All know of how mysterious these entities are; stories abound of their extreme power. But despite the fascination many hold, these beings have thus far eluded proper academic study. Are they compassionate? Are they callous? Altruistic? Fearful? Do they think about us at all? Other, simpler questions need be answered. How big are they exactly? Can they feel pain? What do they eat? Do they eat? The answers to these questions, and many more, I believe I have found. And all will be shared in this tome, the amalgamation of over a decade of research.
The Genie. Enigmatic, rare beings from the land of Ramal whose fabled power has earned them places among our greatest tales and legends. My fascination with these creatures began when I met the descendant of one, nearly twenty years ago now, whose name I have omitted out of respect. My journey begins with this first encounter; the congenital echo of a Djinn’s power, and it carries on through a summation of many years of research and ends with the ultimate sating of my fascination. Upon travelling to Ramal I was fortunate enough to meet a wizard far more powerful than myself, who had – under his complete control – an Ifrit, a powerful fire spirit. I humbly present what I believe to be an acceptably encompassing report on the nature of these most curious beings.
On the World of the Genie – Ozymun Ayar
She was startlingly high up. High enough that the crowds below would be suitably startled, but not so high as to impede their view of the startlingly high-up lady; white-grey hair, average height, slender build and somewhat tanned skin wrapped in a brightly-dyed blue and lavender outfit, balancing tediously upon a tightrope. The masts were built to a specific height. Logging trees and shortening them to just the right length each time was tedious, but worth it for the effect. The rope between the masts was as taut as it needed to be, and her outfit adhered to just the right degree of tightness; enough to allow her to move freely, but not so much as to describe her outline in over-lecherous detail and detract attention from how startlingly high-up she was. She really was very high-up.
Almost exactly one-third of the way across the rope she slipped, one leg came up high and she tilted drastically to one side. Not so far as to lose her balance, but far enough to warrant a gasp from the crowd. The same gasp garnered by the same tilt she had tilted a hundred times. A couple more steps and she was coming on half-way. Her next slip was due soon. Slip she did, but this time further. Too far to stay on. She hopped off the rope – careful not to look as though done by design – and her hands rose quickly to grasp the rope as it came past her head. It was just taut enough. With a loose grip in both hands she swung fully around the rope, back straight and legs coming up. Releasing her grip, she tucked her knees in and transitioned into a backward somersault, before landing on a second tightrope, suspended between the smaller masts slightly to the side. The same landing she had made a hundred times. A raucous cheer went up from the crowd. She bowed, then cartwheeled to the end of the second rope for good measure. Kara still thought that part was fun, even on her hundredth repetition.
As she climbed down from her perch the musicians played, and tumblers and jugglers took to the stage; diverting and encapsulating the attention of the crowds before it could be allowed to slip even for a moment. Rolls, tumbles, gags and juggling were accompanied by the bangs of drums and the screeching of pipes while Kara crept backstage to prepare for the next stunt. Lo’ffen was there waiting for her, already in costume for the next act. A green silk top that left swathes of her mid-riff on show and matching silk bottoms that were tight around the waist and calves but baggy everywhere in-between. Her hair - a dark shade of brown - was tied back securely. A necessity in their profession, it highlighted her long, pointed ears and left no doubt that she was an elf. Kara’s matching costume – midriff-covering by request – was laid out and waiting.
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“Hurry and get changed; one of the mummers is throwing a fit again. Thinks playing a whorehouse talking-bird is beneath him. Never mind that he gets all the punchlines. Fussy hjal-vit. Turner’s going to sort him out, but until they get him in make-up they can’t start. That means we’re on next. Shake a leg.”
The rest of the performance went off mostly without a hitch. The mummer’s face-paint masked the black eye Turner gave him, but everyone knew it was there, and that served as warning enough not to jeopardise the day’s show any further. Kara and Lo’ffen’s routine went well, the one where they take turns holding hoops and vaulting and tumbling through them. Kara’s third routine with their friend Bull, the strongman went perfectly, too. He was able to hurl her sometimes ten feet into the air, to the amazement of the crowd, where she would flip, twist and somersault before coming back down to where he would catch her and throw her back up again.
Between her own performances, Kara would creep around to the edge of the stage and watch the other performers. The jugglers were always interesting to watch. She could never imitate that skill successfully, no matter how often she talked one into teaching her for a half-hour or so. She didn’t like watching the tumblers - she knew how little they liked her. Lo’ffen always told her it was envy.
“They don’t have enough talent between them to pull of one of our routines” she had said.
Though knowing that didn’t make the dagger-eyes any easier to tolerate. A man who could swallow a sword came on; she thought his name might be Derry but she wasn’t sure. Next was the knife-thrower, with one of the tumblers as his assistant. She would hold wooden boards with targets painted on in her hands or balance an apple on her head, and he would throw a knife from across the stage and never miss. Kara had seen the routine many times before, but still she winced and covered her eyes when he did the bit with the blindfold. She didn’t even like that tumbler. The mummers did a couple of routines. Sometimes they would create something topical; parodying affairs taking part in the Kingdom of Aren, each playing the parts of Dukes, Princesses and Generals. More often they would act out stories everyone knew; old favourites with noble kings, scheming wizards and fair maidens. Sometimes, depending on the crowd, they would throw in something ludicrous one of the troupe wrote like “The Brothel’s New Talking-Bird.” Kara had never seen a real talking bird before, but everyone had heard of the bizarre creature from Vanara.
Before long Turner was on the stage – going by his stage name; Hatter – announcing the end to the show and thanking everyone for watching. He certainly looked the part of the ringleader, with his made-up face, motley suit and colourful, elaborate hats that changed each time he appeared on stage. The crowd always responded well to him, regardless of what the mummer with the black eye muttered under his breath.