Prologue: The Crying Pumpkin Inn

A battered inn stood against the wind on the night of Hallow’s Eve. Inside, a tired barkeep served her seasonal witch’s brew to the neighborhood drunks while they swapped ghost stories. Now and then, they’d glance warily out the windows into the dark street. There, the shadows from a flickering oil lamppost loomed long and sinister. In each one, the men in the bar saw an undead king glaring back at them.

A different sort of group was huddled in a little pumpkin patch set against the inn’s cold stone wall. They whispered ancient tales of supernatural dread, leaning close to catch each other’s words from the wind. All the time they spoke, at least one was peering over at a prostrate form on the garden’s fence. It looked to be a spindly man, thrown and broken against the fence. His heavy round head lolled against his chest, moving now and then in accordance with the wind. This was no victim of bandits or sickly traveler, though. This was the Pumpkin-Man of legend, the undead jester of Thorn’s Lunatic Court.

Midnight was four minutes away when the Pumpkin-Man’s head began to glow. All the men drew torches and flint from their cloaks, to better see the famous figure. As they approached, the vines of the Pumpkin-Man’s body began to stiffen and straighten; though the head still drooped, the body rose until it stood at the height of a man. When they were only an arm’s length back, the men stopped and raised their torches.

“Hail, phantom! We come to hear the song of the Mad King’s fall, and the tragedy of his jester Chucol.”

An eerie orange light filled the Pumpkin-Man’s squash of a head; pointed eyes and a jagged mouth were illuminated in his rounded face. The men saw the mouth widen in an awful grin, as countless tears poured from the undead eyes. The Pumpkin-Man’s voice came forth from that grin, high and raspy like dead leaves against stone.

“An audience? Wonderful. By the Mad King’s command, you’ll have your wish.”

I: Chortles and Chuckles

Carnival Day dawned bright and hot on Lion’s Arch. The weather was perfect: a light sea-breeze blew the heat from the city and the sweat from the party-goers. I was one of them, dressed in a dandy jester’s suit of purple and orange. A crowd of hundreds pressed close around me, every one of them trying to get a better view of the legendary fool on the high, circular stage. The King’s Stage, as it was called in those days, was empty and bare save for a flamboyant old man, my master. He was as well-known for his wild fashion as for his miming, jests, and acrobatics. He wore his third-favorite outfit: A tight, frilly three-piece suit, with a checkered pattern of yellow and sparkling pink. His wild white hair shone like the diamonds on his cuffs and collar. The sun flashed off his sequins as he danced a jig and sang a song of love between dwarf and charr. That song is long-forgotten, I’m afraid to say; undeath does nothing for one’s memory.

I do remember that the commoners and nobility alike howled with glee at the old man’s warbling bass and flying feet. They could hardly breath from laughing! Indeed, a crew of healers with earmuffs was scattered through the crowd, ready to carry the over-hysteric away for a healing Potion of Melancholy. They were busy, too, especially at the end of the Song of Ashstrike and Lustbeard. Ah! There you have the song’s name, at least. Perhaps I’ll remember the rest, if I stick my mind to it. Anyway, those who hadn’t collapsed in merriment were chanting the old man’s name as he took an exaggerated bow with a devilish grin: “Chortul! Chortul!” Such was his name. Didn’t you wonder why Krytans call a good joke a chortle? Such was his reputation.

As always, the song and jig were the end of Chortul’s act. He winked at the audience and threw his head back. He reached deep into his throat and took hold of something, and the crowd gasped as he pulled it out: a beautiful orange rose. Chortul laughed at their shock and threw the rose into the air. The stem burst into green flame and the petals exploded into a massive cloud of confetti. When the wind cleared the stage of confetti, only a cinder of the stem remained; as the audience began to relax and laugh, I pushed my way to the front. A hidden passage opened in the stage’s side, and one of Chortul’s long, worn fingers beckoned from the darkness within. Those few that could see the door and the disembodied finger shouted in surprise, but before they could move, I blew a raspberry at the dopes and slipped into the darkness.

“Well, well, m’boy, your opening act didn’t go off half as bad as it did in rehearsal. To be frank, I expected you to explode the drake again. Although, to be fair, your tidiness covered in beast-guts is funnier by far than the joke’s real punchline. Get me wine, won’t you? Oh! Could you see the Great Prick from where you stood? Was he laughing enough? Was he mad, or merely insane? What of his consort? Did she laugh for the jokes or to keep Thorn company? By Lyssa’s lying lips, you know as well as I do we’re dead if she says a bad word of us. We ought to get that Elonian hag burnt. You’d think it easy enough, from the others.” He was always like that: on-stage, the very definition of deliberation and ease; backstage, manic and a bit dangerous.

I smiled weakly, overwhelmed at the rush of thought. “I’ll get you water, not wine, master. Gods know you had enough this morning.” He snorted as I began to walk away. “Don’t dodge questions with insults, child. How’d King Prick like the show?”

