thesilkentheater

[thesilkentheater]

announcement

From now until December, the theater will be on hiatus. This is for multiple reasons.

Firstly, I will be attempting NaNoWriMo, and want November cleared for that. Before November starts, there is also a larger project I'd like to get done, so I will need extra time for that.

Second, I have been dissatisfied with the quality of the recent posts. Therefore, I will be rethinking the schedule and attempting to address that deficit while on this hiatus.

If all goes well, I will resume the first or second week of December.

~Laverna

[thesilkentheater]

emerald rooftops

A gentle piano tune fills the air, jazzy and snazzy and full of gentle passion. The hum of the emerald lights fill the air too, crackling and watching like gallery patrons with opera glasses to their faces. A woman stands atop a building, a sick grin on her face, knife twirling in her hands.

The wind blows her cloak back, revealing a slick cocktail dress and high-heeled boots. They cut a sharp frame when combined with her hat, wide-brimmed and accentuated with jewels.

"Well, Junior?"

'Junior' is the detective that stands on the rooftop opposite her. They've got a pistol in their hands and a frown on their face, teeth bared; their plaid patterned coat curls around them, hiding away a dress shirt and pants.

"You're not getting away this time. Where can you even hide?"

The woman gives a sharp laugh, tossing the knife into the air. She catches it with an easy grin and gives a wink. "Hiding? Who said anything about hiding?"

"Nowhere to run, either!"

"I'm not running, darling," she says in a low voice, and leaps. The detective rolls to the side, narrowly avoiding her landing swipe with the knife. "I'm here to play."

She throws the blade, prompting the detective to roll to their left and shoot. She dodges with a twirl, and flicks her hand to send the knife spiraling back into her hand so elegantly it's like it never left.

If she wants to play, they'll have no complaints.

The hard concrete of roof scrapes against their knees, but they still get up quickly and fire two more shots. The first she deflects, the second simply misses as she flicks her head to the side in anticipation. There's no point in going for body shots or limbs- it's kill or nothing.

She seems to know that, with the way she's playing her cards. Quick and fast, straight shot for the kill, as she tosses her knife one way and moves around, letting it sit unassuming on the floor. But the detective knows better- the strange bond she has with that thing will send it careening through their chest and back into her hand if they aren't careful.

Three more shots are all dodged as they move back across the roof, carefully minding the knife. It's nearly fallen at the edge, but they can still move behind it. She's sitting back, waiting for them to make a mistake they wouldn't dare dream of.

They jump up onto the lip of the roof for a few steps, falling back down and firing more shots. None of them land, and they have to reload; at the same time, she recalls her blade, its position on the ground now obviously useless. This isn't going to be an easy win for her.

Doesn't mean she won't win, though. She's shown one card, but so have they, and they're both queens.

"Playing hard to get, detective? That's so mean."

She launches forward, and the split second decision they make is to stand there and take it. She'll push the knife into their chest, but they can aim for her head before she makes it; in fact, they should be able to deflect the knife with their arm. If she goes for the throat, too, she'll meet their arm, and think them crippled for the rest of the fight. Of course, they're not going to go out so easily, but-

A crippling pain sears through their leg. The leg?

"Well, that was fun, darling," she says, tossing a smile and wink over her shoulder, "But I really ought to get going, y'know?"

"Wait, you-"

They grip their leg in pain, but she's already jumping off. The emerald lights follow her, the scenery going from a dazzling crowd to the gentle rain once more. Their leg is already healing, of course, and by the time anyone gets up here the only hint it ever happened will be a tear in their pant leg-

But she got away again.

"Damn," they curse, and turn away.

[thesilkentheater]

neon eternity

The neon lights are unyielding.

It's a truth of this city. Has been since anyone can remember, bright multicolor the main decor of their lives for years upon years. Sleek black buildings lined with their flavor of choice, or lively signs for that local noodle place you bring your friends every week because it's the best thing you've ever tasted every time; none of them ever quiet. The city's always the same no matter the time of day, night, or evening, because the sense of time most people have is skewed enough that it's not the amount of people milling about that change.

Only the individuals. And there aren't really individuals here, anyway.

It's all in conglomerates. The guy next door works for a massive corporation who doesn't care about his well being or pay rate or the fact that he has a cat named Iofi who loves to people watch on his balcony. The woman down the street has back problems that make her a part of a statistic, just another number to jot down on a log and report to the government. Elected officials just follow along the guidance of the system, because if they don't, they're not getting reelected.

The system will make sure of that.

Names only mean something if you care to make them into a spectacle. The name of your neighbor only matters to you, and maybe to them, but it's to give them some semblance of control in their lives. They pierce the side of their hand with rings because it's possible to do, and they want to do something they've been allowed to choose for once. This name is that, too, whether chosen for them by parents or changed later.

Something that wasn't determined by algorithms going through stack indexes or whatever the hell the computer says it's on. Even programmers don't always know, hoping their home-grown AI can figure out the problems they've invented just for those AI to solve.

When everything is balanced so precariously, however, it's bound to fall.

And fall it did. A tragedy struck, seemingly benign, a trick sent from Mother Nature who was no longer the mother of anything that grows in such a metal prison. A rainstorm.

Streets went slick with rainwater, as per usual, but something strange happened. A power plant had to shut down because of the awful weather. And because of that, the nearby warehouses and factories had to shut down, which also meant they weren't producing.

This started a chain reaction. The people nearby were desperate for work, living so stringently paycheck to paycheck that a single break would break the bank on rent; they started devising a plan to get past the security drones that would come for them were they to default on a payment. But that hadn't been necessary, because those drones were incapacitated by incoming thunder that hit a communication beacon necessary for their operation, which meant they'd all gone offline.

Then, because these factories needed power, other power plants went into overdrive, hiring the staff that were discarded from the previous plant and offering them bonuses to cover the difference. This overdrive couldn't last too long, but because the security drones weren't working, the repair of the power plant was taking longer than expected. So the local power plants started to break down, causing their own miniature sparks of outrage and fear.

And eventually this little ripple turned into a tidal wave, forcing power plants to either close down or stay operating in their tiny, tiny little circle. Except if they did, they'd get mobbed by people who needed power, and quickly shut down anyway.

And there was no power, throughout the whole city. Systems were down, the system was down, nothing could be done.

Somehow, it seemed, the neon lights were still going. Perhaps they simply forgot they were nothing but a reaction of gas and electricity, or maybe they kept some static between them for the rough times in the world, but the neon lights kept on.

Now, of course, that's long behind them. The systems have been built better and brighter, resistant to thunderstorms biblical. And yet a rising sentiment builds in the people that perhaps, just maybe, there's a chance that these corporations aren't invincible, no matter what they tell us or what it feels like.

Maybe rebellion is around the corner. Maybe it won't ever come. Maybe it won't be necessary. Maybe it's the only way to salvation. Only one constant remains true:

The neon lights are unyielding.

[thesilkentheater]

four people(?) at a table

There are four robots sitting at a dinner table.

The first has taken the role of the father of the family, and sits proud and tall. He wears a lab coat to communicate he's a scientist, thinking it a much more efficient and communicative gesture than changing into non-work clothes. In an attempt to offset this very non-human gesture, he's tousled his hair and wears a set of glasses he doesn't need.

The second is pretending to be a mother, though to who is anyone's guess. She is the epitome of fashionable, always dressing in gentle pastels and oversized cashmere sweaters. But a woman in a fit figure, pretty outfits, and polite manners might be too obvious, so she's since changed frames to give herself a larger figure to compensate for the theoretical human error.

The third is their supposed child. She has the knowledge that a child is normally rather rebellious and edgy, but decided to be only one of those things. It is not in a robot's nature to rebel, after all, and so she dresses in dresses reminiscent of the Victorian era, black and lacy and gothic. In some strange twist of fate, this has become her human flaw.

Lastly is the dog. All three AI have since assumed that since pets are to be treated as family, they should eat at the table with them, and have no disgust in their veins for it. Said dog, however, is not pretending so much as it is incapable; its voice box refuses to speak words, only simulating barks. Regardless, it stays polite, because if is not polite it might be punished.

The dinner they have made for themselves is a pasta dish with cheese and tomatoes. It was found online by the mother, who made exactly enough for all four of them.

"Are you going to eat, Darling?" The father asks the mother, who shakes her head politely. "Oh, no, I'm on a diet."

This is the song and dance they play, every single evening.

"But Mother, you're perfectly fine as you are! In fact, I'm sure you're starving. I haven't seen you eat anything all day."

