Zakarias

Zakarias

psycho-mancer
Character Profile
Profile

Rumble and roll, all through the night. Creek and squeak, with an awful delight. The train carts of terror, did rattle on through. Thumping and breaking, all who ran to.

See the nightmares.

See the jollies.

All the creatures, mirrored follies.

To you. To them. Who knew? Not Lem.

Crack, squish, splat! Split that sweet hearted gem.

On and on the wagon carts rolled. All helter. All skelter, as their whispers, hearts stole.

Come to see the freaks. Come to have some fun. Through mirrored peaks, and cavernous hum.

Nevermind the laughter. Nevermind the teeth. Those aren’t knives they’re hiding, just there underneath.

As the organ plays, a tune that goes round and round. Come one, come all, the Karn Evahl’s come to town.

Jagged keys and crooked presses set the pipe organ’s haunted tune to lilt and swoon. All through the air, its maddening rhythm tickles the ear, like a tongue too sweet, whispers and lulls, come closer, come here.

So there in the dark, of misty hazed splendor, the pitched tents do rise. Tattered tarps strung up by shambling shadows, all yellow and red, that scratch tall across storm grey sky.

At the head of the Rogue’s Gallery, the Knife Thrower smiles. Stands tall and straight backed, all dapper and trim. A fan of bright blades, there with their grin. “Come on up, come on up! And see me, fastidious Phanny! Dart bright menace across the way, and there unto the wheel of knives,” his grin split his face, his blue eyes burned light, and the bright gold of his hair, did invite. A spin of a knife, all easy to catch. “Take a roll on the wheel, and win a great prize,”

Blood streaked and hole ridden, with a puddle come drop. The wheel teetered, all squeak and groan. Pegs and straps, to hold fast to bone. The gore and grime streaks. Pretend to be sure, just stage play and props.

Eyes like the moons peer out from behind the bars of the Animal Cages. While dark shadows prowl and step, all tearing for stages. A lumbering worker, dressed in tight fitting red, limbs long and limber, just dragging along, steps a little too close, putting food between bars. A jagged claw, all carapace and chitin, grasps and pulls in, the lumbering worker who’s torn to their end.

Cackling laughter. And cheerful smiles. The crowd carries on. Lightning strikes, all splintered green trees, rips through the clouds. Burned scuts in its wake.

Thunder soon follows. Rolls through and shakes.

The big tent looms there in the distance, at the center of it all. Scarlet banner snapping, as the jaunty doom plays on. Canvas taught and rippling, curtains not ready for call.

Somewhere, somehow, sleep has taken hold of you. When next you awake, the carnival is there. All madness, and glee, its haunting melody bids to thee. Join in the fun. Get up to some spooks! Play the roll of the monster! Or be the terrorized kooks.

This is a seasonal thread to inspire a bit of mischief and malice. The fun sort of course, where we are all in on the joke. AND OUR POOR INNOCENT CHARACTERS. The Victims of our horrible delight.

So.

Don’t be shy. Join on in. It’s a spooky dream sequence in the magical world of Khurun! What your character remembers, what you want to be real, well, that's half the fun of it, isn’t it?

I will be acting as casual DM using my strange illusor, Zakarias, who, for the purpose of this fever dream of a thread, shall be the Ringmaster! That does not mean you, or anyone interested, cannot steal the scene with your own horrible nightmare! Or, gleeful bit of madness.

Areas of Interest
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The Big Tent | The Freak Show | The Funhouse | The Animal Cages | The Curiosities | Fortune Telling | The Tunnel of Love | The Rogue’s Gallery

The areas of interest are just meant to spark a little something. Find some cool art that fits a vibe, or an npc you feel fits that spot? Spawn the damn thing! Have your character there, or set the trap for others to fall into!

What’s the worst that can happen?
-
This will be a singular open thread!

The purpose? To mix, mingle, and get up to some hijinks! Doesn't have to be super serious, and you get to decide if its canon or not for your character! Rewards will still magically stick to your character if you want them to.