Though I had turned away, I could almost feel his fearful look on my back. I couldn’t bear it. “Master, I believe that he thought that, well, the King of Kryta, that is, the Prick, as you call him, was of the opinion that your show, well, I think thoughtfully that I ought to think that his thinkful thoughts of your show were rather like a thought that your worried thoughts thought he might have thought.”

Chortul chortled miserably as he sank against the tunnel wall. We were in a sort of sub-stage cellar, you see. There were a few dressing-rooms, several storage rooms, a pantry, and a long tunnel that linked them all. Lyssan Doors (that is to say, a sort of door that is only visible if you’ve had a very particular charm of disdelusion placed upon you) led into this basement from each direction; we were in the main tunnel, which joined all the rooms and entrance tunnels together. Architecture hardly matters, though. I speak of my beloved old master, as he slumped in cheery despair against the masonry. When he had laughed his fear away, he spoke. “Dear apprentice, you complicate a simple bit of bad news as though you tell me Nightfall’s nigh. Get me that water. We’ve got an aristocracy to entertain tonight, do we not? Besides, Thorn’s wrath at my out-joking him might not last. We’ll stay out of the capital until next Carnival, and pray to the Duality that news of our act doesn’t reach the monarch’s ears. Even then, there’s Vabbi. I heard that those idiotic, nomadic merchants have a keen appreciation for theater.”

I hurried away, eager to get the old man’s spirits to a proper state for the finale of Carnival. That night alone, we’d been paid to attend a dozen different parties thrown by the bloated nobility. All were excited by the prospect of revelry and mischief, especially in the face of peasant revolts and war with Istan. Though they were loath to admit it, the aristocrats were running short on loyal troops to keep the rabble down, and shorter still on gold to keep the disloyal troops content. Hopeless though they were, the merrymaking leeches of Kryta were Chortul’s patrons, and he was mine. So we sold them happiness at an exorbitant fee, even as serfs withheld taxes and butchered the collectors. Peasants made stew of bark and fingernails while we tossed crème brûlée to the hounds. I speak high-mindedly now, but smothering my morals was easy enough when we rode the coattails of Kryta’s elite.

II: The High Life

What tails they were! That week – the week of Carnival – was the last shining moment of King Thorn’s regime. The kingdom’s painful decline had only just begun; the Lunatic Court was yet merely whimsical. All the courtiers slept by day and leapt to when the sun set. Then they donned fineries beyond compare, crafted by the greatest artisans of Vabbi and Kaineng. Gilded lace graced the ladies’ giant dresses, and onyx buttons studded the drakeleather vests of gentlemen. Exotic dyes and wild ornaments turned the nobles into peacocks, but never had a peacock looked so dignified. Those days were the very zenith of high fashion. In the strife that followed, all was torn to ribbons. I’ve heard that fashion has since returned to the land of Kryta, but every noble in the land dresses like a peasant who’s won the lottery.

For shame, I digress! Chortul and I had not the funds to be peacocks. We changed into appropriate attire as best we could. Lime-green and rust-orange spangled with black are the high-brow jester’s colors, and such we wore. Our first engagement was in the luxurious mansion of Lord Eastbury. He was a good fellow, old and swollen with drink, and I’m sorry to say they burnt him alive when the monarchy imploded. That night, though, he was the merriest man in the court. He’d called on us to perform the Mime’s Demise, a challenging trick even for Chortul. I fortunately remember it; perhaps it’s still performed, as it’s appropriate for these gory days. One mime kneels, as if about to be executed by decapitation. The other wields a mighty axe of air, framing the heavy blade with his hands. When the second performer knocks off the head of the first, the decapitee must quickly pull his shirt up to cover his head completely, and mime the retrieval of his fallen skull. There’s too much of that act to tell here, but I assure you, it brought the house down. Well. Strictly speaking, a drunken geomancer caused an earthquake, which brought the roof down, but that’s beside the point.

Thanks to a most dignified stampede, all escaped unharmed. Chortul stood surrounded by a little audience, singing of the folly in magic mixed with liquor. Nobles stood straight and proud, chattering amongst their cliques, as liveried servants hastily dusted them off. Lord Eastbury bustled from one corner of his ruined house to another, putting on a great show of nonchalance at the rubble. The geomancer followed him, slurring apologies and twisting his hands. Eastbury fumed quietly, doing his best to placate the drunk. “Thank you, Mage Trykin! I’d have had to hire a team of dwarves to bring the place down if you hadn’t come along. No, really, you mustn’t apologize. What? Those old sculptures by Malchor? Paltry things. Everyone knows he was mediocre at best. Go on home, Trykin. I’ll have a carriage brought for you. Yes, yes, sleep it off. Go on.” The mage stumbled away as Eastbury glared, cursing under his breath.