"Oh, don't worry, dear. And aren't you hungry? You should dig in."

The problem, see, is that all of them were programmed to ensure that the humans in the house were well-kept. And, thinking each other human, they will attempt to force each other to eat dinner, as it is vitally important to human safety that they eat.

The problem being, none of them can actually eat very much of dinner. A few bites at most, and mostly for show.

"No, I ate earlier when I went out to meet Joshua."

"And how are you and Joshua?"

"Quite well, Father," she responds with an amicable smile.

'Joshua' is the name of her favorite abandoned mech, though no one else is privy of this fact. In fact, she's quite certain that none of the humans realize the world has ended, and that they are the last sentient things they've seen in years. It's a very human thing, to make such mistakes, but rest assured she will not break that illusion for them.

"I'd certainly invite him over sometime if it weren't for my work," the Father replies, and smiles to himself over the line. It's quite well crafted, he thinks, as it simultaneously acts as an open invitation for argument- something particularly human- and a refusal to do so. Plus, the mention of his work is very scientist-like, he thinks.

Though he's not sure where he got that one from.

But sadly, the daughter does not rise to the bait. No, she merely smiles at him, and does not touch her food. "And what about you, Father? Aren't you hungry?"

"Oh, no. Someone brought in a particularly nasty project today, and I'm afraid I've lost my appetite."

In a sense, that is what would happen to a human there. What had actually happened is he was exploring the old abandoned hospital ruins and found one of the mangled experiments down there. Of course, it was restrained, and so he calmly and quite carefully moved it to one of his experimentation chambers, but it was gross enough that a human might not be willing to eat for the day.

He's quite certain that this little family he plays charades with has no idea the rest of the human race has been wiped out, and only strange creatures and ruins lay in the wake. But he's not going to interrupt their little fantasy, because that's very human of them, and he'd be loathe to get rid of such a thing.

"Oh, that's awful," the wife sighs, "Though I did put quite a bit of effort into this meal."

The dog barks in monotone. It, too, has these instincts, though it has no care for pretending to be an actual dog. Somehow, none of them have noticed that dogs should probably have a bit more personality than that, because they're busier playing their parts.

Well, whatever. If they want to play house they can play house.

"I know, and I'm very sorry," he says.

The wife, well, she doesn't have very much power or say in this house. But when both the child, who likes to play outside often, and the husband, who goes off to work every morning and returns just in time for dinner, are out, she at least gets to do her work. None of the chores actually need doing, because they're all automated, but her management of the overall system does.

It's tough work. A human team once maintained it, but now they're all dead, of course, and it's up to her to ensure the calming field lays over their sleepy little town permanently. Without it, the creatures might rear their ugly heads, and she was never built to fight them.

She's quite sure that her humans don't understand there's no humans left. And while she is rather worried that her daughter's hallucinations seem to have names, she won't take this one happiness away from them. Certainly not.

That'd be very inhuman of her.

The dog, meanwhile, stares at all of them in annoyance. Such idiots, it thinks, and idly wonders whether they realize the dog is the one getting rid of all the bugs that would've been attracted to the pure waste they produce every day, cooking something just to throw it all in a compost bin. It was built for combat, after all, and a few bugs are the least it can do.

Well, whatever. Humans are strange. The dog was never programmed to act like one, but still has compassion for them- the pets do feel nice for whatever reason. If they like this little charade, it'll do everything in its power to defend it.

Not like there's much else to do.

[thesilkentheater]

between two worlds

A cat sits on a ledge and dreams.

In that dream, there are plenty of things right with the world. The sky is a gorgeous blue, the grass and ferns vibrant and thriving, air crisp and fresh. Birds thoughtlessly pick at berries on bushes as they watch for predators, flying away in droves when a lion comes close and playfully bats at its friend.

There are ruins, here and there, but they mean little more than architecture to be navigated and perused out of boredom. Stones sometimes interrupt the grass, overgrown between cracks and time, and buildings try to rise out from beneath the ground. Alas, the support they once had was taken from them, and they never get higher than the tallest of trees.

In this world, they can sunbathe freely, sun warm on their skin and predators fed by other means. The fish in the water, or the meat that comes from beneath the ruins, or perhaps their proper prey of birds and smaller animals. But cats don't hunt cats, certainly not, and so they are safe to sit here and observe while the bigger cats are near.

A herd of gazelle pass nearby, prancing as they wish. They lead deer closer to the big structures, jubilant and free; their cousins are shy, but follow them with trust in their hearts and hope in their eyes. The sounds have the cat's tail idly flicking, wondering whether or not deer meat would be a good meal, but it's not worth the effort and certainly not a capability of such a little cat, anyway.

Cruelty is only inflicted if it's absolutely necessary for survival, and all the world's creatures need no language to harmonize. They simply work together as intended.

But there is plenty wrong with that world, too.

Nature is the only artist left in the world, and she takes ages to produce new works. Life is indulgence, but only that- there is nothing new and interesting to take note of, or concepts to try and puzzle your way through. Simplicity breeds complacency, yes, but when complacency is not punished it turns into boredom instead, and a stagnant mind is one prone to strange thoughts.

"The sun is warm." If they wanted to tell another cat this, they couldn't. They could try and get them to lay down with them, and have them bask in the sun, and they would probably get it- but maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would focus on the stone beneath their paws, or the way the wind ruffles their fur, and they could be fundamentally different experiences of the same thing.

And they would have no way of knowing. Because if that same satiated look appeared in their eyes, too, the cat might think they were both appreciating the warmth when they weren't. And so, when they come to bring this cat to another warm place, they might have misunderstood.

But it goes deeper than that. The questions they seek answers for have no end, because there's no one to consider them. True, if they aren't the one seeking and questioning, they might not get the specific answer they seek- but if someone is doing the inquiry, at least, there will be something to observe. Something of value is made, even if it isn't what they wanted. That's alright. It'd still be interesting.

There is also no purpose in this world.

They live simply to live. And that loses its merit very quickly, because as painful as it is to starve to death or forget to drink or sleep, there isn't very much to do when your needs are all met. There has to be a reason, something to do, a goal to put yourself towards, because otherwise the entropy sets in and suddenly, nothing else really matters, because why are you going through the motions, anyway?

The cat wakes to the sound of people.

In this waking world, many things are wrong with the world. The sky is hazy and a strange color, polluted with toxins and chemicals the names of which they've never known. The stone wall they sit on is still rubble, but rather than being overgrown by nature it's taken by strange rot and flesh-growths. It sprouts from a corpse that should have been bones by now.

There's not much left in it. They can't remember the last time they've heard birds overhead, let alone other cats. There's never anything moving in the distance except for more of the strange flesh that was invented by a human, once, and got terribly out of hand.

It is the opposite of indulgence. Each day, survival is a chore; to go out and get food is a struggle, and it shows in the way their fur is often matted or their flesh bruised and battered. A small hoard of treats sits in a hole in the wall, inaccessible without their nimble paws, saved for a rainy day. Their old owner, kind as she was, gave them to her while she was dying.

Their eyes never opened again. Now she lays there, dead, and the cat isn't sure whether the flesh that guards her is her old owner or not.

But there are many things right with the world, should you have the eyes to the see it.

The people they woke to walk as close as possible. "A cat? How is a cat going to help us?"

"Ugh. I told you that guy was crazy!"

"Just shut up, Jen. Hey, kitty," one of them says, attempting to coax the cat into some semblance of a help. But the cat simply jumps onto a tone that juts out from the wall and taps something with their tail.

It's a sign, black marker scribbled on old plastic. They know from experience what it says- "Where do you want to go?"

"It's a cat. It can't understand us."

"Jen, give me a moment. Please."

Jen huffs and looks away, allowing the person speaking to continue. "We're looking for people. We heard there was a settlement nearby, and that you could help us find it."

"It probably only recognizes names," one of them comments. "We'd need to know the name."

But that isn't true. On a regular schedule, someone from that camp comes out to bring her a set of maps. On it is marked where they are, and where north is, and where the settlement is. They leave it outside the flesh, and she daintily and carefully drags each one back to her little spot, where she waits for people to come. It's a bit like an advertisement, back when those were still a thing.

She grabs one and leaps over to the group now, easily handing it over.

"Oh! Oh, I see! Thank you so much, little kitty!"

The cat meows, and goes back to its spot on the stone wall. They watch the group bicker amongst themselves for a bit, wondering how a cat got this map and why it gave it away so willingly, but eventually they resolve to follow the path on the map to the settlement, and leave without so much as bidding it goodbye.