And don't be shy about doing a one and done cameo!
 
The Animal Cages

"They like to eat things cold."

"Like shaved ice?" The look she received was vacuous, not that it had been anything other than that. Black, empty eyes stared back at her like the shadows growing from the tall metal cages housing the beasts. Hooves echoed out in a resounding ring, heavy, leathery pads paced back and forth. Bated breath from parted jaws, gleaming eyes, chatoyant yellow and green like the Mother still splayed across the sky. White mist wafted from flared nostrils, antlers, and horns clanging against bars.

"No."

"Like cold pizza?"

"No."

"Like gazpacho?"

"Like dead things. Because dead things are served cold." Now it was Etoile's turn to stop and stare, blinking only once before opening her mouth once more.

"Wouldn't that hurt their teeth? It could give them brain freeze." A long, heavy sigh that felt like humid air. The Gnome turned away, his greasy hair streaked with maggots that fell beneath his comically small orange cone hat. He was missing an arm, but how much of an arm he was missing, Etoile couldn't tell. His tunic was too big, looking like a twenty-pound flour sack that was often stored on the airships. The sleeves dragged along the ground, the colorful cloth filthy with dirt and shit.

"Wait," Etoile said, "you didn't tell me if you had a petting zone." One arm was raised, the hand hidden by the sleeve. Filthy fabric flapped around the bright orange hat. Another maggot fell into the back of his tunic. Etoile found it wriggling on the ground after he took two slow steps. A baleful breeze slid the sleeve down, and she saw that he wasn't pointing to where the petting zoo may be but that he was flipping her off instead. She frowned. What carnival didn't have a petting zoo?

Something hissed at her, and she turned her head, seeing an enormous snake coiled up high, its head resting on its long, colorful body, eye-level to her. Its tongue was a bright blue that glowed in the dark, sunset orange eyes perfectly contrasting against it. Etoile didn't want to pet it. She had been hoping for something fluffy, like a llama. Maybe there was one in these cages?

"Goodbye," Etoile told the snake, and decided that if there were no official petting zoo here, she'd have to make her own.
 
The Tunnel of Love

His presence here was off the record and strictly for the purposes of private research. He moved surprisingly well in that dark place. It was amazing how lax security in a gathering such as this one could be. Passing all of the carnival goers, none would suspect him. His smile had been gentle and his conversation brief. He'd given one child candy. Mundane substance. Simply meant to make her happy and to smile as people in places like these do. What happened to her once madness spread for God to decide. Ko favored the strong, after all.

The closer he got to the tunnel's side entrance, the more he began to sweat. There was something giddy that welled up in his chest as he carried the black sackcloth bag over his shoulder. It moved subtly. His back became wet with the byproduct that came from slick pores. Love birds sat in their boats as rowers carried them to their dreams. A nightmare slid out of the black bag and into the water that carried them. A worm. White. Viscous. Searching. The seed had been planted. A gloved hand wiped away the spittle and sweat that had gathered about his mouth as he sped walked out of his secret entrance.

All his creation needed was water and blood. There would be plenty to be found here at such an event.
 

The Funhouse​


Lem was never going to believe this!

Nere stepped round in a circle, staring up at the twinkling lights draped between tent tops. There was so much to take in that she couldn't pick a direction to go. People walked past with sweet treats dripping in their hands. A lanky, four-armed man wearing an insect-like mask juggled bottles of fire. One announcer ushered in onlookers to gaze upon the horrors of the Scar, dredged up fresh from the Boiling Sea - behind the curtain he peeled back, a pale and sinuous creature could be glimpsed suspended in green fluid. One wide black eye stared back unblinking. The longer Nere gazed at it, the deeper she felt the pit in her stomach fall.