Not long after, Chortul ended his song and called to me, pointing to a house-sized pumpkin drawn by dozens of black horses. I laughed nervously, scarcely believing my eyes, but I was only seeing the famous carriage of Countess Hakewood. It was hewn from the bole of a stonewood tree at great cost: rumor held that the Countess tripled her taxes to pay the craftsmen. Chortul laughed at my surprise and slapped me on the back, saying “Come now, young’un. We’ve got a ride to catch to our next gig. You ready for the Vabbians?” I muttered something about heket. What was it? It was clever. Why can’t I remember the best parts of this tale? I used to. Forgive me, persistent listener, and desert me not, for we’ve not yet reached my tragedy.

We climbed into the carriage behind Hakewood herself. I’d never been so close to King Thorn’s favorite before. She was beautiful, even in her latter years. Indeed, save for the Countess’ hooked nose and dark eyes, she was fair as Dwayna. As we settled onto a curved couch, she looked to my master with a laugh in her eyes. “Ah, the jester. Is the Muse kind to you as ever, Chortul?”

“The Muse? Lyssa is never kind, milady. Surely you know Her ways? She has lifted me to great heights – even into your esteemed presence – only to giggle at my longer fall.”

The Countess laughed darkly. “You’ve heard that your doom is close, then? Perhaps you’re not as witless a wit as I thought.” Chortul blanched and I gulped. She laughed again; it was almost a cackle. “So it is, fool. Thorn grows jealous of your fame. I’m afraid he might be goaded on by some of his nobles. Why, just last night, I told him that your charms could drag me from his bed! You’re only lucky he doesn’t know what you call him. Rather, you’re lucky I’ve yet to tell him. You’re a damned fool, old man. My Thorn will keep his monopoly on Kryta’s laughter, or your head shall roll.” She laughed once more, and this time, it was a true cackle, a hysteric shriek that shook the carriage walls. The lesser courtiers, who’d been politely ignoring Hakewood’s indiscretion and making small talk, cringed and covered their ears. Neither Chortul nor Hakewood spoke. She reclined with elegance, still grinning maliciously.

He folded his limbs and leaned against me, whispering “This is the last night of the high life for us, dear boy. Pray you won’t fall as far from it as I.” His voice quavered; I couldn’t believe, nor can I now, that Jester Chortul the Hearty, the Lucky, the Loved, was resigned to his end.

Though the ride from Eastbury’s estate was long, it passed in silence. I dozed, knocking my head against the wall with each pothole the carriage struck. Back then, in Kryta’s Good Old Days, the roads were rough. Now? Well, it’s no wonder the rich stay in the cities. The moon had begun its descent when we reached the Vabbian Embassy.

Even then, when the legendary mines of Ahdashim were but a year old, the Vabbian Embassy was among the richest buildings in Kryta. Murals of famous merchants and actors covered the marble walls, sparkling with gems. Krytans mingled and admired the artistry as Vabbian diplomats explained the investment opportunities in their homeland, giving out trade contracts like candy. New arrivals from Eastbury’s ruin of a party streamed in, reveling in the story of the Lord’s misfortune. Chortul walked ahead of me, his head bowed. The moment he passed the threshold, all his morbid fears were brushed away. Greeting friends and patrons in jubilant tones, Chortul transformed from a weary joker to Lyssa’s own avatar.

While Chortul wound his sociable way through the crowd, I took the stage and whipped a flute from my billowing hose. Heads turned from all the room as I struck a tune I’d heard Vabbian travelers whistle or sing. The Vabbians began to dance, but the Krytans stood, not knowing how to join in. I stayed my course as the awkward Krytans began to look annoyed. Without a moment’s warning, Chortul cartwheeled onto stage, bursting into the melody of an old Krytan waltz. We improvised and compromised, till Vabbian and Krytan wove together in an easy harmony. Then the Krytans took to the floor and the revelry began in earnest.

Our act went on and on, changing from music to comedy and miming to acrobatics, and then to music again. With every hour another giggling pair of party-goers slipped out of the main hall, complimenting Kryta’s highest festival with joyous debauchery. When the sun’s first light entered the windows, we left the embassy and went on to my master’s other social duties. From the mighty Queens of Elona to lowly Baron Beetletun we went, and never again did Chortul waver. Not until high noon did the riotous parties end. Then we stumbled back to the Prancing Dolyak, an inn not ten minutes’ walk from the King’s Stage, and took our rest still dressed.

I woke to a blaring fanfare outside our window. Chortul was lying on his back, his eyes closed. He seemed to be praying; perhaps he had been since we took to bed, for I’d dreamed of him pleading with an image of the Twins, an indescribable and ever-changing form he called Muse. What did he plead for? I know not, but I’ve fair basis to guess. So will you, if in listening you persist.

A voice cried out from below, “Open thy ears, O Jester Chortul! Great King Thorn, Lord of Kryta, bids thee make ready for his presence! Your Liege shall deign to visit thee in this humble inn. Make thyself worthy of his sight by the sun’s setting!”

