Akori

The name Akori comes from the Japanese words "Akai" and "Odori."
"Akai" means red, a reference to her red coloring.
"Odori" is a Japanese dance style, often found at festivals.

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Akori is an experienced Raquinta dancer. When their caravan stopped by the desert nation, they picked up a stowaway. Though initially wary and angry toward the child, she grew to appreciate his spirit, and to love his story. Though younger than him, she considers herself better, due to being a dancer far longer than he has been.

The two were assigned to be partners on the stage due to being the same race and having similar markings, which made them have great chemistry in their dances.


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The Flame and the Star
By Crysi102

The Stowaway had no rhythm.

He was like a baby taking its first steps, with no beat, no pace, no tempo. There was no elegance to his motions, he was all sharp and staggered, not smooth, clear, clean. He couldn’t feel the drum in his heart, couldn’t step in time.

Akori hated it.

They’d picked him up at the walled city, he’d crawled under one of their wagons, and stayed there all day, only showing up when they danced that night.

They’d fed him, of course. It was the way. He had no place to go, and said he had no home left. He’d been taken in by one of the teachers, claimed by Lyrra and assigned to dance under Dahisa.

Akori was to be his teacher.

The Stowaway couldn’t dance.

She’d tried for hours to teach him the steps. These were child’s steps, the simplest there were. He was somehow floundering them, tripping on his heels when he spun, stepping too wide when he leaned, unable to so much as walk without that sharpness to his motion.

Akori frowned. “It’s a spin, not a twist, dummy,” she growled as he stumbled again. “Step, step, lean, and spin.”

She showed him again, stepping out, arms swaying to either side of her body before leaning wide out, and spinning on the ball of one foot. “You can’t do it slowly, feel the beat and do it.”

The Stowaway frowned, watching her feet with those ridiculous green eyes. “I think I can do it this time. Let me try again?”

She nodded, folding her arms across her chest and watching the younger dancer carefully. He stepped and stepped and leaned and twisted again. Akori sighed.

“No, no, runaway, it’s a spin! Don’t twist.”

…

The Stowaway had only been dancing for two summers, and already earning his marks. She was clearly a good teacher.

Akori traced the gold, opaline lines on her skin with a smile. Her hands were looped with them, they lined her bones and circled her wrists. Her marks traveled up her arms and down her shoulders, around her neck, her back, her hips. Soon, she could mark her legs as well. Once she became a master, that is.

The Stowaway—Ajin, she corrected herself—was earning his wrist marks today. He was only thirteen and already so much better than he was before.

“Are you sure it won’t hurt?” Ajin mumbled. He was staring at Horatia’s needles, at the molten gold liquid she was mixing.

“It won’t hurt a bit, runaway,” Akori smirked, “Unless you’re made of paper. With skin that pale, you could be, though. Who knows?”

Ajin’s already pale skin went pallid, and those stupid green eyes widened.

“Kori, stop it,” Horatia snapped. “It won’t hurt a bit, Ajin, I promise. There are spells to make it hurt less and stay clear as you grow as well.”

Akori laughed. “We’ll see if the little runaway doesn’t tear like paper though!”

“He won’t tear, Kori,” Horatia snapped.

Akori just laughed as Ajin’s eyes bugged. He was so pale, surely the marks would fade into his skin, who knew.

…

They swirled together and apart, moving in perfect time. The drum timed their step, the flute moved their silks, the oud fueled their souls.

The Stowaway had grown into a fabulous dancer. His skin had tanned nicely, darkening to a nearly natural level. The gold marks that looped his arms and chest were far more detailed than her own, flowery and curled. His shoulders and back glimmered with the opaline lines, shimmering with the dance. Their feet bore matching markings, curling anklets of golden lines. Marks of their mastery.

Yes, she had been a great teacher. She’d taught the rhythmless to dance like a proper Raquinta in only four summers. Now a masterpair for almost three, they were the best pair the troupe had to offer.

They swirled and dipped, stepping in perfect time. Her magic stirred, and she lit the fire along her skin, allowing the flames to flicker along the golden lines of her body. His magic came to light as well, the marks on his skin glowing brightly as spheres of light burst into existence around them.

The crowd was in awe, the stage was their home.

The music slowed, coming to a halt, and the dancer’s tale ended as well. They smiled at one another, a job well done.

They bowed to the watchers, flourishing silks and glimmering opal marks as they left the stage.

“You were wonderful out there, Kori,” Ajin hummed, smiling brightly as the bells woven in his silver hair jingled with each step. In time with her own.

“You did good, too, runwaway.”