THE CURIOSITIES​


It took every ounce of willpower in Fray not to flinch when a scream tore through the stuffy silence. It came from outside the tent, followed by rigorous stomping that seemed to shake the very ground beneath. Whatever it was sounded positively nasty. Of course, the Deva's first instinct was to unsheathe her swords and cut herself a back entrance to escape. She was no savior. The rest of these poor sods could rescue themselves.

Only, when she touched her back and hip, there was...nothing.

Panic erupted in her chest, and this time she was not standing still out of some misplaced sense of bravado. Fear rooted her in place; she was frozen in the horribleness of it all, to be caught in this hell touched place with nothing but her bare hands and a foul mood.

The screaming outside intensified. More voices had joined the first, punctuated by the staccato sound of things being smashed.
Fray stared down at the open cage door in consternation. Against all better judgment, she felt a strange compulsion to accept the faeling's offer, but the sheer absurdity of it kept her from giving in.

"How do you expect me to fit in there?" the mercenary asked flatly. All the while, the screaming seemed to be getting closer.

The fairy took another slow drag and blew out neat rings of smoke. "You will try, if you want to live."

Frowning, Fray took a step back. But then an enormous, many-legged shadow shuddered across one of the canvas walls of the tent, accompanied by what sounded like dozens of sticks clacking, and she promptly stepped forward again.

"How do I know I won't be trapped in there with you for the rest of eternity?" Fray blurted.

With an utterly exhausted expression, the fairy looked up at her and said, "What makes you think I'm trapped?"

Suddenly, all the masks hanging on the wall Fray had walked past began to shake. It took her a moment to realize that they were, in fact, not just shaking, but...moving, warping, some laughing while others cried. On top of that, there was a strange noise accompanying their spontaneous animation, almost like a low susurrous of dozens of voices. She did not understand how it was even possible, but she hated it instantly.

Fray sighed. "Fuck it."

She reached a hand out and took a step, and before she knew it she felt the strange sensation of falling. Down, down, and forward, until she was stumbling into a haze of cigarette smoke as the gilded door behind her gently closed.
 
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The barker hadn't wanted Nere's sword.

She drug it behind her, dejection in every step. Eyes only saw the gravel at her feet as she wove through the crowd. No glance towards the spoiled man with his sharp spoon, nor the splash and scream coming from the mouth of the Tunnel of Love, nor the clamorous cart and the goatkin pulling it who tried to sell her something called "popped corn".

But the snake was a story tall, and it was swallowing some poor girl whole!

Burrs of iron dug into Nere's palms as she gripped the unpolished tang for an upward swing.

Wait! Nere wrenched her muscles in the opposite direction, and the sword bounced harmless against the snake's scales. What was she thinking, the girl was inside! If Nere miscalculated the digestion rate of the snake by even a fraction of a second, she wouldn't be able to tell where the girl was and then this wouldn't be a rescue anymore... it would be an exhumation in two parts.

She took a step back. The snake looked at her with its fat head and round red-orange eyes, slowed by its recent gluttony. It was beautiful: white, black, orange and blue scales alternating down its coils in a diamond pattern.

"Let's see, you could either be an Arshakan Vivispede or a Red-Eared Ophidian Wyrm..." The two clades of monster looked nearly identical to each other, but had vastly different innards, and - most pertinent to Nere's current predicament - different rates of passage through the digestive tract. The Vivispede could fully digest an adult deva or elf after nine days, while the Ophidian took thirteen weeks. This was a nuanced matter of monster hunting that was only important to the late cazadore Beltramo Matteucci (who'd written a whole manual about it in EoD 319), and Nere Ashorn, who'd read the manual cover to cover after picking it up out of a dusty flea market bin for three coppers.

The only outward way to tell the difference between an Arshakan Vivispede and a Red-Eared Ophidian Wyrm was to count the number of diamonds across each stripe of its back. At the thickest point, the Vivispede would have three black and two orange, while the Ophidian would have two black and three orange. Or ... was it the other way around? The little bubble of worry did not pop upon the surface of her mind. It hovered shimmering somewhere around her midsection.

"One, two..." Nere counted out loud as she stepped circles around the snake. "Aha, three! I have you now, Wyrm!"

Nere really hoped she was visualizing the diagram on pg. 34 correctly as she angled her blade just so. Raised it above her head, and brought down the executioner's swing between the twenty-third and twenty-fourth rib.

Hot, steaming blood poured out all over the place. Nere was already covered in blood, so she didn't mind. She knelt down in the debris and stuck a hand up one end. Found a foot to grab onto, and tugged.