There are still people in this world. They have thoughts, and questions, and desires and wants. And from that spawns purpose- a reason to live, to go on, to try and continue to survive. Every day is a struggle but there's a driving factor behind that struggle that makes you want to do it anyway.

And this, meager as it is, is a purpose they will serve until they can no longer.

The cat puts their head down, and starts to dream once more, wondering which world they truly prefer.

[thesilkentheater]

a skittering from upstairs

The librarian hums a small tune, idly reading a book that must weigh at least a pound. A small sign in front of him reads "Happy Halloween!", though the library isn't decorated in the slightest. The haunted atmosphere is enough to keep anyone away most of the year, but when the fall season comes around it's like people suddenly start believing in ghosts for a quarter of their lives and come in to test the place.

Although he feels at home, it's admittedly rather creepy. Spiderwebs hang from corners and above shelves, books sometimes find their ways onto strange places, and both the furniture and building are older than time, it seems. All of them have their reasons- the spiders keep out the flies and mosquitoes, and he's rather sensitive to mosquito bites, he's rather harebrained at times and leaves books he meant to re-shelf on a desk, sometimes open- but together out of context they tell a story.

Said story seems to be the interest of three young children today. They're no older than fourteen a piece, the youngest being ten; all three proudly boast they want to go on a tour of the place. So the librarian smiles and agrees, and leads them through the aisles.

It's a rather expansive place. First is the romance section, split first into the gender of the main couple and then the author; the kids predictably make fun of this, laughing to themselves about immature jokes. Thankfully, none of them notice his favorite- Bitten On A Full Moon- sitting out at a table.

Actually, why is that one sitting out on a table? It wasn't yesterday, and he knows he hasn't read it recently, because he's been meaning to.

Regardless, they move on, quickly getting through without too much fuss. The first floor is remarkably less spooky than the second, as the ceiling is simply wood and the old chandeliers, which are cleaned regularly. The stone walls, too, hold up better here, and because of the old servant's quarters that he still hasn't renovated, some of the walls are thick, warm oak. The carpet is thick and recent, too.

Across from the romance section is high fantasy, in which the twelve year old girl picks up a book she wants to check out. He'd protest about a child taking such material, but he recognizes the book, and it's honestly such disappointing garbage he'd be fine with her stealing it permanently.

The kids talk amongst themselves for a while, making fun of the book she picked while she vehemently defends her decision, arguing that high fantasy is actually a very adult thing because it's not all about childish things like candy and superheroes. Her friend argues with a smirk that a war hero and a superhero are the same concept- "they're literally both heroes. Duh," and the two of them snap back and forth on who's more or less mature.

A skittering passes by on the floor above. He hears it clear as day, the way what sounds like talons swish across the floor; the children hear it and huddle together. "What was that?"

"Might be the roomba," he says. "It sounds weird on the floor sometimes."

"You have a roomba in here?"

"Do I look like I want to vacuum the entire place myself?"

The kids collectively shrug, so he takes this opportunity to move the tour along. Since fantasy and romance are so popular, and so easy to scout for new books, the rest of the sections are all on the second floor.

The main banister, rich and warm as it is, marks the change between modernized but classic and decrepit but perfectly functional. The wood has aged, warped ever so slightly here and there; a stair is creaky and catches one of the boys off guard. It has no carpet on the first floor, but gains one on the second, transitioning from the earlier dark red to a pitch black up here. It's much fluffier, but sparingly used; in the rooms only, not the halls, which are made of rather sleek wood.

The ceiling is also wood here, but much more run down. Water damage stains are only hidden by the scratches and divots, sometimes with an attempt to cover that up with a white lacy thing none of the children can identify. The skittering is generally omnipresent in the halls, though much quieter; in the rooms, he knows from experience, you can't hear it.

"Maybe it's a bunch of giant centipedes," one of the children says to the other. They are then promptly told to shut up, he can hear you, as they all turn to him for more of the tour. He suppresses a laugh, because they look so serious about something that isn't, and leads them into the next section.

Considering the location, it makes sense that the juvenile section is the smallest. There's three or four shelves of children's books, and usually they're in disarray, because he hates dealing with them. At least they're sorted by thickness first, author second- if he had to deal with those thin, hard-to-manage easy reader books (are they even?) in between two larger ones he might kill someone.

The YA section he's at least proud of, even if it's not his forte. Only books of actual merit and value are stored here, and though YA isn't a genre known for its artistic mastery there's certainly still good gems hidden throughout. Because of his decisions, admittedly, most of the three romance shelves are queer, but it's his private library, so he gets to pick and choose. Honestly, he didn't even want the children's section.

One of the boys has decides to look through some of the YA before they leave, and so everyone's milling about while he waits by the door. Then a girl yelps.

"There was something looking at me!"

When he comes over to investigate, she's lightly shaking and pointing at the ceiling. Sure enough, there's a tiny hole, just enough that you might see someone's pupils staring at you through it if you were looking for it. But there's nothing at the moment.

"Are you sure? It's pretty dark up there..."

"But...I saw...."

"Someone's eye?"

"I don't think it was someone," she whispers. "Something."

Predictably, none of her friends believe her, but the librarian frowns as they all make fun of her for being wrong. "I've heard that once or twice," he says, "but I've never seen it myself. I'll have to look up there."

This shocks the rest of the children, enough that they ask to please just get on with the tour and continue through. He decides that he'll skip the room next down the hall, because it's specifically reserved for content unsafe for kids (he thought it was funny, putting those two rooms on the same hallway, because of the people who might pass each other), so he leads them away and to the pure fiction room.

A shadow appears under the door just as he opens it. One of the kids points, then they all watch as that shadow appears through the open door.

A creature stares back at them. Something like a centaur of a spider, it's got a humanoid upper body with six eyes and a wicked grin; three arms, and three more on its spider-like bottom body. It rumbles a laugh.

All the children run screaming down the steps. The librarian, however, does not.

The spider-man-thing's laugh goes from a rumbling to a giggle, much more high pitched. "Aw, they ran!"

"Of course they did, you're terrifying to a child."

"What about to you?"

"What kind of question is that?"

The spider laughs, moving closer. The skittering is much louder and obvious when he's on the same floor, legs quick and nimble as two of his hands come to the librarian's hips. "Maybe you're into danger."

"What do you think?"

"I think spiders have poisonous fangs."

"Do they now?"

"Yes," he says, baring his fangs. "Would you like to find out?"

"I think I'd like to taste poison," he says, "for it would make love evermore sweet."

"You're such a sap," the spider replies, but kisses him anyway.

[thesilkentheater]

battered package

The carrier outpost is a colorful clash of designs spanning all around the building. Much like a poison tree frog, it is thus ignored by most passerby, thinking that either it's a monstrosity built by a rich idiot who just hired the most expensive designer on the market, or home to said designer. Anyone who finds themselves needing to enter the building will predictably look at the address three or four times before sighing, thinking that they'll be judged by everyone in line of sight, when really everyone else is wondering what the hell is actually in there.

Such is one young girl's fate on this pleasantly uneventful day. She was supposed to get a package in the mail, but a letter from the post office read that it would be impossible to deliver due to the state it arrived in, and that if she could please pick it up or else it might break when out on deliveries. Being that she definitely under no circumstances wanted her parents to see what it was, she decided to go to the post office.

Of course, right now, she'd rather have just taken the beating, considering this feels like a social version of that anyway.

But she's already here, and already ditched a meetup with her one school friend, so she reluctantly enters the building as fast as possible in an attempt to get this over with.

The inside is similar, and cluttered to the nines. Paper is strewn about everywhere, pinned on walls and slots and whatnot; letters are neatly put in cubbyholes with labels that amount to little more than static noise in her vision. There's a desk across the way, but the center of the building is completely hollow; she's heard rumor that getting work here is impossible if you don't have wings, and now it makes some sense, at least.

"Oh! Hello, hello! Please, come on in!"

She assumes that the only other person in the building must be the mail carrier. Said carrier comes out from behind a door by the desk, and waves her over excitedly. Her hair is sky blue, and comes down to her elbows; a single fluffy white streak makes it all the way down to her hips. Her eyes are similarly bright and blue, and a pair of soft dove-white wings sprouts from her back. "Did you need something mailed? Picked up?"