Chortul sighed. “Do you know what this day is, o apprentice mine?” I looked over. His eyes were still closed, and his pointed face was as calm as ever I’d seen it. I shook my head. “’Tis Hallow’s Eve, Chucol. The Necromancer’s Night is close at hand, and the power of all Gods is waning, excepting that of clammy Grenth. When the Grinning Moon is full, then His power will be at its fullest. I’m afraid Lyssa’s aid will not suffice tonight. Nor will yours.” At this his eyes snapped open; he rose to his elbows, and looked to me as tears ran down his cheeks. “Tonight, you will leave me. When the Mighty Prick enters this inn, you must be hidden.”

Still drowsy, I was confused. “Master, why not leave now? You… You’re Kryta’s best Mesmer. Can’t we escape, by speed or illusion? There’s money in our bags to buy a ship to Orr, or Istan, or even Cantha. Thorn’s arm isn’t so long as that.” He shook his head. “I told you: the power of all Gods is waning tonight. Lyssa herself might escape our necromantic King’s clutches, but her servants cannot. I cannot. The Prick’s own guards surround this inn, and Grenth’s blessings are on each of them. At best, we’d be cut down as we ran. At worst, we’d be reanimated and made to serve the King for eternity.”

I frowned. “Eternity? Surely not –“

“The Prick is no mere mortal man, Chucol. He offered his soul to Grenth, and Grenth, in a curious humor, took the offer and gave Thorn power over death. Not Death; no, only death. Nor is he a Lich, not quite. His power is less, but his endurance greater. One so cursed could rule all Tyria, if he had his reason. Fortunately, Thorn is going mad – thanks in part to Lyssa’s disapproval of his deal with Grenth – and his dominion will never extend beyond Kryta. In fact, his end is not so far off. Heh. We’ll have an Undead Prick to deal with. Heh. Rigor mortis.” With that wisdom, my master went to sleep, and I was left bewildered.

I changed into a commoner’s clothes and left the inn, trying to understand Chortul’s doom and mine. The sun was yet an hour from setting. As Chortul had warned, soldiers in the black and orange uniform of King Thorn had occupied the inn’s common room and made a perimeter outside the building. They let me pass without comment, but they whispered behind me. Two especially vicious men tailed me, always a stone’s throw behind. I merely wandered the streets, strewn with Carnival’s wreckage. Hardly anyone was out of doors, and those that were staggered with brutal hangovers. I thanked Dwayna’s prudence for keeping me from drink the night before, though Tyria’s best booze had lain before me. Jesters, despite popular belief, are not boozehounds. We’re merely gluttons.

Near the hour’s end, I hastened back to join my master. He still slept, giggling in his sleep. Though we were past hope, I could only smile at the mischievous old face. I sat on my bed, watching the sleeping jester, as ironshod feet entered the inn. Abruptly, Chortul awoke, though his laughter didn’t end. He heaved a merry sigh and smiled at me. “To the closet with you, young Chucol. Our time is short. The Muse strengthened me in sleep, and so at least I’ll go with a fight. Get in, fool of a fool!” I went into the little closet, snapping the door behind me. From the other side, I heard Chortul speak quietly, “I’ll be plugging your ears. Good luck, Chocul.” I almost cried out.

At last, the iron boots reached our door. I cowered in the closet’s corner as they entered and went to the middle of the room. I could only imagine my wizened master staring into the bloodshot eyes of Mad King Thorn. The King’s fell voice shook the room.

“Give me your jokes, jester.”

III: Last Laugh

Years passed before I knew what transpired next, for my master cast a simple hex to render me insensate. By the next morning, Chortul was gone, and what idiot would ask the King of his defeat at a jester’s hands? Not I, at least. Yet there was a fourth man in the room: the Emissary of the King. Though he was broken that night, I tracked him down nearly a year later. His memory was shattered, but nothing brings recollection like strong drink and a Mesmer’s persuasion.

In faltering phrases, the Emissary told me of the King’s plan and its consequence. Thorn had thought to learn Chortul’s jokes and banish or behead him. Then he would earn Kryta’s love with his new arsenal of comedy. Ha! Thorn misunderstood. The Great Prick challenged Chortul, thrice-blessed by Lyssa, to release all his power. No man could have withstood that.

Never was a jester so obliging as Chortul! Give up his jokes he did. Thorn waited, glowering, as the old man paced across the room. Then he spun on his heel, facing the King and the door. With a slam, the door shut of its own accord. Even as Thorn glanced behind him and the Emissary jumped with surprise, a fog poured from Chortul’s smug smile. Though it clouded the air, the mist was neither cold nor wet. Instead, it seemed to draw all moisture from the air. Indescribable colors danced in the cloud that now filled every corner. King Thorn leapt to his feet. “What trickery is this, Mesmer? I demand to laugh!” “Fear not, sire, I’ll humor you yet. This is just atmosphere!” Chortul began speaking, then, in tongues beyond mortal comprehension. Ironies and absurdities unimaginable leapt into the minds of Thorn and his servant, and they laughed uncontrollably. Lyssa’s Jester spoke in many voices at once, blending all that’s beautiful and foul into a single song. He might’ve gone on for hours, or perhaps only seconds. It made no difference. Illusions and delusions came and went from the mind of Thorn, until he began to break. The Emissary said it was as if all that he knew, all that he imagined, was twisted through Chortul’s voice. His sanity was whipped into a maelstrom, a bottomless hole that could devour only itself.