She stepped away from that and instead came to stop at a towering teetering tent with several layers of fabric and twine making multiple stories. Firebrights buzzed noisily in tubes of glass, creating a colorful outline of letters above the tent's entrance. It read:

NELLY'S OPTICAL HOUSE OF ILLUSTRIOUS ILLUSIONS
LITERAL FIGURATIVE AND FRAGMENTARY​

It must have taken forever to catch that many of the winged little shroudthings, to spell that all out. Nere did not have much time to think about the logistics, however, as another barker waved her inside.

"Where up is down, and down is yesterday! Enter the strange world where fiends live and play." The barker was tall and horned. She wore black gloves and a long-tailed coat, half yellow and half red. At her feet was the crunch of discarded effects - boots and bracelets, bones and buttons.

Nere could not help herself. She stepped forward, and crossed through the threshold of the tent flaps.
 

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ The fortune teller's pavilion⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊​

The tent smelled like old velvet, moldy hay and cheap incense, like someone had tried to perfume away the scent of mildew and despair. Shadows danced on the walls like gossiping spirits, and the crystal ball on the small, round table pulsed with an ominous glow. Anira stared across the tiny table at the cloaked fortune teller. The table was draped in layers of moth-eaten lace and questionable taste.

"You will walk paths of shadow. The dead will know your name." said the fortune teller. Anira threw her head back with a groan loud enough to make the bead curtain at the entrance sway. The dead, the damned, the dearly departed ... such fabulous company!

“Yes, yes, obviously! I’m a bard. I travel. I flirt. I drink. Of course, I’m going to die spectacularly young!" She leaned forward, eyes bright, lips pursed in a tight, charming smile. The minstrel leaned forward, squinting dramatically at the cloudy crystal ball between them. “What I asked, if you remember, was whether I’m going to marry a tall, handsome noble with shoulders like a ship’s prow and gold coins to spare!" One finger tapping impatiently on the arm of her chair.

The fortune teller’s milky eyes blinked slowly. “There is… a man. I see blood. A blade. Betrayal...”

"Yes, yes, darkness follows me, the veil is thinning, something unspeakable lurks in the mists... I know, darling. That’s called Monday. Now. Can we please skip to the part where you tell me about my future husband? You know, the important bit?” The blonde bard pressed on, voice rising into that bright, melodic pitch she reserved for charming barkeepers. "Does he ride a black destrier? Does he own a vineyard or a mansion? And how’s his hairline? We’re being honest, yes?"

The fortune teller said nothing, just made a vague motion over the cards. Anira slapped the table so hard the crystal ball hiccupped in its stand. “Please! You’re telling me I paid two silver for the same prophecy I got from a drunk in a ditch three towns ago?! Don’t give me more death and doom!”
 

The Freak Show​



Couldn't remember how she'd gotten here. Or how long it'd been. Only the sign overhanging the entrance, and the grass at her feet. It had grown a couple inches since she'd stopped moving.

Two other freaks were talking and it seemed they believed the conversation included her too. Because they stopped talking and looked at her expectantly. Strange and friendly creatures. One had a second face on his neck, malformed and unfinished. Enough to scare, but probably not enough to speak. The other looked normal enough – Huge puffy skirt and many thudding sounds whenever she moved. Juniper had heard the others call that one Legs.

„You new?“ Voice slow and pointed – like he'd just repeated the question three times. And he had.

„Don't worry, they stare at everyone at first.“ Legs took over, calming. „I make noise. Tummy...“ She nodded to the man next to her. „...Drools.“

Legs and Tummy. Funny. That got Juniper's attention as more of her eyes opened. Perhaps whoever named them had her sense of humor. Only, she didn't get Tummy. Was there another one staring back behind the shirt?

„Staring comes first...yes.“ Then they started avoiding you. Then it was the politeness. But always fear. Because fear was correct.

„You're...you're part of the act, right?“ Legs' voice went to its more honest self. Would've been a chilling moment, but Tummy's neckface burped and mumbled something.

Could've ended there, but her shoulder got tapped. A knock and an ahem.