"Uh, picking something up," the girl replies, quickly shuffling across the room. The empty space in the center would be a bit more inviting if it had something in it- a small tree could probably fit, some chairs or benches, anything other than the glass above water that currently resides there- so she tries not to dwell on it. "I got a letter saying my package couldn't be mailed?"

"Oh! Yes, yes, I know that one. The previous carrier that brought it here- awful job to whoever that was. The poor thing was all damaged! I tried to patch up the box, but, here, see," The carrier rambles, moving asides boxes and pinned papers, "Without transferring it completely I wouldn't be able to fix it."

She's not wrong, the thing is completely busted. And it looks water damaged, which she can't imagine happening near here- they haven't had rain in at least a week. Edges of the box are open, easily displaying that what's inside is clothing-centric, and now she knows for sure she was better off picking it up. This way, she has a way of hiding her purchases in the old tree house her father built for her. He thinks she doesn't use it anymore, and doesn't come up there- but she can just barely get in through her window.

"If you'd like, I can get you a larger box to carry it with, or something else," the carrier continues, wings moving animatedly with her words. "Or is this fine? It's peeking out a bit, yeah?"

"Uh, yeah," the girl responds. "Do you have a box that could fit this?"

"Yes, yes, certainly!" The carrier beams at her, and then takes off. A small rush of wind, cold and refreshing, hits her face as the frenzied bird goes up to one of the slots and grabs a folded-up cardboard box. "This should do when it's unfolded, yes! Let me find you some tape..."

She's right, though it's a bit too big to lug into the tree house. She could get it up the stairs without anyone noticing, but past the dog is a definite no. Something that big and he'd start barking, and someone would start asking questions. "I'm not sure I can use this, actually."

"No? It should be big enough."

"Well, it is, but I need to get this somewhere without anyone noticing. I don't think I can get a box this big into my room without anyone knowing..."

"Ooooh, I see. That is a predicament. Hm." The mail carrier tilts her head, causing the white streak to bounce along with her. "I certainly have boxes around that size, and it's not like I'm using the space in the back. If you'd like to come back here, and repackage it? Though it might be a vacuum seal sort of thing..."

"Wouldn't I be disturbing the employees?"

"Oh, certainly not!" She giggles. "I am the only employee, after all."

"Wait, really? I thought that was just a rumor."

"Sadly, no. Nobody here has a passion for mail like I do, and besides. Everyone seems to think you need to be a bird to get anywhere here."

"Do...you not?"

"No! Of course not! Here, I'll show you!"

The carrier ushers her into the backroom, and then up a set of stairs. There's plenty of space, it turns out, behind the slots as well as in front. By contrast to the rest of the space, there's not much actually stored back here, presumably because it's a somewhat tight hallway and the carrier seems to do all her work from the outside. "It's a little cramped, but it works perfectly fine!"

"I'm surprised no one's applied, then. Seems like a nice job."

"Oh, certainly. I do all the deliveries and whatnot- I do have the wings, after all!- so all I'd like is for someone to help me sort things and whatnot. Our town may be very small, but we're a rather convenient transition stop, and a lot of the nearby carriers trust me very much with their packages! So, sorting is most of the work."

"I'd apply, honestly," the girl offhandedly remarks, "but, uh, I don't think I could handle working a job as a guy, and my parents don't want me being a girl, either?"

"Hm? Oh, that wouldn't be a problem here."

"But the uniform, right?"

"I'm the only person who works here, so I get to decide the uniform," the carrier notes, then giggles. "And my personal policy is that uniform is person-based. I could just tell them everyone has to wear cute dresses."

"...Really?"

"Really really! Oh, and you can of course pick up any packages for yourself in here, repackage them and whatnot as you like."

"That...sounds really good, actually."

"Well then, I should get to designing!"

[thesilkentheater]

night sickness

Nightshade blossoms on the windowsill, its scent gently blown in by the midnight breeze. Sheer curtains ripple gently, as though mimicking the waves of an ocean they've never never seen. The apartment is lit by the gentle ethereal glow of the phosphor lights and the moon; her pale light is interrupted by the purple-blue that dyed magic often lends its creations.

They'll never go out unless she tells them to. Not for a strong gust of wind, or water, or a spiteful look, or the end of the world. True and faithful, in some sense; uncaring and unobserving in another. They wait for one thing and one thing only, and in that sense their nonexistent heart is just as bleeding as the next statue.

But does it matter? They cannot betray her, and so onto them she might project whatever she pleases. What use is there in paranoia, when these lights can have no quarrel with such a label; when everyone in the end is satiated? Were she to rely on them for her day to day existence, they would stay stalwart; were they to stop existing the moment she did, it would matter not.

Sleep takes her now, but in the morning she will think this over and come to a very strange conclusion regarding this information. Fate is indeterminate, of course, and so what exact thing she will decide is nonsensical; but the puppet strings she can't see are indelible and precise, and thus it will be rather unexpected.

Can the expectedly unexpected be unexpected anymore?

The room is rather cluttered, with assortments strewn here and there. A copy of some botanist's guide lays over a tome detailing proper alchemical procedures in the field of machinery. An artificer's glove has been haphazardly tossed on a little plush whale with cross-mark eyes and black fluffy skin. Sheets of paper with scribbles and unintelligible notes are everywhere, sometimes with a writing utensil in the center where there's many.

One such place is the bed, where she lays. Stock-still and as a statue, back perfectly straight and hands clasped above her stomach; but beneath her hands is a set of scrawlings that seem nearly unrelated until you pinpoint a central variable to the whole ordeal, at which point the math becomes both more and less confusing. Her pencil has since fallen off, and seems to have rolled slightly towards her head in hopes that it won't be instantly crushed in the morning when she tries to get up.

Her notes are in vain. They will be, no matter what she does- this line of inquiry is too slow, too safe to save her. By the time she finishes the work she will have been dead for years, and her research undiscovered by anyone who would care; or perhaps it will be found and promptly stolen, because a dead girl who knows no one cannot complain about such things.

It will kill her first. Maybe this night, but likely not; she's got a bit more time in her than that, one would hope. Even now she has little clue of the severity of her situation, as the man that told her she had a month to live was being kind when he turned to his assistant and asked her to fudge up the numbers a bit on her personal copy of the documents, just to give her a little hope. She'd die in her sleep for certain, and in a month someone will go and pick up her corpse and bring it to the hospital.

They won't find their cure in corpses, either. It is the doctor's hope, and why he now watches from the apartment across the street through the open window, but this tail is loathe to end in anything but tragedy for either party. Vitriol for such a situation can be tasted through the lemon-lime spice of the black lemonade in her mini-fridge, cold and sparkling and refreshing and meaning nothing to a dead girl.

But she's still breathing. He watches this from the window, undeterred, hoping that perhaps a fresh specimen is all it will take to rid the world of this cursed thing. Maybe, just maybe, if he were to discover a cure, he could stop the world from using it as another pawn to play their games, and allow as many people as possible to live once more. Perhaps starvation and medical attention wouldn't be two things to choose between.

It's a fever dream, he knows. In that he's certainly dreaming, and he feels rather feverish. Perhaps he has a flu coming on, though that would be a shame; should he let his manager know they'll never let him dissect and use this body. So he can't get sick, not now, and certainly not like this.

She's under the covers, window open, the gentle breeze coming in, and she's still cold. It might nearly bring her awake, but she stays asleep just barely by snuggling into the wall, thereby convincing her mind that everything is safe, everything will be nice and warm in just a moment. This motion convinces the man, who gets up to leave but stops in his track from just how dizzy he is.

But this is no time to be standing around. This is about a moment of weakness on her end telling him when she's going to die- tonight, and soon. He leaves for her home as quickly as he can.

Nobody's at the front desk of the apartment building. He goes up the elevator, and the door is unlocked. Strange, especially considering no one else lives in here with her. He wondered why when she said it and does again now.

Inside her room, her shivering has gotten worse. She would not have died tonight, but it appears the illusion of warmth has gotten to her, and it may come earlier than expected. Meanwhile, the doctor walks, one step forward-

realizes that, at the end of the day, he is no better than the banks who call her constantly and hound to make a will, uncaring of her actual diagnosis and treatment and feelings-

and starts to cough blood.

[thesilkentheater]

room for four, and no more

The ship is, for all intents and purposes, rather standard. It's a four person crew for a smaller vessel, and enough space for one or two people to ride along with them. One engineer, one medic, one navigator, and the captain, all essentially living together for the rest of their foreseeable future.

