The golden sun overhead bleached out colors of the brightest silks, and wrung water from the driest of travelers, but on the broad market street, it claimed a wide patch of the center of the road. The dusty street of the market was filled with sounds of every kind- braying of animals, laughter of children up to no good, merchants hawking wares at the top of their lungs, beggars chiding the population and the merchants for a spare coin. Occasionally a solider or a merchant guard would shout loudly to restore order, but the cacophony of noise of the street was such that the combination of sounds made it all but impossible to distinguish any one in particular.

At one end of the street, the noise died down. Here, there was less protection from the sun, and therefore fewer customers. The merchants unluckily enough to be stationed here sat underneath awnings, fanning themselves and greedily eyeing customers who strayed too close to their stalls, coming to life as potential profit wandered close enough to touch. Even the beggars and children thinned out here, as the loss of crowds made anonymity a problem, and escaping from guardsmen or caravan guards even more unlikely so; here, at the deserted end of the street, there was a voice raised.

It may have once been a handsome voice, a baritone trained to sing and tell stories, but the heat and the hard times had roughened it. It sounded strained, hoarse from yelling all day, and parched from thirst.

The voice called out “Harsh truths, one gold!”

Invariably, a customer with an extra coin to spare, or a merchant guard, or a bored passerby would stop and examine the man with the voice. He was thin, dirty, and tall, leading his appearance in ragged finery to be something akin to a scarecrow. His face was painted white, strange runes and red lips painted upon the blank canvas. His smile was sad, as were his eyes, but his voice raised tirelessly, “Harsh truths, one gold!”

The rich would sniff disdainfully at the man down on his luck, but out of guilt, or for fear of being seen passing such a disgrace without tipping the hand of generosity, they would place a coin in the cup. Occasionally, a spoiled child would bother his nursemaid for a coin, and give it to the painted beggar. The man, voice whispering and eyes hard, would lean forward, as though to tell the child a secret. “You are right to fear your parents, for no matter how you fight it, you will become them.” To the governor, he would say “The rich have far fewer friends than the poor, and at a much higher price.” To the nursemaid, he would say “To the powerful, we are all fools and puppets.”

The caravan guard would look into the tin cup, seeing only a bit of iron to mimic the jangle of coins at the bottom, and would sneer. Tossing a gold to the beggar, they would think, might be good game. “Beware,” he would tell them. “Your fate is decided by the greediest of men, who find that it’s cheaper to play the margin and hope that some of the guards are killed on each trip, than to keep enough on hand to pay all the men they hire at the start of the trip.”

Eventually, someone would complain to the guards, and the newest recruit would be assigned to come investigate. The guard would toe him in the ribs, tell him to leave, and the painted beggar would stand and bow, “Forgive me, guardsman, but I am a merchant.” A merchant, the guards would invariably scoff. “I am a merchant, but my wares are sorrows. I have traveled far and wide to collect them, and am able to offer them as bargain rates.” The painted fool’s eyes would light, as though he were playing a great joke. “To prove it, I will provide you my services- this one time- for free.” Drawing a deep breath, and taking a bow, the beggarly jester would then proclaim “Fear for your children,” he would say, “for they will attempt, somewhat nobly, to go further than you have, to fulfill your dreams. They will fail.”

            On a very rare occasion, a group of adventurers would wander through this end of the market, and find the gilded vagabond. They would, of course, generously share of the reward of their toils, and the painted man would thank them. Before they turned to leave, he would tell the group; “All desire to be heroes -and this is a noble dream- but know this: For every hero of legend, there are hundreds of thousands who die, bloody, alone, and forgotten.”

Never seen thus far was a customer who appreciated their purchase, but there were enough fools and braggarts to supply him with a modest income of coins. Come nightfall, the man would stand; counting through the coins he slipped into his pouch during the day, and totaling the amount in his head.

Usually, he would have enough to cast a spell, summoning water and food. Sometimes he would have enough to repair his clothes, eldtrich light weaving worn fabric back to new and repairing leather of belts, items, and boots. Stomping his feet to settle them into his ‘new’ boots, the man would look at the last of the gold in his hand. If he had any, that was enough. Looking into the sky, he cast the last of his spells for the night, showering sparks into the air, in different colors and burst, entertaining any lucky enough to catch the sight for a few hours.

When the magic of the sky lights faded into the night, the Harlequin would be long gone.