„Take your position! Guests are coming!“ Handler's voice stiff and hurried.

Juniper's eyes got very still, all of them. One in the upper right twitched. Blinking unnecessary.

Her roots left the ground with a glide, inch short of the soil. Body rotated, levitating just high enough to rustle the greenblades below.

„What...“ Barkbreak voice. „Did you just say to me, human?“
 

Tunnel of Love​


Kenan was perfect.

Saskia kept wanting to pinch herself, as if she were dreaming. The day had been a blur, almost a whirlwind, but the company had been lovely. Kenan had been all hazel eyes and devilish smirks, not shy in showing her around the carnival. He seemed to know about everything, had promised her that he saved the best for last.

"The Tunnel of Love." Saskia snorted, crossing her arms and turning a slightly suspicious eye to him. "Confident, are we?"

"Why, Miss Kerraelas! I am powerless to beauty such as your's. Can't blame me for... sweetening this evening, hm?"

He held out his hand, an offer should she take it. Kenan View attachment 853even gave her a small pout that made him look ridiculous in the way that a pretty face like that was too nice to make such a face, in an adorable way, of course.

There should be a rule for pretty boys and the way they beg. Or Saskia just had a hard time reading the signs. It was very like her to jump all in before even thinking.

Her hand untangled from her crossed arms, taking his hand, and allowed him to pull her towards a waiting boat.

"Oh, it's a little dark in here." She commented once their boat pushed it's way through the doors and into the interiors where all sorts of display and decorations of love was presented. Darkness and shadow had always been a comfort for her, but here she could not feel the shadows. Odd.

"Here, allow me." Kenan's face lit up. In his uplifted hand, an orb that trapped light. It was bright for a few seconds, but Saskia still winced looking at it. "Better?" He grinned.

Oh, he looked very pretty smiling. She thought. Something about him annoyed her. Instead of admitting it, she turned her face back towards the start of the display. "A little less, and it will be perfect ambience."
Saskia said the last word with soft enunciation, a coy smile lifting at her lips.
 

The Animal Cages​

Grumbly little gnome. One handed and malcomported, Took his one hand and let the latch go, hitch.

Petting zoo. Petting You. He thought as he laughed a maniacle laugh. Door after door. He let the beasties out.

Till the shadows struck about. Fangs punched through skin, sunk through ribs, and had the lungs go flat.

Maggots fell from his conical orange hat. And down the snakething's gullet, the gnome man went. A petting zoo made, as he passed all too content.

The Tunnel of Love​

Through the waters of Love, things did stir. Timeless shapes, s curved as they carved through the wake. Happened upon a fateful pair. Winsome and fair.

Thrash of wholebodyatail. Surge from the waters. Leap as it screeched. Oh how they screamed. But only for a moment before the water drowned them out. Wrapping and coiling as the horrid work was done.

The Funhouse​

Into the House of Illustrious Illusion, Literal Figurative and Fragmentary. Maws of starlight there to great the friendly not so local here, bloodmage. Panes of silvered glass that shone and flashed. Warped and stretched.

Too fat. Too tall. Too thin. Was that, was that you in a hundred years? All withered and skin?

Crumpled to dust and scattered to winds.

Rolled together and stretched right out.

Something strange was certainly about.

The Fortune Teller's Pavilion​

The fortune teller quirked a brow. Lips, or at least it felt like lips there in the pit of inky darkness that swallowed their features, pursed as their starfire eyes looked at the hand so rudely slapped down, then back at the buxom bard, all fire and gold.


A clearing of the throat. "Well," they began. "Drunk asside," they fanned their fingers about the crystal ball, all feathers to stir the winds of cosmic fate. "Did they tell you of, the Sword of Sunlight and Silk?" they asked as their digits coaxed and plucked and worked the crystal. Little clouds gathered about the orb. Their eyes watched a moment, as if waiting for a cat too eager to chase a mouse come settle. "There in the hall of stars and shadows, in the belly of a beautiful beast it will be," the faceless fortuneteller fell into cadence. "A sword, to cast away the darkness!" they leaned closer to the ball. All ass out of seat. Squint. Fell back onto their stool. Cleared their throat. "Nothing on the husbands though,"

The Freak Show​

Come the rabble. All gawk eyed and bright toothed.

