Heart of Flame:
The Story of Dustfinger
Chapter One: New Self
In life, he was a legend. In disappearance, he was missed. In death, he was lamented. When given a second chance at life, he was gossiped about for many years, even after his final passing. He was a man of power with aura of mystery, and the ability to control the very fire of the earth. The man himself made little mark on the world, but the minstrels sung his tales, spinning the fire of his story into a golden tapestry, with as much fiction as truth. But the legend known as Dustfinger began as a young boy whose original name was lost to time. The name he took for his own came, as all his life seemed to, from the very flames he loved like the closest of friends. This is the part of the story you never hear.
The story begins in a small camp outside Ombra's walls. There were many people, laughing and singing and merry. They were a motley folk, and indeed that was the name of these penniless, yet merry people. Minstrels and dancers and rope-walkers all congregated in this one small spot, groups huddled and laughing around fires for warmth, happy and gay despite that looming fact that a tiny slip-up in a performance would plunge any one of the Motley Folk straight from the frying pan and into the fire. Even with the meager coin they received for pedaling their arts through village streets, was not enough for most of them, who had to resort to petty thievery simply to eat. But so long as there was a place to stay, there would always be carefree joy and fellowship in a Strolling Players' camp.
One small boy was alone and shivering at the edge of the camp. He was entranced by ho happy these people were, like some big happy family. He didn't understand the concept of how these people could be so happy while still so poor. Even as small and young as he was, he could see how their colorful clothes were threadbare and mended, like his own plain trousers and tunic. But clearly they did not want for anything, though they were lacking in so much.
The boy wanted to join them… but he wasn't a part of the group. He wasn't part of any group, not any more. His parents could hardly provide enough for a dog, let alone a family of so many. Now the plague was riddling their house by the tavern, and no one could safely go near it. The boy was the only one left who was still healthy enough to be out, and then no one cared for a poor lonely boy who couldn't even enter his own home.
He waited in the shadows, watching the flames dance, swirling all around in complex patterns. He loved the designs fire made, and had always gone as close as he was allowed to the flames. The boy couldn't understand why the grown-ups wouldn't let him stroke it. He knew the fire felt hot up close, but surely something so beautiful couldn't hurt him. Fire was too pretty to cause pain.
He watched and waited as the moon traveled slowly across the sky, until one of the groups nearby moved to join the largest group, the one big happy circle around the biggest fire. He didn't understand about this gathering of the people, but he did understand about the fire. He watched then throw dirt on it and leave, but the pretty fire was still alive, still glowing and smoking. He scurried in to go touch it, poking his finger through the dust to feel the hot coals, where he quickly learned a surprising lesson: fire hurt! He pulled out his hand with a yelp, shaking it and blowing on it. Had he been older or in less pain, he may have thought of how his commotion might attract the attention of these people.
But he didn't, and now they were surrounding him, scary faces looming above and murmuring in their evil voices. He realized a smaller girl about his age was talking to him, with what he would eventually know as a pretty face and a beautiful voice. She was pointing at him, but the name she said wasn't his. "Dustfinger," she called him. "Dustfinger-boy, come play with me." He looked at himself, puzzled. Why was she calling him by this name? Then he saw the ash on his burned finger and wiped it off in his trousers. But he ran to go join the happy circle, and ready to make a name for himself. He didn't understand it very well, but he knew he had a new life and a new name.
He was Dustfinger of the Motley Folk.