Editing Announcements - 2011/07 - Shifting Shadows (section)

== Rollout Article ==
{{Turbine 2008
 |  Link = http://ac.turbine.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=658-july-rollout-fiction&catid=85-2011&Itemid=68
 | Title = July Rollout Fiction
 |  Text =
Ziryab Cordoba walked the corridors of the hall pleased with all he saw. The symposium was going better than he could have planned. There were Aluvian friseurs and coiffeurs. There were Sho stylists. There were even a few Viamont shavers. From all over Dereth they came and they were all here celebrating the art of of the tonsor.
<br /><br />
“Oh my goodness, it's him! It's really him,” squealed a teenage girl with her hair pulled over to one side, creating a stylish waterfall of hair over her left shoulder.
<br /><br />
Hundreds of them.
<br /><br />
“He's marvelous,” her friend sighed.
<br /><br />
And to think that his father had sneered at the Gharu'ndim boy, dismissing him as merely a barber.
<br /><br />
“Out of the way, girls,” Ziryab's bodyguard said politely, but firmly. Ziryab had made sure the guards were always polite.
<br /><br />
No. Ziryab was no mere barber. He was a tonsor. He was an artist. And his medium was the manes and locks of the nobles of Dereth. The richest of ladies and the most fashionable of men paid small fortunes for his attentions, because he knew what they wanted. They wanted to be pampered. They wanted to stand out of the crowd…just the way that Ziryab always stood out of the crowd.
<br /><br />
“Look at his outfit,” a minor lord said. “Genius. Simply genius. I must get my tailor to do something like that for me.”
<br /><br />
For this year's show, he had braided his hair into hundreds of tiny corn-row braids in which silver silken threads mingled with his own jet black hair, the kinky curls tamed for the time being. At the end of each braid was a small silver bead, which beat softly on his back as he walked. He wore a sleeveless silver robe over his muscular body. With so much silver, his gray eyes stood out in contrast from his black skin. He looked like the embodiment of the night.
<br /><br />
Which is the way it should be.
<br /><br />
“You could never pull off that look with your pale skin,” the nobleman's wife said. “The Black Bird's unique.”
<br /><br />
Ziryab. The Black Bird. And how had his career soared.
<br /><br />
“True,” the nobleman said, feeling a bit dejected.
<br /><br />
Ziryab stopped and smiled at the man. “Celebrate your own beauty. You should wear a sage color robe. It would bring out the green in your lovely hazel eyes.”
“He's right,” the man's wife said, her eyes never leaving Ziryab. “Thank you so much.”
<br /><br />
“My pleasure,” he said with a bow, the moved on, tossing his head so his braid-beads would chime.
<br /><br />
When the rich wanted to be a spectacle, they wanted to be attended by a spectacle. They believed they became whatever they were surrounded by. They believed that his striking beauty would somehow rub off on them. That was just fine with Ziryab; it allowed him to make these rich customers into living canvases for his art. And he did make them beautiful, but that was not what made him in such demand. Making the most out of a natural beauty was easy. Dealing with those who were not so blessed with symmetry of face was the challenge. The secret was simple…if you could not make them beautiful, then make them striking. Memorable. If that meant shaving half their head, then so be it. If that meant weaving feathers into braids, done. If in meant dying their hair into rainbow stripes, then bring on the spectrum of colors.
<br /><br />
He entered the main function room and he was hit with the physical force of the base of the drums. Two dozen of the best drummers were beating away an intoxicating rhythm as models strutted down the runway displaying this year's exhibitors' newest creations.
<br /><br />
There were traditional hairstyles, like the beehives popular in Viamont and Aluvia.  There were also more risqué hairstyles, including those where people's hair were lifted into spikes or fins.  Each one was met with sounds of approval.  Dereth had never seen hairstyles like this before.
<br /><br />
By the end of the show, the crowd was on their feet and their thunderous applause filled the hall. Ziryab lay back on his cushions, smiling as he raised his glass of fine wine to his lips. It was all going so well. He was ready to open his school. His would spread his art to every corner of Dereth.
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