Thorn’s poor servant, though driven to madness, hardly took the brunt of Chortul’s magic. No, the true depth of the Mesmer’s rage was meant for King Thorn, and only Grenth’s blessing kept Kryta’s tyrant out of the Underworld that night. Without the refuge of death, Thorn was pushed into realms of insanity unknown to mortal men. Though he’d been mad before, the King was infinitely worse afterward. Yet he lived!

The mist dissipated quickly as it had come. When Thorn’s guards broke the door down and entered with drawn swords, they found their lord curled on the floor, giggling furiously. His trusted courtier was blue for lack of breath, trying to laugh but only wheezing. Chortul, meanwhile, simply sat and smiled kindly. They bound and gagged him, keeping a sword at his throat as the King came to. Slowly, Thorn stood. He looked around as though he’d been blind until that night. All was jest; all was illusion. So it had always been, and he’d never known! Now he did, and Mad King Thorn had to make up for years of seriousness. Drawing his sword, he spoke in a high, singsong voice.

“Oh guards, how silly you’ve been. Never using your heads! Never! Don’t you see the shining lights? The dancing rainbows? Look harder!” The soldiers glanced at each other, bemused and scared.

“You won’t look? Not even for your beloved king? Let me borrow your heads, and teach them to see!” With that he sliced their heads off, howling with laughter. A nervous twitch of his clawed hands brought their headless corpses back to standing; necromancy’s not known to depend on sanity.

While Chortul lay quietly on the floor, still tied, the Autumn Lunatic picked up the fallen heads, speaking kindly to each of them. As he spoke, pumpkins from the inn’s garden flew through the windows and landed on his minions’ severed necks. With a ghastly sucking sound, squash and flesh grew together and slits for eyes and mouths appeared, all at a few murmured words from Thorn.

“There, there. A necessary sacrifice to see as I do, is it not? You’ve a monarch’s vision, now!” He tossed the heads into the street, one by one, and giggled at the screams from below.

Then he turned to Chortul. “Thank you, little jester, for this enlightenment. You’ve served a magnificent purpose! Don’t you know? Your jokes will live forever, for that’s how long I’ll tell them. Kryta will never tire of your comedy! You’ll be immortal. Oh! I’m sorry. My mistake. Your work will be immortal. You will rot.”
But if Thorn had underestimated Chortul before, he had done so doubly this time. Even as his sword cleaved the jester’s neck, a sound like breaking glass filled the room, cascading on and on. A great purple shade flowed from Chortul’s bleeding stalk, similar in form to the phantoms in the Ring of Fire. Words of madness flowed from the spirit, spoken through no mouth yet ringing clear in every nearby mind. Thorn clutched his head in pain as he raised his sword to strike, and lo! The Grim Japer was thrown out the window by a tendril of illusory power. With a cold laugh and a mighty flash, the phantom vanished. Here the Emissary’s story ended, for then the poor man finally swooned.

Here I must note that Chortul’s shade is still free. He wanders Vabbi, where they call him Qwytzylkak.

IV: My Own Master

I awoke slowly. My throat was dry. I remember that now above all else: a desert lay behind my lips. Stiff legs brought me to standing, and I opened the closet door slowly, adjusting to the blinding light of day. The floor was covered in dried blood, left by the Mad King’s unfortunate guards. The bodies were gone. One window was shattered and its frame was twisted, marking Thorn’s violent exit. None of this I knew then, mind you. I was a pitiful soul, stranded in the domain of he who’d murdered my master.

There was sparse luggage to gather; I owned naught but a satchel of clothes and jester’s tools. The inn was deserted, from fear or the King’s orders. Passersby glanced warily as I stepped into the street, eying my rumpled jester’s attire and wild looks. Where to go? So I asked, over and over again. To water, said my aching throat. To safety, said my panicked mind. I chose both. Excepting a quick stop at the closest well, I made straight for the village of Bergen and its renowned hot springs.

Plenty of royal troops passed me on the road. None gave this poor jester a second look; whether out of mercy or inattention, Thorn hadn’t ordered the arrest of Chortul’s closest ally and accomplice. Thus, without incident I reached Bergen as the sun began to sink. The local innkeeper was not impressed at my entrance. “Coming back to the country after Carnival, funny boy? I doubt you’ll make much out here. This might be the heartland, but things are tough everywhere. Pay for your room and board with coin, by the way. Sorry to say it, but I can’t afford to take travelers in for a song and dance.” I was shocked, as any half-decent innkeeper houses Lyssa’s disciples in good faith.

“Surely, kind sir, you’ll take pity on a weary jester. I’ve hardly a coin to my name, and nary a friend to turn to. Won’t my act draw every villager in Bergen to your common room? Come now. I’ve performed for the kingdom’s highest nobles, and you don’t believe my skill is worth a single night’s rent? Let me perform tonight, and reserve your judgment till then.”