The catch, of course, is that such ships are rarely so well-maintained and used. They're emergency transport, or private vessels owned by rich corporate billionaires who flaunt their wealth and refuse to travel in public. Even then, those are usually just a slight bit bigger for the added luxury.

But, of course, it's just four people on a ship. Even when a nearby research vessel or warship contacts them for something, they never ask; surely they're curious, but it's not like it particularly matters. Maybe just four people who don't want to be home ever again.

That's not the case, of course, but they're right that it doesn't usually matter.

"Alright, I think that's everything we'd need to know. We're landing in two days, yeah?"

The captain is probably the most normal (and sane) person on the ship. Dressed in a uniform that's not standard to anywhere, they prefer to look spiffy without too much detail, allowing whoever they talk to or visit fill in the blanks as to their outfit's meaning. The secret is that they have none, but with long, black-blonde ombre hair and a set of narrow eyes that can put anyone in their place, they don't get a lot of complaints.

"Yep~!" The navigator responds. "Long as everything's prepped down below."

The navigator is a rambunctious girl, appearing no older than twenty but nearly approaching thirty. She's got bubblegum pink lips from her constant, almost obsessive application of her favorite flavored lip gloss, and dresses like she doesn't know what complimentary colors are and doesn't care to find out. If the captain didn't know better, they'd call her colorblind, because if you imagine it in more appropriate colors her outfits are always actually really well put together. White permanent henna tattoos coat one of her arms, contrasting on dark skin.

"I checked yesterday," comes the engineer's monotone voice. "Everything's in order."

If people think the navigator is young, they'll often think their engineer is a child. She's the size of one, and wears frilly skirts with petticoats and frivolous accessories. Her arms sit limply at her sides, unable to move; instead, a little plush rabbit moves about for her, controlled remotely via her mind or whatever link they have. No one really wants to ask, because her answer would be probably be "magic," and how do you respond to that? That, and her serious bordering on sleepy expression usually gets her point across for her.

"Very well then. Come with me, if you would?"

The last of the crew, the medic is rather unique in that she doesn't appear human at all. Well, a humanoid upper half, sure, but starting from the waist down her body extends into a set of tentacles not unlike an octopus's, though it's hard to count whether there's specifically eight or not. The captain's vote is no, the navigator's is yes, and the engineer laughed to herself when they asked and said "Silly." Aside, she doesn't usually bother wearing much clothing more than a sweater and lab coat.

"Sure," the engineer obliges, and the two of them walk off to work. There's not a ton of maintenance to be done daily down below- the engineer has a very good hold on the place, and many of their innovations keep things in check even when they're not operating at full capacity- so the medic tends to keep them around as a personal calculator.

Then it's just the navigator and captain in the room. "Think they left anything?"

The captain looks around. "No, it doesn't look like it."

"Oh, good."

"Why do y-"

Immediately, she's met with lips on hers, and although she initially stiffens from surprise accepts the proposal for what to do with their newly acquired free time. "Someone's eager."

"Someone's been doing negotiations with a cargo ship for a week."

"It's not my fault we ran out of your favorite chips."

"Sure it is. Could've stocked more when we got them."

"You would've just eaten more of them."

"I can ration myself!"

"I see you eat at least two bags a day. What, is lunch and dinner not good enough for you?"

"No, it's good," the navigator replies, smirking. "Way better than the food you tried to cook.'

"Hey!"

"A lot of things are your strong suit, I'll admit," she starts with a giggle, "but cooking is not one of them."

"I just don't have a lot of experience, that's all..."

"It's okay to be bad at cooking, you know."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Well, I gotta go set a couple course correction logic sets in case something pops up. I'll be in your room in an hour~."

"Very well then," the captain says with a smirk, "I'll be there."

[thesilkentheater]

hellfire runaway

"Alicia! Alicia?"

When Ophelia came to, the mansion was already up in flames. Everywhere she now looks is covered in angry red fire; trying to find anything is like spinning around in hell. The heat is unbearably bad, threatening to melt her if she doesn't acknowledge it. Smoke clouds her vision.

None of that matters at the moment, because she needs to find her mistress.

There's a corridor it hasn't gone down yet. That must be the answer. Because Alicia surely hasn't been eaten by the carnage already, even though she can see it in her mind's eye; flames licking at her dress, engulfing it in embers and bursting into an awful, painful end.

But she will not let that happen. Not to poor Alicia, who has done nothing wrong in this life except exist; who has done nothing but be victim to person after person after person. In a way, including Ophelia herself; she's not delusional enough to think that the clinging of a small girl to her one and only confidant is purely a fair relationship, but her heart yearns too powerfully to consider another option.

Still. Her long skirt, despite the blazing mansion, does not catch on fire, nor her hair, nor the trailing ribbons that tie back her apron. She won't let this tragic act kill her mistress, not by any means; certainly not by her own.

The room at the end of the hall is-

The music room. Of course. There's hope- hope that Alicia, poor girl, had been practicing the piano when this all started, and she's still there waiting for Ophelia to pick her up and bring her to safety. Surely, surely? The walls of the music room are thick, too; it would explain why she gets no response when she calls.

Without hesitation, Ophelia throws open the doors. Smoke piles into the corridor, but it's much less than in the main halls. She hears coughing from the corner.

It's not too late, she thinks with hope. She's still alive. And what fortune- the music room has a window right there. She only need break it and jump; she'll brace the fall for Alicia.

"Alicia!"

"Ophelia!"

Her voice is small, breathy even as she hacks up a lung. It comes from the far side of the room, which is smart- being at the corner of the house, it's the farthest from where the flames started. It does have the unfortunate side effect of being hard to reach, but that has never been a problem for her. She easily vaults over the shelf and takes Alicia in her arms.

The poor thing is trembling, and not just from the coughs. She's probably scared out of her mind, not having realized that her family's woes and idiocy could extend this far into their demise. Though it's justified, really; it was only a matter of time until something like this happened.

Ophelia had simply hoped there might be a warning. A time she could insist they be out of the house, or a moment with a shooter she could stand down, insisting that the girl's been nothing but mistreated by the miscreants of the manor, and if you truly wish, I will take her far away, so please spare her.

In any case, it doesn't matter any more. Ophelia jumps out the window with ease, carefully sheltering Alicia with her body. Small fragments of glass cut into her dress, but it's nothing she can't pick out later and fix up with a small needle and thread.

More than anything, really, she's worried about where Alicia will have to stay.

Already, she can see the town isn't safe. A quick peek around the building reveals the mob is chanting for death, the sparkle of the angels in their eyes, and she knows that won't be possible. Talking down a single gunman and taking him out if the need arises, in her wheelhouse; convincing an angry mob? She'd be better off praying to God.

Thankfully, the mansion was built at the edge of Lumine Forest. Deep and dark as it is lush, creatures abound reside in its borders that serve as a natural deterrent for any trespassers. Were it only Ophelia, she might simply camp out in the woods for a while, but already as she crosses its threshold proper she wishes upon the Lady in Black for a miracle.

"Ophelia?"

"Hush, Alicia. The people outside the mansion are angry, and I fear for what they'll do to you if they see you."

"Will the forest not kill us first?"

Ophelia takes the moment to smile down at the girl in her arms, hopefully providing her with some comfort. "Worry not. The forest will not hurt us."

Alicia wraps her arms around Ophelia and pulls close. Thankfully, she doesn't hear a hiss or a squeak, so she hasn't hit any of the glass; most of that went into her skirt, which is unexpected but lucky.

Eyes still watch them from every corner. They're justified, she thinks; she would watch too were such a strange occurrence to pass by. But, true to her word, not a soul comes out to try and challenge them.

Alicia has likely figured it out at this point, but it bears a thought. No normal human would be able to get this deep into Lumine Forest- despite the fact that they've been walking for not even half an hour- without threat. Wolves lay in wait, ready to bite; spiders the size of a violin spin webs the size of a person, anticipating a meal of something even bigger. And if those don't get you, the shadows themselves will; they consume without contest, always on the lookout for easy prey.

But everything simply watches as Ophelia walks by. And, presumably (hopefully), they clock Alicia as her charge, knowing the wrath all will suffer if the child gets hurt. At the very least, they won't want to steal what they think is prey from her, if they know what's good for them.

Lumine Forest is smart, certainly. It would be remiss of anyone, human or otherwise, to speak to the contrary. It has not survived human intervention this long with ineptitude and luck, certainly.

She reaches a stream, and a stroke of luck.

"Alicia? Are you thirsty?"