"Oh! Look ma!" some round faced manchild, too big, said as they pointed at the asortment of curiosities. "That lady's a tree!" they walked right on up. Fingers all touch and grab against the parts that were bark. "It even FEELS like tree!" the childish man said as he looked back to his mother.

A withered old husk. Pushed along in a chair with iron rimmed wheels. A manservant, too large, too broad and stitched together despite their dapper dress, pushing the husk around.

The mother. All desicated corpse. Said nothing. Just stared their eyeless stare at their idiot son. All happy with his obvious observation and intrusive prodings.

Others milled about, gawking and staring at the menagerie of talent. Laughed. And said horrible things.
 
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The Curiosities​

Fray's first instinct was to run.

And she did, straight towards what looked vaguely to be dark, ominous woods. No, no, no she chanted under her breath. Fuck this place. But every time she dove into the darkness, she emerged the other side right back where she started: standing in front of the garish eyesore of big ass tents.

The noise was terrible. A cacophony of tinny music, laughter, and performers plying their crafts, calling out to draw crowds in. Fray had been to one or two troupe performances before, but never had she witnessed anything of this scale. It was enormous, sprawling in all directions like it would never end. The sheer amount of clashing colors and bright lights was starting to give her a headache. If there was a hell, this had to be it.

Reluctantly, Fray admitted that it would also be right where she belonged.

She swore, she paced, and then she swore some more. With one last, longing look at the woods, she sighed, squared her shoulders, and walked towards the sprawl of tents.

Tension wound itself in every muscle as she picked her way through the crowd. This place felt as unnatural as it looked, and therefore Fray trusted it not one bit. She had one hand glued to Fang's pommel, while the other hovered at chest level, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

Evidently, there were many avenues to explore. Some tents had big signs and troupe members shouting their outlandish promises, while smells of roasted nuts tempted her nose. Somehow, Fray took in everything and nothing, the details of those around her blurry while the tents and workers themselves seemed extra sharp and colorful. And loud. Blight take her, they were loud enough to wake the dead.

Fray found herself steering clear of the unrelenting bombardment of the senses. Her feet—and ears—carried her away from the crowd and into a quieter, more subdued area. There was no performer barking at people to come in, much to her relief, just a wooden sign promising curiosities, staked before a rather unassuming looking tent.

Eager to escape the nightmare behind her, she ducked in without hesitation. The fabric must have been thick, as the noise outside became instantly muted, no less bothersome than the patter of rain.
 
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[cred] ||The Animal Cages AKA Future Petting Zoo

Someone had opened the cages, but Etoile didn't hear the click of metal and the clack of claws before sound softened from dirt. There were far more exciting things to see, like a crow with two heads and cloudy white eyes. It was comforting to look at the bird, each side cocked to a different side to peer more deeply into her gray gaze.

"I'm a raven." One head said.

"Not a crow." The other head said.

"I'm sorry," Etoile looked between the two heads. They were identical, but the voices were not. "I see plenty of birds but never enough to tell them apart."

"We know." The heads said in unison. The raven ruffled its feathers, its head turning to another side.

"What else do you know?" She went closer to the cage, and the raven leaned both its heads closer to her.

"Many things." One said.

"Too many," the other picked at something on its beak with a talon. When it shook its head, its broad black beak hit the other head in the eye. Both were still, both eyes cloudy and gray like her favorite memory when she had first gone into the sky.

