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Reminisces of an Ishgardian Dancer
It was the evening before a holiday-a late night for most of the city's employed. The theater was packed, a full house waiting in anticipation for the show to begin. It was a newer theater, as far as new went in Ishgard. Ensconced firmly in the lower levels, it primarily served for the entertainment of the lower class. Those seeking a little warmth in the city of Frost. An escape from dull boredom, with performance energetic and exciting. They knew tonight would not disappoint—they knew who was performing.
The murmuring of the packed house grew quiet as lantern lights dimmed. The quiet became silence as the curtain began to rise. Aya had always been exotic in Ishgard: a fair-haired, blue-eyed blonde in a city where they were uncommon, if not unheard of. Nearly as tall as an Elezen maiden, but possessed of a voluptuous attention-seeking Hyuran figure. She stood at the base of a large stage that thrust outward into the theater's seating area. With the balcony filled, the house was now home to several hundreds waiting anxiously to have their attention stolen.
She appeared in full costume of light-blue and white. Long, heavy skirt, a rigid bodice that curved inward to snug a narrow waist. A light-blue veil fell across her eyes, held up by a matching mesh cap, which also supported a white mesh veil enclosing long blonde locks that fell down her back. A somewhat suggestive take upon a recognizable costume: that of a particular style of Halone's celebrant.
The quiet lingered a moment longer, before she began a sauntering stage-walk toward the end of the stage. One foot crossed the other, lending an exaggerated sway to prominent hips, with the sound of skirt-hidden high heels striking the deck with each step. The crowd became more excited: whistles joined raucous jeering.
A violinist from the pit struck a note; the pitch sounded languid yet solemn as it fell across the quiet hall. Aya clasped her hands together and raised her chin. She sung out in her high lusty mezzo-soprano voice. The song, paean to the goddess—a hymn sung upon the tongue of every Ishgadrian child. She praised Halone's wisdom, her strength, and grace. There were more playful, rowdy jeers from the crowd - this was not what they had come for, but, no doubt, they knew it could not last.
The second verse began as the first, torn from the well worn hymnal. But rather than ask for Halone's grace and protection, the starlet sung, asking to whom she should turn for a little fun; an exciting evening. Her hands unclasped. She cocked her hips, resting her left hand upon the upward tilt. She sung another verse:
And whom should I ask for a little warmth, make that a little heat.
Who will make me feel alive tonight?
To be a little frisky beneath the sheets.
Who will make me feel better than just alright?"
She raised her right hand to blow a kiss to the audience amidst a low cheer, before tearing the veil from her eyes and tossing it from the stage. It was irreverent. It was impious. According to the See, it was illegal. There was a staccato click of relays being thrown, followed by the low rhythmic humming to life of magitek crystals.
Her eyes were lined with heavy, dark stage makeup. Long lashes begged and called for attention. She turned her gaze, vivacious and sensual from one end of the house to the other. In that moment hundreds focused upon naught but the charming blue eyes of the dancer before them. Sacrilege: the sullying of the holy word, and the holy image. Heretics and Witches would be dealt with by the state, but in that moment they could only envy the bewitching power of one performer's eyes.
She lifted her skirt with a high kick; her finger unhooked the quick-release, dropping the heavy, ruffled fabric aside to reveal the tight, mini-skirt of her costume below, which sparkled in the intensity of magitek lighting. With a spin she cast aside the heavy bodice, revealing the matching bustier as the musicians brought the hall to life. The chorus of backup dancers joined her on stage. The audience cheered, their rapturous attention invigorated the girl: she lived for these moments.
What was a little irreverence, really? Perhaps it was ignorance or laziness on the part of the city's inquisitors. Perhaps it was just friends in the right places, or the right palm's greased. The baudy theaters of the lower levels entertained those without hope, and those for whom those above had little care. Perhaps it was simply no matter to them. Of course, the private boxes that lined the sides of the theater were guarded by mesh screens to hide the identity of those who could afford it. Tonight they were full, as they were most nights she performed: even House-members understood the value of pleasant diversion.
