"Your blade sings a sad song. Can you not hear it?"
User: Tom
Race: Elf
Gender: Male
Role: Striker
Class/Level: Magus(Spell Dancer)/6
The "studio" was a rundown nondescript building in the slums of Erages. Panna stopped short, hesitating. He looked around, trying to tell if he had been mistaken. Daylight was dwindling though, and he had no place else to turn. Sighing, he shook his head and knocked on the door, hearing the resounding thud echoing dully throughout the building. Almost immediately, the door creaked open inwards, and the young half-elf stopped again, sure that he had made a mistake. There was no way that the great dancer Syrio would be in the slums, teaching grace for free, and there was absolutely no way that the scarred elf in front of him was the teacher in question.
"I'm sorry, sir, I've made a mistake."
"Have you, boy? I think not. One does not knock on my door by mistake."
The elf's voice was smooth, confident, and decidedly dangerous. Panna once again found himself believing he was certainly in error.
"Sir, I am trying to find Syrio, the Dancing Instructor. Have you seen him?"
"I told you, boy, you made no mistake. Come in."
Without another word, the elf spun on heel and strode gracefully into the room, dimly illuminated with torches. Panna cast another furtive look around before following the crazed man inside, checking his knife to ensure it was within range if necessary.
"Close the door, boy. We must respect our studio if we are to learn in it."
Panna gazed in disbelief. Respect? This rundown shack? Even the whores that worked for half a copper would turn down this decrepit building. Still, he obliged the man and closed the door. Turning back, he saw the elf sitting cross legged in front of a candle, his eyes closed and focused. After his eyes adjusted to the light, Panna could see him a little more clearly. Long nut brown hair, with just hints of gray wisps at the roots was tied in a ponytail in the back. The elf's face was horribly disfigured, perhaps an acid flask or errant torch? In any event, Panna was certain; this was not the person he sought, and the sooner he left, the better.
"Sir, I -"
"Silence, boy. I will deal with you shortly." The elf's eyes flared open and Panna yelped, stumbling backwards; they were an unearthly green, and seemed to glow briefly with an arcane power.
"Sit, and meditate. No, boy, not like that. Cross your legs, and place your hands just so. Focus on what you need to do, and nothing else."
The elf fussed with his posture for almost ten whole minutes, straightening his spine, adjusting the angles of his arms, tilting his neck just so. The result was quite possibly the single most uncomfortable position that he had ever been in.
"Now then, sit, and think. We will dance soon enough."
"What?!" Panna exclaimed. The elf couldn't have been Syrio. Syrio was...was..a Dancer! Was it possible? This burned, ugly, crazed elf was Syrio? Suddenly the elf smacked him up the back of the head.
"Ow! Hey, what's the idea old man?!"
"You are talking. Is talking meditating? No. How can I teach you to dance if you are to preoccupied with thinking I'm not who I am? I cannot. Sit, meditate, and trust Syrio. He knows these things."
Taken aback, Panna struggled to regain his posture from before, and closed his eyes.