A porcelain person unwrapped from snake's skin.

"Come on, on your feet again," Nere said. "If we don't get going, we'll miss the main act."
 

THE FREAK SHOW​

Corrupting those things that were most corrupted. Oil there to the blaze. Gleam the bright edges of hatchet heads, held firm betwixt bone and flesh yet unturned by Lady Hundred Eyes. Long may she root. Grow as she reign.

Chop!

They took it to the tree come out shtump.

Chop!

They took it to the chair upon which the spent mother sat.

Chop!

They took it to the idiot man, and his freshly made bark.

Chop!

They took it to the gret tree and all her roots!

For she had all to give, and theirs was all to bare. Hoisted up the pieces that came free. All smiles and horrid glee. For the fire! For the fire! They chanted all mad. And carried off what they could. Made one turn. Then two. To trees, who sapped out blood from cracked out skin turned plates of purples and reds.

Chop!

They took it to them too. Those new turned delights, that would help set all to light. No matter how many felled. Down to the ground. Where that plucked out eye could see. All the hatchets. All the hands. Chop. Chop. Chop. Carrying. Taking. More than they could ever be given. To the Big Tent.

Till a boot went stomp. And the eye went squish. And it couldn't see anything anymore.

CAROUSEL​

Round and round he went. A dreamer, all too aware of the ride they rode. Round and round the horses went. Until one. Then two. Three and four. Popped off the spiraled poles and rose and fell. Rose and fell. All their spiraling way to the big tent. Prance and trot, giddy and hop. Where all that paint, running and wet, and all that wood, so handsome and shaped, would bring to life the blaze.


Riders too gleeful. Children too happy. As they laughed and cried. Skin sagged to paper. Wrinkled with age. Hairs greyed to cobwebs just draped across skulls. All paint and veneer, coming undone.


On their way to the Big Tent.

The Curiosities​


Shut.

All ease of hinges, and whisper of brass framed glass. "Well, aren't you a brave one," the fairy said as she took another puff. Kicked her little feet, that now, weren't so little anymore.

Gossamer wings fluttered and struck. As all the caged world within swirled and shift as the smoke rolled, rose, and fell.

The world beyond the gilded cage could hardly be seen. Hardly be heard. None of it felt. The cage. Filled, and filled with smoke. And the fairy. Was huge.

"Better in here, than out there, I say," she said. Took another drag of her smoke. Spewed it all out, in heated white plume that went on, filling the cage. Changing shape. Hallways. Doors. Windows. There in the ever whisping curls. Just out of reach.

˚୨୧⋆˚｡⋆ The Big Tent ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚​

Bits and pieces. Horses and hairless. Blood and guts, and most of all the crowd! Porcelain faces. Red soaked clothes. All crushed, and all rushed to get to their seats!

Some fell. Sure. And the heels that drove them, down to the dirt. Boy did they hurt. Crunched the hard bits. Popped the soft parts. Shoved with elbows, pushed with hands. As laughter peeled out of bloodless throats. And on and on, the pieces went. Bobbing and bouncing along hands that carried them over. As horse sauntered and sailed. Lazy with the tunes that waved them right to ruin. Crack. Break. Shatter and sing.

Them all down. To the ring. Where there he did frown. Smiled all king. The red clown.

A pile that grew. And grew. With spree of tree, and body part. A horrid piece, some brave soul might call art.

"Hurry now, hurry!" the red clown cried out. All tips of his toes. Hand stretched up and fingers fluttering about. "The big SHOW is about to start!"
 
His cute, dainty little feet began to grow. It was a strange feeling, the sort he supposed a weed felt when it was deeply uprooted, the big fat center root the size of a well-fed slug. It was the breaking and the unbreaking, pieces being added when they never belonged there in the first place. The pain was helter-skelter, tipping back and forth between excruciating and exhilarating, his amber eyes swelling, pupils dilating.

Cooberry fell from the strong branches, falling to the ground and hitting his head. He rolled over on his back, moaning his miseries to the air that began to smell of wood and earth. The sharp tang of metal had the poor pigeon dizzy, his wings flittering helplessly, his feet still growing.

Wafting through reality and dreams swirling into one lurid fantasy, Cooberry imagined himself back with his family. He was having dinner with his father and mother, his brother and sister in law and -- oh my! -- four nieces and nephews, perfectly even as it so happened to be in every fantasy. They nibbled at little white seeds and bigger black seeds and some round brown seeds. Such joy filled Cooberry's feathery breast that he couldn't even eat, only cry as he watched his family bathed in the many moons and their pearlescent glow.