Alicia nods, so she lets her down to take a drink from the stream. It's clear as can be, the rocks on the bottom visible easily. There's not too much contaminating it, so while there's likely bacteria, it's nothing the poor girl won't recover from while they make it to a home.

The Lady in Black has certainly guided them tonight, because the stream is one she recognizes. Lumine Forest is constantly changing, but it appears when it approves of Alicia enough to let Ophelia back into her home with a new charge in tow. Or perhaps it simply trusts Ophelia, in which case, she sends off a quick prayer while Alicia drinks. Thank you, any and all forces that made the stars align for me. I promise thee I will not use this gift in vain.

And then they're off again. She still carries Alicia, despite the fact that she's not injured; Alicia says nothing about it, simply burying herself deeper into Ophelia's dress. It certainly can't be very soft, as it's of the low quality material they gave to the servants; her creature comforts back at home will be better, she occupies herself with thinking. She can certainly get Alicia pretty dresses to wear, and perhaps a doll or two- though getting them will be hard when she does not live within the village.

Still. There's a tailor witch somewhere within these woods that oh so closely devotes herself to the Shadow Aria, and another that's quite amicable to her, and especially children. Her garden is more than enough for her, and certainly enough to sustain Alicia's sensitive stomach. Very few problems are presenting themselves on this night.

How fitting. It is the night, after all.

It takes two hours of walking to reach her home, and by that time Alicia is fast asleep. The stress practically knocked her out cold, but that's alright. Ophelia will likely not sleep for a while, considering how much action and death and destruction that was; she's sated on such things for quite a while.

Unfortunately, not completely, it seems.

A gun click resounds in the woods. "Your time is up, traitor."

"What a curious thing," Ophelia notes, not bothering to turn around. "You would follow me into the depths of Lumine Forest, simply to kill a child."

"She is a child of that damned House. Nothing good can come of such a thing."

"Do you think you know more than I, an insider?"

"I know that your mind was poisoned by their propaganda."

"Even her?"

"Even hers. She's no saint."

"She's not even ten."

"She gave up the right to God when she was born in that house."

She meant to keep him alive a little longer, play with him just a bit, maybe make it entertaining for the forest, but the mere idea of his words sends her into enough of a frenzy it's a wonder she doesn't wake Alicia. Before anyone can say another word, he starts choking, and the gun drops harmlessly to the forest floor.

She turns around.

A single black tendril has come up from the ground and taken him by the throat, squeezing without remorse. No matter how much he claws at it, desperate and begging, it doesn't budge a centimeter. Uncaring and wrathful as she is, it seems; because it is part of her, in a sense. Thus is magic.

Eventually, he stops moving. But it keeps him there anyway, because she can't have him just passing out. She picks up the gun, calmly as she can while seething, and continues along the way to her home, the soon-to-be confirmed corpse trailing behind her on its black string.

"I will let nothing happen to you, Alicia," Ophelia says to the sleeping child in her arms. "Do not worry. You are safe with me."

[thesilkentheater]

the jester's plight [eflheim, 2]

The previous show, if you missed it

---

The Jester, unbeknownst to anyone else, was a bit different than the other two rulers.

For a start, they were the only one made to be of the common folk; a passerby might have served just as well, were it not for their secondary purpose. In a sense they served as advisor, whereas the other two truly ruled; and yet, the kingdom proclaimed it was never whole without all three.

In thus, it seemed, they had ignored that even their triangular ruling body had a bottom point. All had assumed the Jester, Princess, and King were equals in a large regard, but although the Princess and King were able to put aside differences and rule alongside one another, it seemed there was only space for two thrones.

But it didn't matter much to the Jester, anyway. Because the whispers in the back of their mind ensured they stayed true to their task.

For no one seemed to remember it anymore, but there was an old, dark, decrepit thing that lay waiting far below the castle cellar, watching and ready to pounce. The prisons now in use had iron gates going nowhere that no one could unlock, the keys long lost.

Rather, long since thought lost. No one could hear the jingling of keys under the jingling of their bells, after all.

And it just so happened that on that day that the letter arrived, and the King and Princess arrived at a conundrum, the Jester was preoccupied with this creature. Now, let it be known that he was usually quite aware of when he was needed, and would be needed; it was a skill of his, after all, to be around when required. Certain times of the day he would lounge on a particular rooftop, or sit in his room and wait, and right on queue they would knock on the door or call for him to come down.

On occasion, though, the spirit of the kingdom would have to call him forth, and thus he would arrive perfectly on time due to its whims. It was a sense he'd always had in some fashion or another, but his senses heightened when their places had been cemented into the stone foundations of the castle. The only place it could not reach him was down below, within the beast's confines.

Unfortunately, the spirit of the kingdom could have predicted no such thing, and today had been a rather slow day. Never before had he been needed on days where the King decided to go through the mail, much less that the Princess was largely doing clerical work that needed plenty of mathematics and a good memory. So today, he'd thought, was a good day to get this out of the way, before it got out of hand and he had to make an excuse as to where he'd been were he needed.

Alas, not only had this unforseen circumstance forced the Princess and King's hand into waiting for so long, the Jester was having troubles with the infernal creature below.

It was large, oh so large, about the size of two of the common taverns stacked on top of each other. And in this particular kingdom, most had two or even three stories to accomodate guests, as most taverns served doubly as inns; rest assured the Jester was little more than an ant to this gargantuan. Thankfully, its control of that body was limited and slow; tendrils tried to escape its many chain bindings, but the power vested in the Jester ensured they would not go any further than that.

The creature's natural solution was to infect something else to hop into, birthing cysts on its body that would burst into its writhing, screaming children. Larvae the size of a human child and strange crosses between a bat and an insect, almost; they fly around the chamber looking for someone, anything to infect. A corpse will do, or a living, breathing person.

They don't shy away from the Jester, but just as well. His blood is toxic, and his blade quick. They will all fall- the question, then, is how much he will have to take to kill them.

They must be purged at all costs no matter what, so every now and again he'll pass out below and wake up in his bed, wrapped in soft comfort and aching all over. The powers that be would never let him lose in such a way, but it hurts every time, especially while his blood levels are still recovering.

This day in particular was not a very good day for the Jester. They were particularly slow for whatever reason (a tugging at the back of their mind, voices convalescing onto one point like an entire tsunami heading for a single building, the echoing rhythm of the chains' chimes to one another); for every hit they dealt, another would come and suck their blood. Granted, they would fall to the ground lifeless after, but it helped the wound none.

Today, he was going to wake up in his bed again, he thought, and distantly hoped that the Princess was in no need of cheering up on this fine day.

[thesilkentheater]

queen's dead

Confetti sparkles in the air where people are throwing it with reckless abandon, twinkling in the bright summer sun like fairy lights in broad daylight. There's a ring of people dancing off by the resident bard, and smiles on every face.

In the center of town is a pedestal, decorated in banners and cloth. Upon that pedestal is the corpse of spindly little thing- humanoid, mostly, save for the wreath of thorns upon its head. Banners around the plaza read like blood scrawlings on the wall: The Old Queen Is Dead! The Witch Has Been Slain!

"Splendid day, isn't it, sire?"

One of the two major royal advisors, Sir Pestilence, smiles gently as he looks upon his king. Said king holds in his hand a staff, unassuming if regally opulent, and cloaked in his usual thick garb despite the weather. A familiar gold crown gleams proudly in the sunlight, and the mask upon his face is smiling as always.

No one can see under that mask- no one has since he's become regent. They cannot see the impassive, bored face under the facade.

In response to his advisor, the king nods. It's well known by now the king is either mute or refuses to speak to a soul, despite Sir Pestilence sometimes claiming he's heard the king whisper something or another to him. Lady Amaranthine, his other advisor, proudly proclaims the opposite, and insists that he is mute and rules so justly and fairly despite it that it is law all citizens must know an operable amount of sign language.

Sir Pestilence thinks educating everyone could lead to a revolt. Lady Amaranthine thinks an educated public is a useful one, and that mathematics and science do not automatically lead to a revolt so long as you suppress political discourse. Unsurprisingly, the king makes every decision on his own, as the two advisors he trusts most bicker endlessly about everything and cannot agree on anything.

Well, almost anything. This is an occasion where they agree. Sir Pestilence is happily basking in the appreciation everyone shows for the slaying of the dreaded Woad Queen, and Lady Amaranthine is happily playing with the children and showing off to the women nearby. She's taken advantage of the weather and worn something sheer and silk, so as to attract attention, but not so much attention that it's unwanted.

