July 28th, 1889 — Covent Garden

In the midst of Covent Garden in London’s busy West End, Arven Fisk pulled off his shirt and set fire to a pole.

A street entertainer in the Italian city of Florence had taught him the dangerous art of fire-juggling, and Arven had set about mastering it over the proximate years. Arven had today returned to London, ever an appealingly chaotic and crowded city, and as night fell he decided to see what the bourgeois English thought of his exotic skill. This was brazen and strange and improper, but Arven cared not.

Covent Garden attracted street performers near enough every night at this time of year, but nothing like this. The pole — in actual fact two poles linked by chains — was on fire, everywhere except where his hands touched (he had a spell to thank for that). Startled passers-by gave him a wide berth as Arven began to spin the pole in great sweeping movements, then someone whooped as he threw it, and gasped as he caught it deftly. A crowd began to gather as the fire-juggler lit up the night’s sky with casually fiery abandon.

  

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28 July 1889 - Covent Garden

If any crowd were ripe for the picking, it was this one. Hestia's movements were masked by the hustle and bustle of crowds enjoying the night's cool breeze - a glorious respite from the summer heat. The witch could feel the crowd vibrate with excitement as people packed together to observe some activity. Hestia's lithe steps carried her towards the group as she took advantage of people bumping into each other.

A beautiful pocket watch – no custom engraving, thank Merlin –, a young debutante's silver bracelet, another pocket watch, and a billfold. The final item was by no means flush with notes as it would be during the holidays (the young thief's ideal season of success), but it would last her the next few weeks and perhaps a new outfit. The trinkets she would hand over to Fox, see if he had use for any of them.

In between plucking at the crowd, Hestia kept her eyes on the performer as he began his act. The light bounced off of the crowd, at which point Hestia stopped her tasks and moved forward to merely watch. You never knew when a flicker of light would accidentally throw her thieving into relief and you could get caught. With her pockets heavier with product, Hestia moved to the front of the crowd, her hand up to her chin in curiosity as she wondered how he executed such an act. As the flames grew hotter and threw the crowd into greater relief, Hestia was admiring how he didn't get burned by the performance.

Of course, practice with such devices would make someone immune to the heat of the flames, however, soon Hestia was of the opinion that the answer was something closer to the reason why she was able to carry so many items in her pockets throughout the day. She smiled impishly at him, her eyes lit with fascination and glee.

  

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Welcome to The Iron Fang Inn.

A man who dances with flames could as easily observe the shadows. It was hard not to notice, in his peripheral vision, the small figure in the growing crowd, sliding this way and that, so nimble it would’ve been a cat if it were shorter. For a fleeting moment, its eyes were brighter than the fire.

For his finale, Arven pressed the tip of his tongue to the small rune behind his teeth and blew a great plume of golden flame above the crowd, which gasped and whooped as if they were the ones with mouths full of flame.

He caught the poles, which mysteriously extinguished themselves, and bowed, a triumphant entertainer.

As the crowd dispersed into the blinking lights and evening streets of Covent Garden, Arven set about packing the poles back into their case — and coughed a puff of smoke against his fist.

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   Hestia

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28 July 1889 - Covent Garden

Hestia watched the exciting finale, oohing and ahhing along with the rest of the crowd. Having been a carnival performer, she knew it wasn't easy to work a crowd going solo, and she found herself well and truly impressed. As the show ended, she clapped along vigorously with the crowd as he took his final bows.

One man beside her was grumbling to his wife that this was cutting into their dinner reservations. Hestia scowled, still clapping away and brushed aside him and pocketed whatever she'd snatched from his coat as he walked away. Muggle or wizard, anyone who insulted those of her ilk were punished.

Hestia approached the performer, stepping quickly on the balls of her feet. When she was behind him, she saw the small cloud of smoke emit from his person and her suspicions were almost confirmed. "Quite the impressive set you have there, sir," she began, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning against a nearby pole.

  

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Welcome to The Iron Fang Inn.

Feeling hot (wonder why?) but powered more by adrenaline than flame, Arven clipped the case shut and straightened up to find his shirt. There he saw a young woman lounging against a streetlamp, tone and posture suggesting she had caught him out on something. Perhaps she knew his family, aware that this was not a fitting recreation for a Fisk.

Arven retrieved his jumper, a black and rather threadbare thing, and pulled it on. ”Thank you”, he responded, regarding the stranger curiously. Was this the shadow who’d been flitting in and out of the crowd? Arven was a traveller, mixing with all sorts of people, within cities and without. He knew a pickpocket when he saw one.

”What brings you to Covent Garden tonight?” he asked conversationally, mentally confirming the exact location of his sparse valuables.

  

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28 July 1889 - Covent Garden

Hestia grinned as she surveyed his belongings. Unless someone was being a real wang, she pickpocketed only those who deserved it - at least whom she deemed so. So far, this man didn't merit any flexing of her fingers at this point. Give it time, some of them managed to still surprise her.

"The same thing that I imagine brings you here tonight as well," she responded quickly, turning her gaze to the dwindling crowds. If he were a regular street performer, the witch wasn't technically wrong. The crowds are what they both fed on; their methods of giving and taking were entirely different, however.

  

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Welcome to The Iron Fang Inn.

Packed up and more or less ready to go, Arven was willing to linger a bit longer as he regarded his curious new acquaintance. "Showing off, to be perfectly honest", Arven confessed with a light, crooked smile. Sure enough, he wasn't here for money or to set the world ablaze; he'd got back into fire-juggling simply to prove that he could.

He was about to remark on their surely different reasons for being here, when he noticed a little commotion over her head — a skinny gentleman had stopped in his tracks, frowning deeply, patting his right pocket then his left.

  

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28 July 1889 - Covent Garden

Well, at least the man was honest, she thought, nodding in understanding. Performers and people who walked these streets were her kind, and she always appreciated the blunt honesty of some of the more....weathered kind of folk. "Showing off," she echoed, "Making ends meet, same thing." Being enigmatic tonight wasn't exactly on her list of things to do when she started this evening, however until she got a better measure of him, she wasn't searching to be too straightforward.

She opened her mouth to give him a name to call her, however, she caught his brief glance behind her. Hestia had a feeling she knew what it would be about before she even looked; sometimes these things happened, especially if she got distracted. Twirling flames in the air were definitely something she hadn't seen in a long time. She turned back to him, sighing resignedly before giving him a cat that ate the canary grin. "And, that'll be my signal to leave," she chirped, stuffing her hands in her pockets and tilting her head at him cordially before marching off in the opposite direction of the man searching in his pockets.

  

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Welcome to The Iron Fang Inn.

Arven pulled on his own longcoat while watching the scene play out with interest. He had not assumed the slight, quirky woman was a pickpocket, but it didn’t come as a surprise to him when learning she was exactly that.

She departed with graceful haste as the thieved stranger cottoned on to what had happened. ”Stop, thief!” the gentleman squeaked, and the crowd murmured and closed in and grew more defensive.

”She went thataway”, Arven pointed two long fingers in the opposite direction to which she’d fled. The gentleman gave him a nod of thanks and ran off.

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   Amelia Evans

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