The innkeeper shrugged and nodded. “Alright, Lyssan. My name’s Andar.”

He shook my hand roughly as I spoke. “They call me Chocul. I shan’t disappoint you.”

Indeed I didn’t. A pink scarf on a pool cue served for a banner, and conjured fireworks brought a crowd of curious villagers to the inn. The pitiable provincials hadn’t seen a decent jester in some time, and they applauded even my weakest tricks. I sang, I danced, I mimed and joked. Midnight was long gone by the time my audience dispersed; Andar’s inn hadn’t been so full for years. Needless to say, the good innkeeper gave me the best of his pantry and cellar, and a comfortable bed for the night.

Wind and rain kept me from continuing to another village, further from the Mad King. I stayed in my room at the mercy of Andar’s hospitality. Fortunately, his favor lasted not just one night, but four. Eventually the storm let up, and on I went.

A routine developed over the following months. I’d enter a settlement and ask around for the best inn, spreading rumors of my skill at the same time. The innkeeper, naturally, would ask at first that I pay in coin. By the evening’s end, he’d be begging me to stay in his inn and perform again the following night.

Of course, sometimes I wasn’t well-received; sometimes the townspeople hadn’t the least interest in a traveling fool. Barns sheltered me more often than I care to admit, and I became a veritable master of sleeping in hay. Still, I wasn’t so badly off. I was rarely without food, and there was always enough cash to keep my travel-worn clothes in fair condition. A year passed this way, and then another.

The dry season had just ended when I reached Shaemoor, a dusty outpost on Kryta’s northern border. You’d be hard-pressed to find a town more isolated than this one. Royal tax collectors didn’t even bother venturing so far north. Though they were unused to strangers, the folk were friendly enough. They took me in and fed me, and so I performed for them.

A small cobbled square would be my stage, with the village well stuck in its middle. Shopkeepers gathered around the well, talking amongst themselves. I stretched and sang a few scales, warming up. A final swig of ale did the trick, and I drew my beloved flute from a hidden pocket. Simple tunes kept the growing audience interested, and I only stowed the flute when the sun setting and every farmer had come in from their fields.

The real show was predictable enough. It was what you’d expect: acrobatics, dancing, miming, illusory fireworks, and all the rest of a jester’s tricks. Shaemoor is not of note because of a petty jester’s unremarkable performance. No, I reminisce in order to introduce to you my darling Cymra. Her father, a humble innkeeper, came to me after the show.

“Hail, stranger,” he said, with a cautious, if friendly, expression. He extended his hand, and I took it.

“I’m Halfurst, and I own the inn here. You put on a fine show for us simple folk, but I’m afraid you won’t be getting tipped. We’ve no gold to give. But I can lend you a bed for the night; a bed, and nothing more. There’s enough food to share, though my wife’ll want coin for it. What say you?”

I was taken aback by the rustic man’s rapid talk. Surely he’d rehearsed this spiel as I performed.
“I say yea, Halfurst. I’m called Chocul.”

With a smile and a nod, he turned and began to walk out of the square. Snatching up my belongings, I followed him down the wide road that ran south through Shaemoor. He spoke as we walked.

“What brings you to our town, Jester Chocul? You look and act like a southerner.”

Could I tell him of my flight from the King, or of my apprenticeship’s sudden and brutal end? Never. Could I lie? Always. Even now, dear audience.

“I was cursed by Lyssa’s Muse, good sir. She damned me to wander Kryta forever, bringing such joy as I could to the people of this land. So I go from town to town, without regard to north or south.”

Halfurst glanced at me sidelong, a look of doubt on his provincial brow.

“What’d you do to earn this curse, then?”

“I made a bad pun, and begged not for the capricious Twins’ forgiveness.”

He looked to me with pity, whether for my alleged fate or questionable story I know not. We went on and Halfurst talked of local matters: weather, pests, marriages, rows, and all such things. His inn lay at the end of the lane; I’d passed it on my way to the square. It was a single-level building of ancient stone, with a roof of thatch and a weathered sign above its door. There it had stood since Shaemoor’s founding; perhaps it still stands, worn by the passing centuries.
A merry fire flickered in the common room as we stepped over the threshold. Farmers sat at the low wooden bar or around tables, swigging ale and talking of their business. Behind the bar was Halfurst’s wife, a gentle woman half his age. She stirred a huge pot of stew with one hand and poured drinks with the other. Although I only got curious looks from most of Halfurst’s regulars, a few came to introduce themselves. The night passed slowly. When the farmers were drunk enough to begin singing, Halfurst pushed them out the door; by this clever measure, the inn was empty, excepting myself, by midnight.
“Well, Chocul, your room’ll be that one.” Halfurst pointed to a low doorway next to the bar.

I nodded and walked to the door, but he spoke again. “Our walls are thick, and they ought to keep the wind and spirits out, even tonight. If there’s anything wrong, or if there’re noises in the night, knock on the door across the way,” and here he pointed to his own bedroom, “and the missus and I’ll do whatever we can.”