"Out of my way," One of the disgusting twolegs kicked Cooberry away from the stump, holding an armful of chopped roots against their flabby, leaking chest. The kick was enough to clear the pigeon's head. He turned his head to the culprit, realized all too late what they were doing to the kind tree who spoke to him with maternal warmth. His feet had stopped growing.

They resembled large, orange hands, cracked from toils spent under a high sun. He flexed, the thick, long digits scrunch down towards sharp, bony palms. He felt the strength. He felt the power. For the first time in Cooberry's little short life, he felt the power to hurt others that liked to hurt others. Cooberry didn't question his ability to fly, didn't question how he felt weightless as he rushed to the miasmal matriarch who let her filthy children touch a Queen.

"Fuck you." Cooberry cursed, straggling the woman who sat upon a throne of gristle and grime. His malformed hands were tight against her throat, crushing loose skin tight against the bone leading to her decapitated skull. For the Tree Queen. He'd kill for the Tree Queen.
 
It was hard to ignore the pressure in her lungs as she tried breathing against slimy pink flesh. Etoile's breathing became shallow, softer, even if she felt like she was gasping for air. She closed her eyes, dark lashes thick with something wet that wasn't her tears or her sweat. She bit her lower lip, thinking that if she thought about breathing, she could breathe better. She ended up breathing worse, heaving like an old woman who hadn't ran in decades.

Etoile supposed this is what it felt like when one was drowning. The burning. The pain, deep and heavy in her chest, all encompassing of her nerves and her normal bodily functions. All Etoile could think of was breathing. Air. Lungs. In and Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. But all she could do was breathe in the stench of flesh and breathe out her precious oxygen.

Dying wouldn't be so bad, would it? Suffocating to death before being dissolved by stomach acid and pressed into mush was preferable than being awake and conscious, wasn't it? As Etoile's vision slowly got blurry, the dark devouring the pink flesh undulating against her, Etoile didn't realize as she started drifting to an everlasting sleep. Her last thought was why should she resist? Didn't she always want to sleep in whenever she woke up? This was a wish come to true.

Eyes closed, rapidly beating heart stung against her chest, she coughed and retched, body beginning to shake and go numb. Etoile wanted to go softly, but her body had another plan. Somebody else had another plan.

Etoile slipped out of the snake like it was a loose corset, sliding easily over the length of her thin waist, the curve of her hips. The length of wrym slick yet firm against the fat of her thighs, an ugly mermaird that belonged in any manuscript filled with horrors, the medusa mermaid, quick to set any gaze straight to stone.

Yet, she looked up and found a knight in shining red armor glistening with the blood of the enemy. She was no wicked woman creature from the depths of an intolerable man's man. Etoile wheezed and coughed, hacking up nothing but phlegm and air. The outstretched hand, like a god to a mortal, the tempestari took it the moment she found a hint of strength in her shaking limbs. She used her other hand to try and lift herself, hair stuck to the back of her tunic, trousers ill-fitted around her knees and ankles.

"I love a good show," Etoile breathed out, voice small yet profound. Authentic though she was so close to death and had accepted her end as eagerly as she accepted being saved. "May I accompany my hero? I promise I won't try to slow you down. Even if I feel I cannot stand, I will do my best to walk."
 
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THE FREAK SHOW​


The engorged claws revealed the bird's repressed rage. The innocent and docile seemed to be the harshest judges once they no longer feared. Perhaps that's what they all needed, a bit of plague to fortify them. She should be flattered, really. That such a little thing would fight for her without question. Not like it would do much, but it was the thought that counted.

Her arm closed around one of the axefiends that'd swung too close to the pigeon. She broke several of his bones before she thought better of it. The abandoned flesh was just beginning to bend to her will when they chopped off her arm.

She whimpered.

The oncearm now just a branch of another tree as skin gave way to bark. Flesh was a malleable substance, after all. You didn't have to be Third to understand this truth of the world.

Sap dripped from the abrupt end of her limb. Ground took quickly to it, newborn saplings rooted shallow into the hungry ground.

They came with hatchets and the desire to see things ended. She hoped her own people would rise against her like that one day. Once she grew too mad. When the other two were no longer enough to keep her in check. But she doubted it. She'd raised them to respect and fear her. Perhaps she needed to give them a firmer hand...like the bird had gotten.

The bird...

She'd lost her other arm in the fray as well – a different stalk springing from where it fell. For each eye they crushed, another opened somewhere. For each piece of her they took, she found home in more of their flesh. They were working her down to firewood, it seemed. But all it did was make them flammable too.

