Prologue: The Crying Pumpkin Inn

A huddle of nervous men stood in a pumpkin patch, almost invisible in the cloudy night. An inn stood next to the patch. Bright, merry lights shone inside, offering warmth and safety to passersby on this most cold and dangerous of nights: the night of Hallow’s Eve. As the candles flickered and the fire was stoked, the men outside just shivered and murmured. They whispered old tales of supernatural fright, leaning close to the speakers to catch their words from the strong east wind. All the time they spoke, one at least was peering over at a prostrate form on the pumpkin patch’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 nor sickly traveler, though. This was the Pumpkin-Man of legend, the tragic jester of Thorn’s Lunatic Court.

It was four minutes till midnight 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 still a stone’s throw 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.

“Ah. My dear mortals. By the Mad King’s command, I must fulfill this wish, whether ye will it or no.”

Chapter 1: 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 powers of 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 for 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 Lovehorn. 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.




Chapter 2: 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 to 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, appropriately 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 maguuma 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 mind and soul to Grenth, and Grenth, in an odd 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 utterly 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, “Plug your ears if things get rough. Lyssa’s own humor is my sole weapon, and I’m afraid I will must use it without reserve.”
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 master, standing straight and tall, staring into the bloodshot eyes of Mad King Thorn. The King’s fell voice filled the room.

“Give me your jokes, jester.”

Chapter 3: My Own Master
Chapter 4: Into the Pumpkin Vines
Epilogue