Again I nodded, and thanked him, as I went into my small room. A straw-stuffed bed and a tallow candle on the bedframe were all the furnishings, but I could hardly complain. As I laid my things down and began to undress, a knock came at the door. I opened it to see Halfurst standing with a troubled look. He looked nervous, or embarrassed.

“You know, not many men would take a strange traveler in on this ominous night. Don’t break my trust.”

I was mildly alarmed. “Ominous? Windy and dark, sir, but hardly ominous. I promise you I’m no ghost.”

He smiled. “It is ominous. I’m glad our ale’s dampened your senses. Don’t you hear the wind a-wailin’? Tonight’s Hallow’s Eve. I don’t mean to scare you, and I’ll take your word for your non-ghostiness. That’s not a word, though, is it?”

I smiled in return, though truly I was afraid of what he’d told me. “I’m afraid it isn’t, but I get your meaning. I shan’t let the spirits in through the window. Thank you, again, and good night.”

With a final smile and nod, he turned and left me to my rest. Halfurst was right; my mind had been dulled by ale, or I’d have remembered Hallow’s Eve. It’s a cursed day for every mortal, but for the obvious reasons, I was especially fearful of it. I’d passed the night of Hallow’s Eve in a barn the year before, shivering with fear until daybreak. Ghostly screams had echoed outside, and I’d swear I heard the galloping of undead cavalry on the road. Indeed, in the inn of Shaemoor I had little reason to be afraid, for few demons will enter the houses of men even on that darkest of nights. Despite knowing that, I couldn’t sleep, and lay with my eyes wide open as the wind knocked the shutters to and fro.

Half the night had passed when the singing began. Starting soft and slow, the ephemeral song grew as the wind blew harder, as if her voice rode the very air. I listened, enchanted and suddenly unafraid, though a wiser man would have feared a hungry spirit’s trickery. Higher and higher the clear song rose, till with a sudden gasp, it died away. The wind, held briefly at bay by the force of her music, returned. Then the voice began again, just as it had before.

Without a thought I opened my window, for the song seemed to come from outside. Yet it died away the moment I stuck my head out. Closing the window and looking around, mystified, I heard the voice again. Now, I could tell it came through the wall between my room and the next over. Quietly, I opened my door and went to the next room, glancing around. A lonely candle burned low, and my hosts snored peacefully in their bed. I put my ear to the keyhole, and there was the voice!

What followed is best left out from this tale, for the sake of brevity and the honor of my lady. You need only know that I entered the room, and met Cymra. She was a gentle girl of my own age, paralyzed from the waist at birth and, consequently, rarely leaving her father’s inn. She had prayed to Dwayna for a remedy, and though none had come, her faith did not falter. As the years went by, she learned to couch her pleas in song, and so her voice grew beautiful. Though Cymra’s legs would never be healed, the girl’s songs held a power over air and light.

By this power had Cymra comforted herself on that night of Hallow’s Eve. We grew acquainted through the night, and by its end, I had convinced her to elope with me. Ridiculous, you might say. So it was, without a doubt, but we were young and I was persuasive. I put the poor girl in a farmer’s wooden wheelbarrow, and we set off down the road. Morning was yet far off, and the ghouls and ghosts that wander freely on the Necromancer’s Night were all around us.

Though their howling froze our blood, my steps never faltered. When the stalking demons grew too near, Cymra began to chant. The wind calmed around us, and a sphere of light spread to the edges of the road. Then the glowing eyes and malicious whispers fell back, for a while. Few words passed between us, new lovers though we were. Not till dawn’s first light did she speak, and then to ask where I was taking her. I’d hardly thought of it, and lied well enough. We traveled for three days before we reached another village.

Now, don’t you go forgetting about Halfurst. The good fellow had set out with a posse of doughty farmers as soon as he realized his loss. Yet they searched the road with little hope, for the superstitious villagers quickly figured that I was a demon in disguise, sent to lull the people of Shaemoor with my outlandish tricks and obtain an invitation into their homes, from whence I’d kidnap their innocent daughters. The search party never caught up to us, and so I’m afraid to say that my reputation in the legends of Shaemoor is one of an insidious phantom. Should you wonder how I came to know this, you may rest assured that a poor jester’s got his ways, even from beyond the grave.

You know, you’ve chosen a bad year to hear this tale. On most Eves, the Mad King sends my spirit up from Grenth’s realm at least an hour earlier. Time is short, thanks to Thorn’s fickle agenda, or I’d tell you more of my travels with Cymra. Allow me to be brief. If you’re lucky, you could come back next year and hear it in full.

I decided not to halt in the next village we reached, although I did buy provisions in the town market. Rightly fearing pursuit, I drove Cymra on until we reached another settlement. She was sore from the long wheelbarrow ride, and my muscles were all but bleeding from fatigue. Still, I put on a little show, and she sang a simple ballad, and so we earned our keep. I’m sure you can guess what came next: we went on the next morning, and did the same thing again in the next village, and again in the next, and so on. Soon enough, the wheelbarrow was padded with an upside-down saddle, and stuffed with leather pouches of food. Most travelers laughed to see us, trundling along in jester’s gear. That was good, though. Laughter’s almost always good.