„Sweet, sweet bird.“ She pleaded. „You should go while you know how. Before...“ And she was already imagining vines spreading down the critter's veins, leaves replacing feathers, barkbeak, sprouttalon. And she no longer abhorred the thought.

Juniper of the left arm looked at the madness, learning how to be a birch. Her right sister always thought herself an olive. Roots got cut and jumped up to burrow into the lumberjacks like mad earthworms. For each appendage she lost, she gained a puppet. But the more spread her conscience became, the less her was left. Another body. Another eye.

They all seemed to dance towards the great pyre. But if fire was all it took, she'd have done it herself long ago.

She wanted to speak further warnings to the little soldier, but a blade caught across her face. For all the the eyes she learned to open, she still only had the one mouth.

So she watched them become her children. There was little else to do now.
 

Bit by bit. Soul by soul. The big tent did grow. Fatter and fatter. Its skin did stretch. With too many bodies, all crushed, made to wretch.

The pile grew taller. And all the bits and pieces of each nightmare found their way in. Wyrm bones and snake skins. Carcasses half eaten. Worms gushing. Breaking through chests. Ripping through innards as their walking incubators screamed and laughed and stumbled about. Insides wet and red and falling out.

A parade of madness. A churn of promised desolation. Just a step too far. Just a wink held shut. A breath too long. And through it all, the Red Clown pranced. Along the tips of toes and with arms a flop.

Pirouette and plié. Red horns ring ting jingaling all the way. Snapped behind him like proud banners in the wind. Bells, bright as brass horns, as starlight eyes burned, and his pale mask went on twisted. Rage and joy, there in one. A thing that would never be. Happy? Satisfied? Trivial, really, but still, his toes did go on tipping, feet merrily skipping.

All while the band played their maddening march, off kilter staccato that climbed and climbed. Groaned and groaned. Moaned and whined. Instruments strained, and frayed, like things played with hands that knew no love.

More wood for the pile. More bones for the monsters. More bellies for the worms. Let them spill. Let them thrill! As the big tent bounced and danced and sparked and burned.

Screams! Yes! Screams! Rang high through the Big Tent as the fires caught wild. Across trees that were not trees. Children made by spoiled parts. Oh how they stank. Oh how they reeked! And there through it all, the Red Jester laughed. Aflame all the same, in the madness of Karn Evhal.

All up in flames. The night comes to its dramatic aynd. Fire washing over the oily greased tents. Lapping and eating, lunging and jumping. Like a thing come alive. And all too hungry. Golden and horrible. Red and ravenous. It sets the whole fair to blaze.

Toodle-oo and bon voyage. A sweet whisper calls to the dreamers come wake. Ta ta for now~ Until next time we dream, sweet miserable little things.
 

THE CURIOSITIES​

As soon as Fray stepped in, a warm blanket of calm wrapped around her. She felt…at peace, a little sleepy, even. A part of her wondered thickly if it was because of the smoke. A drug of some kind, maybe. But she was too complacent to care. For the first time since the beginning of that strange night, Fray couldn’t be bothered.

It was quiet in the cage. The fairy seemed impossibly beautiful up close, her skin rich like damp earth and glittering subtly, as if it had been sprinkled with gold mica. Taking another deep puff, she spoke in a low, sultry voice and patted a bed of moss beside the swing. Had that moss always been there? Fray shook her head, trying to clear it of all the fuzz, but in the end chose to shuffle closer and lay down on the bed.

Despite the amount of smoke, Fray breathed easily as she settled in. It was the softest thing she’d ever slept on. Like a cloud, only green.

At some point, the fairy was running long, spindly fingers through Fray’s hair, tracing the curves of her horns. She was humming, too, between drags. It was a sad melody, all minor keyed and moody. It reminded Fray of funeral pyres. Or, the morning after, to be exact, when there was nothing left but ash and sadness and a sharp pang of absence.

Very, very faintly, Fray could hear something beyond the cage walls. It was muted, but it sounded, for lack of a better description, like a theater piece on war. There was what had to be music and lots of screaming, but it was all muffled, dampened.

Without realizing, her breathing began to slow. The smoke was so thick now that she could barely see past her own nose. But the fairy was still caressing her head, which was greatly comforting, and Fray laid there without a care in the world. Bit by bit, she closed her eyes, even as the strange, vague shapes of windows and hallways wavered before her in the fog. Something about those shapes felt familiar. Like she should be there, and not here.

Then Fray took her last breath in the cage, lungs filled with sweet smoke. And then she breathed no more.
 
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