Yado Finisch
Yado arrived at the bakery hours before the light of dawn. She spent a few seconds taking ingredients from their cabinets, and it was only minutes later when she had a full bowl of batter. She continued working, making dough for bread and batter for cakes and treats. When each was done, she placed everything into the ovens and kicked the doors shut.
She found herself singing as she worked. It was a well-known song in the kingdom:
“ If you see the Traveling Man,
Beware the glare of his icy stare,
He wears the mask of a scorpion's clan,
And has a sharp, white streak in his hair,
A cloak of midnight black he wears,
And-”
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“You do know that half of those stories are fake, right?” said a gruff voice behind her.
Yado yelped and almost dropped a pan of batter onto the floor. She scampered to the counter and grabbed a kitchen knife before turning to the intruder. He looked like he had just walked out of her nightmares. The Traveling Man sat on one of her tables, eating one of her pink custards that had been on display in the window.
“I will set the castle guards on you if you don’t leave immediately and… pay for that!” Yado squealed.
The Traveling Man stood up, and Yado crouched behind the counter, hugging her knees.
“Where are the torches in this place?” he called. “Oh wait, found them.” Yado squeezed her eyes shut. She was wishing it was only a dream, that he would be gone when she opened her eyes again, but those dreams disappeared when she saw a flash of red bloom behind her eyelids as the Traveling Man lit the torches in her bakery.
“How did you get in?” She called from behind the counter. She had put a bell on the door months ago so she would know when customers came.
“A magician never reveals his tricks,” his deep voice replied.
She slowly stood up and glanced back over the counter again. He was back on the same table again, but with the light in the bakery, the sight of him was almost comical. He did wear a horrible mask, that was true. It covered his eyes and his nose, and it looked as if someone had taken a live scorpion and glued it to his face. He had pink custard all over his mouth, and some of it dripped onto his black cloak. His lips were twisted in a humorous grin. A white streak gleamed in his hair, and beneath his cloak he wore all black.
“That’s funny,” Yado said. “You look no more than sixteen.”
“And?” he replied.
“Do you actually get away with scaring people with that mask? You’re obviously not the man from the stories.” Yado watched as his lips dipped into a frown, and it was as if his lighthearted grin had never existed. His whole demeanor had changed, and it frightened her more than the mask.
She blinked and he was right in front of her. He had moved so fast that he was only a blur. His hand grabbed the baker’s apron she wore, and he pulled her off the ground, over the counter, and her face was inches away from his mask when he spoke, “The song was written by my reputation. The stories were spun by my hand, my actions, until others took them and turned me into a monster to scare their children at night. When I say half of them aren’t true, I am talking about the ones that portray me as a fictional character.”
As suddenly as he grabbed her, he let Yado go. The fright was still in her eyes when she looked back at him, but his grin was painted back on his face. He wiped his mouth with the underside of his cloak before saying, “You really shouldn’t leave the custards in the window. I steal them all the time.”
Then, as if a gust of wind had flooded the room, all the torches went out at once, and the Traveling Man faded into the shadows.
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