, these have not been used in… forever, if ever indeed.
Type 'help here' for info on how to view objects on the sands.
On the perch are Mirmirsor, Chimaera, Shank, Fiwa, Prickler, and Ogg.
Cerise is here.
Obvious exits:
Ledges Stairs


-- On Pern --
It is afternoon
It is 2:34 PM where you are.
There is 1 turn 2 months and 12 days until the 12th pass.
It is Spring and 81 degrees. It is slightly overcast.




Rukbat's punishing light has slowly slipped from its midday pinnacle to the softer light of late afternoon. Despite the thick clouds that drift across the robin's egg blue of the sky, enough light spills easily into the rows upon rows of gallery seating. In an effort to escape the heat, Hannah has climbed the steps to these illustrious stone crafted rows, wearing very little in terms of attire: strapless top, short shorts in colors of shades of purple and tan. Her hair is wound into a messy bun held to the crown of her head by a matching purple ribbon. Pale skin is flushed, eyes bright from the heat that curls up from the heated black-and-white sands below. Lazily, she fans herself, seeking reprieve from the heat. Her feet are adorned by rough-worn boots, the tops of the boots leaving inches to spare betwixt leather and calf.

One may hope for a reprieve from the heat but there's none coming and Cerise may well be introducing more to the light-striped galleries. The performer turned candidate has clearly planned this entrance- she too is stripped down to the basics, in a tightly fitted tube top, long-sleeved shrug and a pair of tights that would not be amiss on an Igenite male. These are clothing choices that allow full movement while also protecting the skin, and it's obvious at a glance why she's dressed this way: in one hand, Hannah's practice fan, and in the other a basket piled with what look to be dried sponges from the sea, with a wax-capped flask. Her hair, secured in a jaunty little twist, bounces where curls have come free as she descends the steps. "Good afternoon, my ladies! I come bearing gifts!"

Strands of moonlight pale hair cling to Hannah's neck and jawline, though the bulk of the stuff is caught up in the messy bun at the crown of her head. So when she does turn to Cerise, the green of her eyes seem almost too vibrantly large for the paleness of her face, but it's only a trick of the light and heat, though the yellowing of aged black-eye do little to improve her appearance. It seems as if the junior has thrown nowtimer caution to the wind for her high rise of short, but she's dying here. "Gifts?" Pale brows raise, interest flickering in the languor that lurks within, brought on by the heat. "What do you have there?" She notes the presence of her fan, though eyes fall upon those sponges, head canting to the side.

"Three guesses, and the first two don't count." Cerise can be forgiven foregoing the salute, as her hands are full, right? Or perhaps that will be more easily forgiven once she adjusts course to gain the goldrider's side and deposits the basket on the bench before her. "Having heard of your most grievous maladies, I thought perhaps you could use a little pick me up in the form of combustion. Will Dhiammarath mind?" Hazel eyes steal a glance at the lurking queen and her brood, even as the young woman transfers a fan into each hand and adopts a stance that makes her look like a strutting peacock with a bamboo tail- very showgirlesque, with one leg bent and toe pointed, shoulders back.

"Dhiammarath will not mind unless we set this place on fire," Hannah speaks confidently, though in truth the gold's sweet repose on the sands lends little to the feel of 'wakefulness' from the queen. "Vossuth…" The bronze sire is a whole different kettle of fish and luckily is absent. "So long as we are not still lighting things on fire when Th'seus gets done with sweeps," she is confident in handling the bronze clutchdad, however, it never hurts to be too careful and just work around the limitations. "So." Now, she's standing and rubbing her hands together in anticipation. "Fire." A gleam and glitter enter the striking green of her eyes, a hint of the predator within coaxed to the edge of reserved propriety at the thought of playing with fire.

"Right, then! If you can keep anyone from eating me, then all is well." Really, Cerise's safety rules are very, very simple: don't burn the place down and don't let her be eaten. Easy enough, right? She relaxes her stance, flips the fans about in the air and offers them grip-first to Hannah. "First order of business, shove a sponge onto each of the tips there and wave them about a bit to get a feel for how it changes the weight, mm? Secondly, make certain you do not bring them near your body when they're burning. You'll need more practice for that. Thirdly, I'm going to go get a bucket of water in case you do set your hair on fire, don't light anything until I'm back. On your honor." Stern as the words might be, the other woman's evident lust for burnination leaves Cerise grinning as she turns to proceed back from whence she came.