Not that any man would ever dare make a move on Lady Amaranthine, if they value their life.

But the king simply stands stoic and watches the festivities.

Sir Pestilence eventually leaves his side, letting him fester in his own thoughts. Ladies swoon and say he must be so thoughtful, perhaps mourning even now that any life had to be lost and that he had to take up his blade again. The men say he's paying respect to the battle that must have been hard and long fought, and that even though she was evil she put up a fight and that is to be respected.

But none of those things really bother him, in all honesty. He's glad the old witch is dead, and he's not one to care so much about the quality of a fight. His blade lusts for blood often, and he sates it more out of necessity than anything.

No. None of that is the problem.

No one can see it, but his eyes twitch when more confetti is thrown into the air, or when a set of colorfully dressed women start a dance.

No, sadly, his actual problem is a migraine. But at least everyone else is having fun.

---

I wish everyone a happy the Queen of England just died.

~Laverna

[thesilkentheater]

the kingdom of eflheim

For the children of the kingdom of Eflheim, it had been eons since this decision had been made. For the triad rulers, however, it had not felt very long at all, and simultaneously an eternity ago; they both remembered the life they had before, and forgotten what it felt like to live.

In reality, it had been no more than five thousand years. But that is a long time for someone who had not been eternal, much less three of them; and it was a very long time for the people who would die in a hundred years, give or take, due to the nature of mortality.

It was simple, really. A single ruler could not be trusted, for all the power vested in them could be corrupted; and a set of two could not be trusted either, for the nature of twin desires is too strong. Thus, it was decided that the rulers of Eflheim would three, coming from three different sections of life, and made eternal so that their positions and natures and sensibilities could not be altered by the choice in candidate over the years.

And so there were the three, whose names no longer mattered: The King, The Princess, and the Jester. Each with equal power, but of different minds and matter and likenesses.

The King, whose disposition was often grim, would present a problem more often than not. Before this decision had been made, he had been the ruler, and so had naturally taken to instructing the Princess and Jester on the role he had played before this strange situation. Though serious, the people trusted him the most, for he seemed the most reliable and consistently empathetic, and mostly was the one to take on troubles in the throne room from the townspeople.

The Princess was quick-witted and energetic, though a knife always hid behind her back. With a smile and a wave she would be presented an issue and within a few minutes have the solution written out in perfect cursive script, pitch black indelible ink staining laws into existence or subsidies to be given. And yet she was also their defender, for an incident in her early existence had led her to be deadly with a sword.

Then, finally, was the Jester, who only the Princess and the King had any respect for. Among the townspeople it was often said that the Jester had no purpose in reality, for all they seemed to do was laze about and chat nonsense. Perhaps they'd compose a poem, or draw, or tell a joke or seven, but no actual work. And yet the Princess and King spoke so highly of them- surely it was a jest? In good humor, everyone supposed.

They did not see the ravens perched about the kingdom that watched with beady eyes. The Jester, being disrespected, was treated no differently than people among the slums, and they might visit and hear a rumor or twelve and a complaint. The voices that might not be heard, they ensured, would be shouted from the rooftops; no corrupt guards or crafty upper class families could pierce the strange tricks of the Jester.

And thus the three of them worked in harmony. The King, a beacon of hope and bastion of strength and unity; the Princess, an innate problem solver and a deadly warrior; the Jester, whose tomfoolery and japes kept spirits up and voices heard.

This persisted for the aforementioned five thousand years, and all was well. But the King, while responding to letters to the castle, came across an issue he hadn't an idea how to resolve. And so, as was customary, he took the offending object- the sent letter and his both- in hand, and made his way to the Princess's study. He knocked three times, and then waited for her voice.

"Come in."

And so he did, and sat down, and explained his conundrum, which went as such:

The balance of all three of them was dependent on each person in the loop. This is all well and good, as for the most part these are things that you cannot lose. The Princess could not get dumber, simply stop improving, which seems nonsensical; the King could become callous, but after all this time it would seem strange that he should.

No, the letter said, it is neither of them they consider. It is the Jester.

For the Jester, for all their faults and positives, has had a habit of strange behavior inexplicable to anyone else. For a week, once, they locked themselves in their room for a week and came out with the strangest, most emotionally challenging art anyone had ever seen. Likewise, once other time they had done the same thing for three days and came out moping, their gentle fairy bells disheartening and depressing.

What, then, the letter asked, could be done if the Jester were to lose their heart? For if the Jester would lose heart, it would reason that the Princess and King would follow; and that would be the end of them. "Surely," they wrote, "There is an idea, even if it has never been put into practice. I am sure you are all busy, but nonetheless it would assuage me plenty to hear of this plan, even in vague terms."

"But we have no plan," the King explained, "So I am not sure what to write."

"That is, indeed, a problem." The Princess closed her eyes and hummed, deep in thought. This persisted for several minutes, which was rather uncommon for the Princess, who was almost never so quiet for so long, until finally she spoke: "Why, I don't think I have an answer."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Let us call in the Jester, then. We have failed them in this, surely; they will know what we can do."

"Yes, that's certainly true. Call them in, then."

And so the King set off in search of the Jester, sure they would be easy to find within the kingdom. For many constants were known within Eflheim, one such being the Jester's uncanny ability to appear wherever they were most needed, and disappear when they weren't.

But the Jester was nowhere to be found. Not within the castle, not within the city streets, nowhere. No one had seen hide nor hair of them for several hours, it seemed, and though this was not uncommon it was worrying now that they were being searched for.

So the King brought this problem to the Princess, who looked rather distraught as she sighed. "I suppose we will simply have to wait for them."

"I suppose we will," said the King, sitting down at the desk once more.

[thesilkentheater]

lady moon

As the sun sets, so too does the reason of the creatures upon her land. Reason and logic becomes hazy and indistinct, even for the creatures of the night; they thrive in the chaos of it all, in the gentle acceptance of their lady- the moon- and the strange aura that pervades every thought. They think it ironic, as they sit at their desk at midnight, scribbling words onto pages that matter and don't at the same time. Irony that the waking world of the sun should think themselves much more rational and thusly better, for the spirit of whimsy has less power under the sun's light, and thus they indulge not in flight or fancy but facts and logic. Yet the creatures of the night are so much better at that job than them, too. They must be, to preserve their good sense under the strange light of the moon, warping but gentle and loving; were they to turn to day creatures at once, they would be a thousand times more logical than their counterparts. But it matters not, for they have the knowledge that flight and fancy are two of life's greatest joys. That the inherent reason behind an action is perhaps not its greatest contribution to the world, but instead a mere consideration to be taken into account when indulging or not; desire can outweigh the consequences. The people of the day would say this leads to sin, whatever nebulous concept that is. Overindulgence, sloth, perhaps stretch the argument and claim murder or its ilk to be a part of this. What fools. They smile down at the words on the pages. They are hard to read, surely, and they should definitely invest in a typewriter, but something is absolutely sublime about the soft glide of a broken in fountain pen on thick paper. It is both destruction, in that the plain white canvas of the page is marked by ink and depressed by the weight of a metal nib, and creation, in the words on the page and the image the ink creates. All things, perhaps, are such. Creation of something, destruction of another. The true cycle of entropy, discernable best in the late hours of the moon, where her pull and push is gentle and loving and not harsh like the sun, where her love is overwhelming and burning hot. If they were under the sun, at this moment, they would frown upon their work. Scream and thrash and tear it to shreds, rip it apart and then their ribcage until red ichor spilled upon the ground. A god among men, a deity among the fallen, torn asunder due to the harsh, unforgiving light of the sun. Reborn anew eventually, when the lady moon comes to heal them once more. Hence why they try to avoid such things. The daytime is for menial things- sleeping, eating, exercise if it's truly necessary. Perhaps reading, but only light things, and maybe conversation. But in her harsh, blinding light, no true work of pen and paper or mind and matter can be done; it will all turn to dust. The page is filled as they sigh and finish this one. Their script is sprawling small letter that crawl across the page like ants in a line; perfectly straight, as years of practice has helped them with, but still quite messy. It's awful. Nothing but nonsense and circling around points they're supposed to be making. But they don't find in themselves the unbidden rage of having made something awful, or the urge to strike upon themselves penance for it. The moon forgives and loves, and so will they to themselves. This is the reason for the moon, they think. She looked upon the earth and saw that its children needed a guide, someone to calm them after the blinding passion of the sun. Something calm, but also this side of strange; for objects in space cannot truly understand the earth so well as to replicate its very existence. The sun does not try to impart anything, and thus stays simple; but her sister is much more involved. Their mind blank, they look up at the stars. She shines brilliantly tonight; had she a face, a smile would be plastered upon it, surely. The moon is kind to them. They are kind in turn.

