Life on the road, while liberating, conferred with it certain drawbacks seldom entertained by those with romanticized eyes. Their idyllic imageries, oblivious to the harshness of that arid badland. Far too blessed by the security yielded by their walls that the jeopardies prowling outside didn't enter their astigmatic minds. This parched, grainy expanse was ripe with terrors. Individually, her commune wouldn't stand against the marauders and monstrosities stalking the roads.
Nevertheless, as a collective, their numbers availed at repelling such despicable cretins. This cantankerous world, while teeming with terrors, like a coin, possessed a differing side. It was here, witnessing the virtue within the world, that the Djinn relished genuine succor.
Those mounds may have been tarnished by blood, and the faces of this realm's denizens smudged by streaks of gloom. But, one needed only gawk at the setting suns to recognize how fleeting our sorrows might be. Twilight, while producing fear, could only persist until the daybreak. This ebbing and flowing of wretchedness and gaiety, while discernable, fell outside the purview of most. Their fatigued hearts, reluctant to appreciate the blessings their planet afforded. Far too cynical, only fixating their concentration toward the less pleasant certainties of the desert. It was there, traversing those winding roads on her cart, that she first reached this unsettling epiphany. That to pulverize this perpetual disdain, people needed to transform their hearts. Accept that these others races, while different, each had something of merit to bring to the whole.
Conceivably this Gypsy was far too insignificant to reform the world? If so, she could start with the woman in the mirror. Many within her community dubbed this soul a "Radical Dreamer." While most gallivanted about slaying foul beast, engaging in the acquisition of wealth, or seeking political power. This bohemian rose bloomed within different pastures, her aims to make the vivid array of people she floundered across smile. And, by doing so, vicariously revel within the kindness, they might then spread to others. Hope, like despair, was communicable. From a young age, she witnessed firsthand how a single laugh can invite others to fill with mirth—using that soothing voice and its mesmerizing call to alleviate the vexations weighing one's soul down. Music, to her, was a second school of magic. Begetting a profound effect, the likes of which no archmage could ever dream of wielding over others.
It was there, on the stage, that she procured true repletion. She was reaching a rather audacious conclusion that she'd offer all of her worldly attainments if it meant mending one bleeding soul. The coin she gathered, often given as alms to those less fortunate. She was only keeping enough to maintain her cart, stage props, and the occasional book. Despite longing for a serene existence, this voyager of the arts couldn't refute the need for defense. Violence, while uncivilized and execrable, would remain a constant hurdle. While far from the most efficient display of magic, her binding did seem adequate at defending those she loved.
The loss of life, wilting her petals, as she would always mourn those who passed. Those roots, budding within the blood saturated soil, while those formerly pious rose had become tarnished by its hue. While they may have been antagonistic, this Djinn often contemplated what series of misfortunes drove such a soul down this self-destructive path. Within those hazel eyes, all life maintained its intrinsic worth. And, given differing circumstances, the roles could easily be reversed. For now, she enjoys the road, dancing under the moonlight, singing her canary song, in some futile effort to rejuvenate this rancorous world, one shattered person at a time.
Surayyah born from no house; was plucked from her crib and sent to live amongst her mother's former band of roving carnies from a young age. The Djinn, oblivious of her heritage, the child was fostered by the actress, freaks, and minstrels. This abandonment, done out of love, for the former lady of coin fretted what would occur if her father ascertained her birthing. Toiling away, using the art of binding to design lights, roses, and other such visual flairs, to assist with the production. The road was her home, scraping by a living during the harshest times, blissfully ignorant of her illustrious lineage. Even before her teenage years, this damsel exhibited a propensity toward the arcane arts. She was claiming to hear whispers and to be visited by clouds of flickering insects. The lively group, chalking it up to an overactive mind, as this insidious force nurtured and proliferated her innate abilities.
One day, after quite the spectacle held within the City, a man in a black robe, adorned with a golden mask, approached her in an alleyway. In his hands rested a box, the stranger alleging she was no bastard, that her biological mother had passed and left her some trinkets as an inheritance. Despite the steadfast protest, the feeble elder refused to budge, imploring the performer to claim ownership and peer within the container. She haughtily assumed him to be no threat, and so she succumbed to officiousness. Inside were a deck of cards, some jewelry, and a letter. While peculiar, the maiden had no reason to derive malice, and so, she reached in and seized the tarot cards. The deck of fate, binding to the spirit, poured into the mind a myriad of memories, prompting the unsullied flower to collapse to her knees in anguish.
She awoke the next day, being told weeks had passed, as the company of entertainers found her discarded on a random street. The caring mortals, expressing concern, dreading the worst had transpired. Their woes were compounded by the fact that the starlet couldn't recall what exactly had happened to her. The color flushing from their faces as she pulled out the deck, the jewelry bound to her body, as the illustrated cards orbited around broad hips. Their ruse was up, expelling forth the truth, yet, to their shock, the olive-toned lady was not furious. These people were her family, and the spirit saw little motivation to seek retribution for a woman who had never been involved in her life. For the next ten years, the maiden blossomed, sharpening her skill with the artifact bequeathed to her by that older man, whilst honing her theatrical crafts.
Throughout her years, she'd witness him in the distance, blending with the crowd, before vanishing the instant she so as much blinked. Surayyah felt as if she was being observed, pursued by something with nefarious intents, a treacherous will beyond fathomability. Like a moth, trapped in the fingers of an irate god, suspending above a kindling fire. That at any minute, she'd be let go and be overwhelmed by the ravenous unknown. Notwithstanding this extensile dread, the enticer impersonated an outward fabrication of tranquility, terrified that her distress may torment the artists she called family. If her womanly intuition proves correct, there was little anyone could do to alleviate the impending devastation. No, Surayyah would live her life to the fullest, and if death should come, she will give up the ghost with a placid soul.
Those cards served as armaments; the more she used them, the more dependant and inseparable they became. Those whispers returned as the swarm of fireflies of golden lights imparted wisdom. The erudition was steering toward the formation of spells. The pitiable young lady, unknowingly being led down a disastrous path. For a while, she may not care for her true heritage; however, additional forces do and will endeavor to manipulate any means to reel her in. A juvenile mind weaving serenity, complacency, mirth, all of this were malicious inventions, delusions to abate the imminent epiphany. That she, despite her sincerest of investments, was not an elf. That dream world the Djinn fabricated destined to soon pop, ushering in an era of unbridled turmoil and despondency.