Cerise should have no fear of either rule being broken, at least insofar as Dhiammarath is concerned. Hannah takes the fans, nodding absently at Cerise's instructions as she hefts the fans in her hands. Then with only the slightest of hesitations, she starts shoving the sponges onto the tips where the entertainer gives indication. Once the acrid scent of accelerant drenched sponges wafts up from the fans, the goldrider gives each fan a testing twirl, careful not to touch her body. Death via immolation would ruin a lot of things, hey. When Cerise does return with the bucket of water, Hannah is giving the fans some testing sweeps of her arm, awkward yes for the way they are held out from her body, but gamely enough.

Notably, there is one extra sponge, dry and untreated, its presence as of yet unexplained. Near it, a pouch with flint and stone for drawing sparks. Temptations! But mercifully, Cerise does not dawdle. The bucket must have been stationed just outside, deemed too much to carry with the steps to climb and everything is. Soon she's back, positioning the bucket within an easy grab for cases of self-immolation. Not a drop spilled! All of these candidate chores are really paying off. Her grin remains as she sizes up Hannah's sweeping about. "That's good. Very good," she offers encouragingly as she gathers up the remaining sponge and the pouch. "Now, keep in mind, sponges melt. So you will catch a few sparks here and there, especially on the faster swings. If it gets to be too much, just stop with your arms out, and I'll take them from you. Are you ready to light up?"

With nary a flicker of hesitation, Hannah's nodding her head with her fans held out. Standing where they are, in the open space between rows of benching, plenty of room exists for this lesson. "I am ready." Though husky tones are quiet, an intensity curls within that speaks of an anticipation unbridled. "Once lit, it's the same?" The question is asked with the ease of student to teacher, ensuring that nothing else changes once the fire begins to burn and the dance steps can be started eactly as how they've been practiced.

"You'll hear the fire, you'll feel it through your hands. It's a little different, but not so much that it should throw you off so long as you've been practicing as you said you have." Was that a wink? That may well have been a wink, one brown-gold eye fluttering briefly shut before Cerise tucks her chin down to focus on the final sponge. Carefully, she sets it down on bare stone and removes the fire-starting tools from their pouch. As she settles these in her hands, she explains, "Once this is lit, you pass each sponge through the flame to light your fans." Stone snaps against flint, once, twice, thrice, and sparks sprinkle down over the sponge. One catches, a slow smoldering at first. Then, as a wisp of pale smoke drifts up, the faint shimmer of fire licking at the dry material. As that single blossoms grows, the performer quickly steps back and out of the way. She can be intense too- but it's more watching to be certain Hannah doesn't fry herself.

Dhiammarath would have a lot to say if Hannah fried herself, just sayin'. Hannah does, however, take a moment to consider exactly what needs to be done before passing the fans into and through the blooming curl of brilliant red-orange glow of fire that Cerise produces. The brilliance of expression that wink meets is rivaled only by the yellow-orange glow that both sharpens and rounds the contours of her face, casting shadows where there were none before. The goldrider has been practicing, and it shows in the fluidity of movement as she takes the first steps in a very familiar, very routine dance. Never perfect, a hesitance with the fire shows only in the slower nature of the movements she makes, but the natural grace does much to mask the times when unfamiliarity with weight and feel cause miscalculations to the familiar steps. Other than the sounds of movement, of skin brushing skin, clothing brushing skin, and the grind of boot sole against stone, the only other sounds are the ones that filter in from outside and the intake and exhale of air made that comes with the dance. Oh, and the crackle of fire; that blazing inferno encapsulated in those small little sponges. So much potential — "Ow." But finally, dance is arrested when the sparks that fly cause a stumble that leads to a routine broken. It was, however, a good first try.

Rather than seat herself for this performance, Cerise hunkers down in a comfortable crouch, elbows resting on her knees and hands dangling loose between them. With her head titled, in the wash of flickering fire-light, she could be an impish creature of faery come to watch Hannah's cautious yet graceful revolutions of arm and body. When the goldrider does eventually come to a stop, Cerise's eyes and teeth both flash bright in the artificial light- amusement leading to an expression and a tone of voice laced heavy with unvoiced laughter. "Beauty is pain, my teacher would tell me, aye? That was very good for a beginner. But remember, the rule of performance is you never let them see you sweat. Take the pain and keep going, remember the step needed for the next beat, move to it." Her palms collide together, a sharp clap clap. "Again."