Though we loved one another, we never married, nor did Cymra bear children. Had the times been different, maybe we would’ve settled down. Yet no set of jester’s vows that kept us on the road; it was my fear of the King, and the nature of his reign. Thorn’s regime, as I’m sure you know, grew harsher as he grew more insane, and he deteriorated quickly after good old Chortul set him a-laughing. Indeed, hardly more than a year after I’d spent the night in Shaemoor, the first great peasant revolt began. It was a brutal affair of several years, but I’m sure you’ve already heard the history.

The point is that the country was unstable, and no place was safe. Had I been a farmer, I’d have had no choice but to make a home somewhere and hope that the King’s troops wouldn’t lay waste to my property. Instead, being a wandering fool, we listened keenly to rumors, and tried to keep away from the frontlines of “civil dissent.” Even so, we came at times upon razed villages, full of corpses, or mighty military camps built across the road. If marching soldiers were near, we’d hide from their sight. The Krytan wilderness offered plenty of cover, though I cast illusions of concealment more often than not.

Twelve years passed, and still the peasants raged. They were never pacified all at once, but they weren’t yet unified in their rebellion. So my lady love and I went from town to town, plying our trade as best we could. Although we lived on the edges of society, and resorted to thievery now and again, the life was not so bad. We had each other, and our jokes, and our songs.

Disaster struck just days before the thirteenth anniversary of my arrival in Shaemoor. It was the first day of our trip from the village of Nebo to Bergen, and a light autumn breeze blew at our backs. Perhaps it wasn’t so light. At least, the whipping wind drowned out the cacophony of hooves behind us. By the time Cymra realized something was amiss, the company of cavalrymen were almost on top of us. They were clad in the gaudy orange and black uniforms of King Thorn, and all but the standard-bearer were heavily armed. With no time to hide, Cymra and I moved to the edge of the road, waiting for them to pass. To my damnation, they were eager for diversion; at a signal from their commander, the soldiers formed a ring around us.

“You’ve blocked the path of the King’s own vanguard, vagabond. Show a travel permit and I might let you cower in the bushes till the royal train passes by.” Although there was little menace in his voice, the commander casually swung a scimitar at his side.

I stilled my quaking knees before speaking. “Worthy sir, we’re only wandering minstrels. Gods know we can’t afford a travel permit. We can hardly afford the clothes on our backs. Let us go, and –“

“And you’ll buy a shiny new travel permit with all the money left over from your taxes? Of course, good citizen. Like hell you will,” snorted the soldier. “Kebster, Longut, take these scofflaws back down the road for the King’s justice. I heard he’s getting bored, what with the long trips between unsacked villages.” The troops laughed, some nervously, some raucously. At a wave of the commander’s hand, the cavalry rode off in a whirl of dust and pounding hooves. Two stayed behind. They were clearly the company’s runts, inexperienced fools with badly fitted armor. Still, they were nice enough, and told me plenty as they marched us toward our doom.

Most of that plenty was local news, though, and won’t concern listeners such as yourselves. You just ought to know that the thirty-odd troops we met were only scouts for a large force. Summer was nearing its end, so the monarch was eager to lead a few final campaigns against his rebellious subjects before winter made the roads impassable. Kebster and Longut led us through hundreds of mercenaries and conscripts marching in Thorn’s name. An hour had passed when, from the crest of a hill, we saw a mighty train of carriages, followed closely by the rearguard. Here was the court of King Thorn, with the King himself in its midst.

So we were brought before the Mad King at sundown, when his army made camp. A squad of his elite bodyguards contorted themselves into a throne under a pavilion of fine orange silk. The courtiers gathered around the pavilion’s edges, enthusiastically cheering each of Thorn’s decisions. We weren’t the only ones brought before the King; dozens of unlucky peasants had been whimsically dragged from their homes by the troops. Cymra lay in her wheelbarrow and I sat on the ground beside her for hours, as Thorn decided on insane punishments for actions that weren’t in the least offensive. Indeed, the only peasant to escape his cruelty did so by winning a game of “rock, paper, and scissors.”

King Thorn was a massive man, built like an ettin. He was a mite more handsome than most ettins, and his posture was a bit better, but the comparison is fair enough. The King’s hair was cut short, so that his enormous black eyebrows held more substance than his scalp. Beneath that crumpled brow were two deep-set eyes, which had started brown and grown red and bloodshot over the course of his reign. To strike fear into his subjects’ hearts, Thorn favored dark, barbaric costume, the sort of dress you’d expect from a centaur chieftain instead of the King of Kryta. He sat cross-legged and slouching on the weary throne when we were ordered to approach, groveling.

Name: Koreena
Art Form: costume
Idea: Lunatic Court Finery
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