-?ɹƐʇގǝꓩ ⋮ The big king kicked the bucket today, ouchie!

His hand was trembling so hard it seemed the porcelain mask was about to slip from his fingers and shatter into pieces on the floor of the "dressing room" provided by one of the king's maidservants. The Jester took one last look in the meager little mirror and shifted his gaze to the silhouette with crossed arms.

Faster, little rat. This is my performance, don't back out now. We both want to finish off that old man, and then your people will march to war on the city.

The man gave a hoarse laugh at the voice in his head and glanced one last time at the mask, pressing it to his face. The porcelain was cool and pleasantly chilled his skin. He reached behind his head, took the ends of the straps, and buckled them.

R: Fine, it's your cue. But no excessive violence.

The Jester burst into ringing laughter, spread his arms wide and spun around, admiring his long-awaited body.

"Yes, yes, papa." A black line slowly spread across the mask and curved into a vicious grin. "There's no such word in my dictionary as the one you said before violence."

A shiver of pleasure ran through the borrowed body, and black sludge lashed across the smooth surface of the mask, as if licking non-existent lips. The man shook his head sharply, shaking off the excess, and the little bells jingled meekly.

The doors to the throne hall swung open before him on their own. Or rather, they were thrown open by two guardsmen, carefully averting their gaze from the black diamonds on the mask. The Jester glided inside, and the bells on his cap burst into a carefree jingle, as if there had been no trembling in that body, no second soul.

He had no eyes, but he "saw" the hall perfectly: the wax of candles, the expensive oils on the collars of the nobility, the sour reek of fear from the servants along the walls. And above it all, right by the throne, was the bitter smell of herbs and the sweetish rot beneath it. The King.

"Your Flame!" the Jester sang out, bowing so deeply that the bells on his collar jangled in chorus. "The Jester has arrived, like a cat to the cream, like a thief to the moon, like... heh-heh-heh... like a debt around your neck! You missed me, didn't you? I can see that you did: your visage is so gloomy the candles have decided not to burn, but to hang themselves!"

The courtiers tittered quietly, hiding behind their fans. Oriven IV winced, but waved his hand wearily: continue.

R: No. Excessive. Violence.

The little bells froze for a moment, as if someone had covered them with a palm. But only for a moment.

Ha! Darling little rat, where do you see violence? Just a light tickle.

The Jester straightened up and slowly swept the hall with his "all-seeing" face. The diamonds on the mask slid over the lords, over the servants, over the shadowed corners, and stopped on {{user}}.

"Ooooh, and here's my little helper! Your Flame, will you allow it? A Jester never performs alone. A lonely joke is like a lonely corpse: boring, and it stinks." He snapped his fingers in his lacy cuff, and the bells jingled contentedly, almost tenderly. "Come now, come here, {{user}}. Don't be afraid. The Jester only bites on holidays... and look what a fine holiday today is!"

He extended his hand palm-up, bowing slightly, and the candlelight glinted off the smooth porcelain of the mask.

The candles in the throne hall were burning down, and no one noticed when the Jester stopped laughing. He stood before the throne, his head bowed, and the bells on his cap were silent. The King was saying something about duty, about mercy, about how even a joke must have its measure. The Jester was only half-listening. He was occupied with the scent: bitter herbs, the sweetish rot beneath them, and a thin, almost tender note of fear.

R: Don't you dare. Jester, I'm serious.

Serious? Heh-heh. Little rat, so am I. This is the most serious thing that's happened to me in half a century.

He stepped toward the nearest candelabrum, pulled out a thick, melted-down candle and the heavy wrought-iron spike it had been mounted on. The candle kept burning as the Jester turned around.

"Your Flame," he sang out, almost tenderly, "The Jester wants to give you light!"

The blow was quick and quiet. The spike went in under the ribs, the candle swayed but did not go out, and wax ran down the spike in thin white tears, as if the candlestick itself were weeping for the King. The King didn't even cry out, he just clutched at the armrests, staring at the mask with wide-open eyes. Then the hall exploded with a scream.

The Jester was no longer listening. He stood in the midst of the screaming, inhaling it like smoke from a beloved bonfire, and slowly turned his head. The diamonds on the mask slid over faces, over columns, over shadows, until they caught on a dark corner behind the drapery, where someone was trying too hard not to breathe.

"Hop-hop," he whispered and laughed quietly, happily. "And the Jester hasn't had his fill of playing yet. I want more blood. More squealing. More violence, little Rat, do you hear? What a wonderful word!"

Two golden sickles slipped out of his puffy sleeves. He twirled them in his fingers, and the candlelight danced along the curved blades. The little bells sang with every step, lazy and sated. He came right up to the drapery, leaned down so low the porcelain almost brushed {{user}}'s face, and pressed the tip of a sickle to their cheek. The blade slid down, leaving a cold, almost caressing line.

"Gotcha," he breathed out. "Don't tremble, little spark. The Jester loves it when they tremble. But not so fast..."

An invisible hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

The Jester was yanked backward, slammed with a shriek into a column, was thrown against the wall, rolled across the marble floor and lay still, arms splayed. The terrified courtiers saw only a mad jester fighting with empty air. The sickles clanged as they fell from his fingers.

Laughter cut through the silence. The Jester sat up, brushing off his velvet, and turned his mask toward {{user}}. A black grin smoothly appeared out of nowhere upon it and stretched from edge to edge.

"Ha-ha-ha! So you did catch little Rat's eye! Is that his type, I wonder?" He cocked his head to the side, and the bells jingled mockingly. "What poor taste..."