"Do you know something that I don't know?" Etoile pressed, cheeks now pressed against the bar. The raven could fly off the wooden perch, talons outstretched to pick out both her eyes. Instead, the raven was quiet, thoughtful. Maybe it didn't want her eyes when it already had two pairs of vacuous gray.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie." The first head said.

"And with strange aeons even death may die."Said the second.

Etoile frowned, mulling over the words spoken by the bird that had just spread its wings wide, blending well into the shadows now. She stepped back from the cage, a hand on her chin as she tilted her head much like the second head did now. The frown remained even after much time passed. Her thin, dark brows furrowed together. The inquisitive hand fell back to her side.

"I already knew that," Etoile said before turning away. Maybe an owl would know something more worthwhile than a raven that looked like a crow with two heads.
 
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⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ The fortune teller's pavilion⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊​

The insides of the crystal orb began to swirl, churning into a maelstrom of mist and shadow. Like a storm bottled in glass and seasoned with melodrama. Pale, colorless lights flickered within it, it was dread, destiny, and probably something involving a dying star, too. Like some ominous teapot of doom.

“There in the hall of stars and shadows, in the belly of a beautiful beast it will be.."

Anira blinked once. Slowly. Then tilted her head to the side like they’d just handed her a live eel and called it destiny. “A sword?” she repeated, her voice rising with the same disbelief one might reserve for mold in their wine. The seer nodded eagerly. “Oh, wonderful! A sword!” she cried.

The crystal ball pulsed ominously. “Darling, look at me.” The bard sighed and gestured to her face. Her corset. Her entirely unarmed and unarmored, entirely intentional décolletage. “Do I,” she hissed, “look like someone who would say, 'They will say I have shed innocent blood…" A pause. "Or "What’s blood for, if not for shedding?’” She placed her palms on the table, blue eyes blazing. Anira leaned across it like a thundercloud in silk and blonde strands of pleasant-smelling hair. "Do I?!" The blondie was not a warrior. She was a bard. She strummed and rhymed things, fell in love with emotionally unavailable men, and made it everyone’s problem. Never in her life had she picked up a sword unless it was blocking her path to the wine cellar.

Anira’s chair scraped back across the rug. She rose slowly. She stormed around the little tent, arms flailing like a peacock in full tantrum. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with a sword?! Stab a metaphor? Duel a cloud? Do I look like I have upper body strength?" Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

“What am I meant to do with a Sword of Sunlight and Silk, display it in the parlour and pretend I’m dangerous? It doesn’t even match my color scheme!” Then she threw her head back and laughed, one hand pressed to her ribs. She pointed a clean finger at the seer. “You’re reading from a script, aren’t you? Don’t lie."

The starfire eyes for the fortune teller just narrowed ever so slightly, in irritation or perhaps amusement. Their lips curled with the faintest twitch. Then, slowly the seer reached beneath the table. The fortune teller produced... nothing. Their hand hovered empty above the table. Palm up. Open. As to say: Search me. "Fate doesn’t care what rhymes you prefer, little singer."

The minstrel smoothed her doublet and sniffed. “You know what? I want a refund... Or at least a complimentary bottle of wine."
 
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The Freak Show​


Once again, she couldn't figure out how she'd gotten here. One moment she was turning to face the handler – Next, she was being....felt up by a moron. Well, at least it was an honest moron. Saying what everyone already thought. Because it really did feel like a tree, especially to the tree herself. They were usually too afraid to even look her in the many eyes, let alone approach...or touch. Made her feel more normal somehow. Perhaps these were her people now – children and those who forgot to grow beyond it.

The slab of wheelchairbound and unappetizing meat got her attention. Juniper didn't fear death. She planned for it. Just how much could be done before time ran out – and how many would have to die for the most to live past her crown. In death, she hoped to be something useful. A chair, a mug, firewood. Anything but the token you paraded around pretending was still a person.

„A corpse...should be well left alone.“ Voice almost like it once was.

Perhaps that was her nightmare. That there was no dignity in death. There was just done.
 