The evening continued, each act performing with an energy and passion matched only by the appreciation of an audience hungry for distraction. Aya moved on and off stage, quickly changing costume and makeup between sets, catching quick, excited conversation with fellow cast, and members of the crew. These moments were always among her favorite - the energy and speed with which everyone worked, the way frustrations and annoyances were so often cast aside as the focus came upon the show.Â
At last they prepared for the show's finale: Aya always asked to be left out of the penultimate act, to ensure that everything was perfect for the finale's spotlight. The curtain again rose in silence, followed by a growing cheer. She wore what they referred to as Ul'dahn costume. Crafted from silks and the finest cloth available in the city: a bare halter top, decorated with straps holding numerous tiny bells. A second piece hung from her wide hips, more rigid and belt-like, it dove below her midriff. Sheer silk hung from the sides of this like a partial-skirt. Strings of beads and metal loops hung from the front.  (Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words). In her hands she held a large, sheer, matching, silken veil, a similar smaller piece held over her eyes by a golden circlet that wrapped around her head, tight enough to not slip loose in the dance that was to come.
Her wrists and ankles were adorned with numerous piece of jewelry. Some were the gifts of wealthy patrons who would want to see their baubles displayed so prominently in her performance. She always wondered if they realized there were a dozen or so others watching carefully with the same intent. A necklace adorned the smooth slope of her collar, falling as it did toward the proactively displayed decolletage below. A gift from her family, she used it to hold numerous additional rings. From the audience one young man squinted his eyes, staring at the necklace until he spied a plain steel loop hung upon it. He let out a cheer joining the others.Â
She managed to contain her own excitement, her features expressionless as she waited for the cue. The music had started, but only at the proper moment did she open her hands out to the side and begin the rhythmic side-to-side swing of her hips. Every movement matched the beat and sound of the accompanying music. The dance was mostly choreographed, with subtle improvisation and improvement from performance to performance. Every movement of her body caused the bells, chains, anklets, rings, and bracelets, that adorned her to jingle and chime. True Ul'dahn dancers adorned themselves in intricate body jewelry, and accompanied themselves with the play of finger cymbals. Their emulators in the frozen tower city of Ishgard could only dream.
Her dance carried her out into center-stage. In the moment she forget the crowd, despite the noise. She forgot the stage lights, despite the heat. She forgot her costars and the crew behind her; she forgot the musicians, her patrons, her employer. Everything faded away except herself, and the music that filled her. Inspired, she moved with an extraordinary grace and an easy agility that belied the difficulty, and athleticism of the display. She spun, she leaped, she posed. Her flowing, moving dance exhibited flexibility, nimbleness, and a deceptively lithesome strength.Â
There could be no denying the lascivious and arousing nature of her performance: for many in the audience that was all they cared about. But the sensual display was without crassness. To her it was art. Poetry: music in motion. She imagined her body as one with the music; the rhythmic motions of shoulders and hips as the thrum of percussion; the movement of her arms and hands as the bow draws along the string; the quick shimmy of shoulders, the undulations of her mid-riff, as the strumming of strings. This was not an irreverent song sung to amuse. This was not a dance to thrill and titillate—this, to her, was an art she performed as much for herself, as for the audience.
When she dropped her body, split-leg, fully against the ground, she brought her motion to a sudden and complete stop. She turned her body to the side, raising her legs briefly into the air, to join in the quiet peal of an oboe reed. She came to rest on her knees, lowering her upper body to the stage. The light went dark. She knew silence as well as sound.
She rose again, triumphant, with a single motion to her feet. She grinned as the music rose toward its climactic crescendo. She danced with the fullness of her heart. She danced with every last measure of strength. She danced with a singular unity of body, spirit, and mind. She embraced the moment. When at last the music came to an end, the sound of her jingling costume ceased. She stood amidst the fixated gaze of hundreds of eyes. She breathed heavily, the only sound in that moment of near complete stillness.
The crowd roared to life once more. She grinned. She curtseyed. She relished. She bathed in adulation, and attention. She took it all in.
The fun would continue into the evening: first backstage. She would be visited by admirer, after admirer. There would be gifts, there would be endless praise, and hopeful, sometimes lust-filled gazes. There would be fun, after-parties. There would be friends, there would be gossip, and there would be boys.Â
There would also be the long walk home afterward; or more likely, not to home, but to the shop of Master Dunois, that old Duskwight smith. She would crash with her brother, his apprentice, rather than face the wrathful scorn of her parents. But that was a long way away yet, why worry?
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The knife fell with a sudden chop. Others followed slowly and lazily behind it. "How many of these do we need?" she hollered in a voice only vaguely reminiscent of the performer upon the stage. The reply came in the form of Jericho's Ala Mhigah brogue, "A few more dozen should do!"
She tried to blow a long strand of hair out of her eye. "Why don't you work in the kitchen tonight?" she mouthed off in mock mimicry of the Lalafellan Proprietress.
At least she could always remember those moments, those precious moments, in that distant land, in that distant time, when she felt her true self.
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