Cheeks flushed, breathing quick, Hannah takes a moment to take in her teacher's words, murmuring almost thoughtful: "It is like life, no?" Rhetorical is the question, but with the fans flaming their flickering light across the junior's pale coloring she begins again. The difference is stark: previous a hesitance was given to each step, as a newborn gives to an experience that could be potentially harmful. With Cerise's words winding through her thoughts and whatever other thoughts must collide with the instructions, Hannah's movements are more fluid. Mistakes are powered through, taken with each step and while expression isn't stoic, the winces of pain show just how deeply she has taken instruction. Eventually, the feeling is expressed through diminutive form, the pale coloring of skin and hair soaking in the redness of flame, a soul's journey through the myriad of human emotions. Woven of moonlight and mists, a yearning of freedom, of ethereal delicateness with the fire burning bright against pale features and within the determination that underscores everything. It is done with feeling. Not the motion of a woman who just wants to learn to dance. Until finally motion is arrested, and the depth of emotion fades with the quivering muscles that come to a stop. Arms held out for Cerise, breathing comes in gasps and perspiration soaks into clothing, molding the light material to her body. Gasp, gasp, gasp.

It is a thick atmosphere in which to dance with fire but even Cerise cannot find criticism to offer- and she's offered up plenty during their lessons. She nods in time with the unheard music guiding each movement, gaze moving just as easily as the woman herself to those markers of true expression- the set of the feet, the ripple of shoulders, the extension of arms and legs. When the rider does finally stop, the clapping that the performers comes to her feet with is more from appreciation than tyranny. "That was it!" she exclaims as she steps forward to take the fans with their sputtering sponges. The acrid smell of the material has somehow managed to fill the galleries, but she's breathing easily enough, in spite of the heat. "You felt it, didn't you?"

It takes several minutes for Hannah to escape the cling of the feel of the dance, and to also catch her breath. Pushing strands of hair off of her forehead, the junior slowly nods, her expression holding a quiet fierceness to whatever dance she was dancing, the glitter of the feral creature that lies beneath all of the trappings of propriety and society glimpsed before the woman comes back to herself. A gentle smile tugs on her eyes and curves lips sweetly. "I did," the gasp is purely for the exertion of physical movements, though the soft expression slowly turns to the brilliance of a beam. If she were a bird, she would be a fire-phoenix soaring to heights untold, but as it is, she is merely Pernese and a grounded one at that. Only the touch of longing for the heights soared in the dance linger in the countenance that's presented to Cerise. Until finally, it too falls away. "I need a moment to catch my breath, but I wanna go again."

It takes several minutes for Hannah to escape the cling of the feel of the dance, and to also catch her breath. Pushing strands of hair off of her forehead, the junior slowly nods, her expression holding a quiet fierceness to whatever dance she was dancing, the glitter of the feral creature that lies beneath all of the trappings of propriety and society glimpsed before the woman comes back to herself. A gentle smile tugs on her eyes and curves lips sweetly. "I did," the gasp is purely for the exertion of physical movements, though the soft expression slowly turns to the brilliance of a beam. If she were a bird, she would be a fire-phoenix soaring to heights untold, but as it is, she is merely Pernese and a grounded one at that. Only the touch of longing for the heights soared in the dance linger in the countenance that's presented to Cerise. Until finally, it too falls away. "I need a moment to catch my breath, but I wanna go again." Cerise, her teacher, is presented with the slow-growth of excitement for this lesson. Hannah dances for something, that's for sure.

"Of course," Cerise says, as if going again was in the game plan all along. "Just rest, and watch. You'll be practicing new moves in no time, you're better than my usual students." And while Hannah catches her breath? Why, what else can the performer do but show her what to aspire towards. Arranging her fingers between the spindles of the fan, she brings her hands together and begins her own dance. This one is faster, sharper than the one taught the goldrider, whipping arcs of light around her body. The hiss and shudder of flame used to carve the air fills the space around them in a routine that takes her between benches, and empty space through each tier- for Cerise, these are the only wings she owns at the moment and she truly does seem capable of flight with them. Soon after this demonstration, perhaps, Hannah will enjoy that ability as well.
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