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The pigeon did it again. He disobeyed his mama and papa and flew too high in the sky, enthralled by the stars and their whispers. Cooberry must have gotten lost, sick from the stars, head filled with whispers, eyes blind in the direction he be. He looked down at the tent city filled with firelights and something stale yet sweet. He was only able to fly around in a circle. Each time he tried to go elsewhere, he'd find himself back where he had come from.

The pigeonbrained pigeon, still stardrunk, swooped low, flying over the heads of two-legs. He had never seen them look so strange before. Some looked normal, sure, if they didn't have a smile that twisted like the crescent moon and eyes that made Cooberry avoid them in fear for his little life. Their young weren't much better, but children were never the sort that looked normal to Cooberry. Food was smeared over their big mouths, fingers sticky from the sugar.

A large cat was on the prowl, and after his last encounter with a beast that size, Cooberry flew into the black open mouth of a tent. There were lanterns placed about to highlight even more of the strangeness that resided in this tent. Weary-winged, Cooberry found a magnificent tree to rest on. Perched on a small branch, he cooed out his frustrations, tilting his head from side to side to get a look at all the strange two-legs.

"The stars must have done it again," he cried, mostly to himself. "Stupid stars, stupid staaaaaaaars!"

@Juniper
 

THE FUNHOUSE​

Dancing lines of round lights hung from the tent ceiling high above. And so too did the images of Nere wobble and dance as she walked through the field of funny mirrors. She stretched her arms out wide and saw them span a thousand miles. She made a scowling, wide-eyed expression at a red mirror, and the face of a fiend looked back at her. Then she squatted low in front of another that coiled her up into a loopy pile of arms, torso, and legs. Wow, her insides felt all turned upside-down after that one!

Her amusements mostly spent, Nere began looking for the exit, but found she had gotten turned around.

Rows of mirrors stretched on for aeons, each one a year of her life. Weather round her eyes, and muscles beginning to soften. She paused around middleage to run fingers through her hair, noticing the grey for the first time. Her steps grew heavy with elderly aches, but something compelled her to keep going.

Silver echoed silver, before and behind, until there was only the expanse of time. Visions flickered in that nonland, unmoored, like heat waves on the salt flats. Here she was ancient and everlasting, a bastion of rune-rites inscribed on leather-hard skin. There, she was bloodied cuts and gasping last breaths. The sun faded and the moons rose over a simple grave, rocks piled over bones to keep the wild dogs from gnawing on them. The sun rose and then again her body baked on barren land, left to the desert, scattering scattered gone.

"I've had enough of this!" Nere called out. Her voice echoed like the refractions of the mirrors. She couldn't find her body, or place her footsteps. "Where's the exit?!"

A cackling answered her, high pitched. “Poor, sweet girl. It’s too bad she won’t live," said a nasally voice from somewhere above, or below. "Then again, who does?”

Wasn't it bad luck to break a mirror? Nere decided to take the risk. She swung mad at one, and felt warmth bloom against her fist as she broke through.
 

The Freak Show​



Her branches shook. Worse than laughter, but not hard enough to shake the silly creature off. Her many treeeyes beheld the pigeon instead. Far as messengers went, this one had been found lacking. Didn't really tell her anything new. Stars were dumb, glittery things. What value did they have to anyone other than hanging in the gloom, all shiny?

Poultry in her branches, worms at her feet. She really had let herself go. What next – persimmon fruit? Juniper held to hope that if she was to bear fruit, it would be something more meaningful than a pretty orange tidbit.

So let the little critter coo an caw, all puffed up and righteous. A little madness never hurt anyone. Spice of life, really. She just watched it, the way a house might watch the dishes you conveniently forgot to wash.

There are... „...Worse things than stars, little skything.“ Voice late to the thought.

„You may rest here.“ Looked at all the hands below, greedy and grabby. Likely would have the bird plucked and stuffed come light.

Was a time she'd have them all flogged. Was a time she would've joined them.
 
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