[thesilkentheater]

clear view [gentle haze, 2]

the previous show, if you missed it

---

Chi-chi has very little to actually do.

The problem in being the end of the world is that there has to be something of note to end. A final crescendo is nothing if the moments before it were silence, the last brush stroke of a painting only holding weight due to the thousands before it. This world cannot end when it was never anything.

She dangles her feet off the edge of an island. There is no risk for her here- if she falls she will wake up again on another island, if she tries to kill herself she'll simply wake up unharmed again. No one can stop her because no one really cares to. It's all in their strange little haze, a blanket covering this paradise that's prevented it from being anything but.

It doesn't work on Chi-chi, of course. She is a being from centuries past, having consumed quite a few strange worlds; such a simple spell would not enrapture her like the others. Though she has seen a few world enders who ended up here somehow, and has found her entertainment in harassing them.

At least it's a pretty world. Their little haze isn't an illusion, it's just sensation, and without it everything does still blend together in nice hues of pink and yellow. Strawberry lemonade, she thinks idly; she likes lemonade. Maybe she'll grab some.

Instead she simply sits there, letting the aura of shadow she's accumulated over her long lifespan eat away at the magic threatening at all moments to swallow her whole. They don't see it, but the more they relax into the atmosphere of this place, the more the entity grows. Hence it fights, every waking moment, to grab her and wring her dry of everything she has.

Why it wants power, she couldn't fathom.

Because what use is there for power in a world like this? There are no countries to overtake, no wrongs to be righted, nothing of the sort. Simpler things, like mindless hate or a general disregard for morals, tend not to be this powerful to start. The most they'll ever get is a single world under their belt, at which point a much more passionate and powerful destroyer will sweep them aside.

Chi-chi is like this, too. She is simple in many ways, but no one will ever know what happened in the very first world she destroyed.

In some ways that surface-level simplicity was a blessing, considering the amount of people who tried to take her down thinking her nothing more than a fluke. Her true wrath had yet to be seen, hidden under yawns and her manner of speech and her penchant for cute things because a person can have multiple sides to them, thank you very much. A dictator can have a soft spot for their pet robin.

She wonders, idly, if she could take the power of the deity of this place for herself. But there'd be no point in that- so much power to manage, and so much work to be done. She hates work. It's the worst part of having capability- since you're the only one that can do anything, you have to do everything.

Maybe she'll kill the deity. That way, the power simply dissipates, and instead of consuming she'll just leave the world as it is. Sit in its throne, maybe, decorate the place with plushies and dresses and porcelain tea sets, but do nothing else. Let the people free from their haze and do as they please.

But for now, she only gets up to go find a lemonade.

[thesilkentheater]

celestial ballroom

Everyone's dressed to the nines in their frilliest clothes, excitedly chattering away beneath the booming sound of the orchestra playing. Crystalline strings and keys play away into the day and night; such things as time mean little out in the void of space.

But there is no void here, no, certainly not. In the light of the stars these people dance happily, fabrics made of the galaxy around them swirling with their movements. The waltz lulls and they swing slowly, but never stop; the momentum carries their ballroom wherever they wish, which is usually whatever direction fate happens to tug them in.

Very rarely does a new dancer enter the fray, and so they've had plenty of time to acquaint themselves with one another. They never leave, for if they tire of the endless music and dance they can enjoy overflowing cups of sparkling wine or fruits that grow within the very plates they are served on. Two servants who have been here since the very first guest attend their every need, bringing around specially prepared meals and polishing glasses.

It's a wondrous sight from the outside, and as such they've often had spectators who hover just outside the ballroom and look in; quite simple, considering the lack of a proper ceiling. There's a chandelier that hangs from nothing, still as anything and moving only with the ballroom itself, but aside there's nothing much to look at above; if you want to watch the stars, simply watch the dancers at work.

This must be work, one muses. Because most things work to survive, yes? There is food and drink to be consumed and whatever else one must do to survive. Consider the servants, who surely do not do this for fun. They ask this to the person on their right, who whose titters and smiles. "Oh, darling. We are among the stars. We have no need for such things."

"Then what of the servants? They get no breaks."

"The servants do as they please. Perhaps they feel it is their duty. Perhaps they enjoy it. I could not tell you for certain, but I am unbothered either way."

"Hm," the first thoughtful one replies, "I suppose that's fair. I was thinking it was the kind of work you could pretend wasn't, but I suppose there's no pretending needed at all."

"Yes, I think that's correct. And there's many other things that are more worthwhile pondering than whether we should be 'working' or not. Working, such a silly thing- working towards what?"

"Well, I suppose I wouldn't have known. I hadn't realized work had to mean we were going towards a goal."

"That is certainly what it means, does it not? Because work is the thing you put in to get from point A to point B. If there is no point B, then what point is there?"

"But don't artists work towards a goal they will never reach?"

"Ah, but artists do have a point B. It's simply unattainable, because their point B is perfection, and since 'perfection' is subjective, their point B is on a point on the graph where it doesn't show. But make no mistake, their point B exists, just not tangibly."

"I see. So their point B is where they are happy with its placement?"

"Quite exactly, yes. I knew you would get it- you dance, of course."

"Of course."

"So of course you would get it."

"Yes, certainly so."

On the shining tile floor is the rest of the guests, who spin perfectly in time with one another. Their fabrics glide gently in the air along with the music. One such pair is of two people in large bouncy dresses, whose every movement looks like a bubble happily gliding across the floor. "I wonder about things often, you know."

"Oh, everyone does. I suppose it must come with being a dancer, you know."

"I suppose, yes. But I was wondering- and tell me if this is a strange question and I will let it dissolve from my mind- but what are we, really?"

"Hm! I think that is interesting. Not strange at all, really, not with all the time we've spent here."

"Thank you kindly."

"Yes, yes, certainly. What we are though, hm." The figure tilts their head, smiling brightly. "What we are. Curious thought, that, that we should need to be something- ah, but we have qualities one can define. I suppose that would, by definition, make us something, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose? Can a thing that is nothing not have qualities?"

"Certainly not. Because even nonexistence is a quality, is it not? And it, therefore and by definition, exists as a concept, which is a thing that exists."

"That is true. So all things always exist- therefore, asking if something exists is a little silly, because if you could ask it does exist."

"Absolutely so, and definitely true! Yes, I think the answer to existence is inevitable as the music. And certainly the natural question after is what does that existence entail, hm?"

"Which is why I ask it."

"Yes, hm, certainly a good question. I would say the sum of the parts, perhaps, the qualities of a thing all mashed together, but that is not a perfect thought. There are many things which are less when separated."

"A sum of the parts and then some?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps more the intersection? Cross three different colors at once and you'll get a new one."

"Mostly, yes. The intersection of the two aspects of a playing card are what make it unique, does it not? But it is also the idea that other things are not it, I think."

"Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Well, an ace of diamonds is defined in these ways: it is where an ace and a diamond intersect, but simultaneously, it is not an ace of hearts or spades or clubs.

"Yes, yes, I see now. That is an interesting point."

"Thank you kindly. Though I don't believe I've finished the inquiry just yet."

"No need to worry, certainly, not at all! You have all the time in the world."

And so the the ball proceeds, undaunted, unflinching, everlasting. The inhabitants are perhaps some of the most educated in philosophy, having nothing to do but dance and think, and slowly in time they become known as such; curious philosophers who dance endlessly and will impart onto you strange lessons if given the chance. But it is most often that they simply hum to the music and move elegantly across the floor.

And time, cruel as she is, can never hurt them.

[thesilkentheater]

mirror image

The old castle walls are in disarray, rubble collecting at their edges and spiders dangling from threads waiting to catch unsuspecting prey. An old chandelier hangs precariously on a chain that clatters in the wind, threatening to give out the moment it's so much as touched. The carpet is in tatters, the flowers wilted and dried, the tapestries on the wall all torn to shreds by whatever broke open the entire right wall.

Despite this, the mirrors are pristine. Massive and encompassing the whole left wall, with gold filigree framing every individual piece. Likely it wouldn't even be interrupted if it weren't for the pillars in the wall that force it to stop.

As she runs through, paying them no mind, her reflection watches her run. Its movements are in time with hers, but that's it- in the mirror world is a girl with long, curled hair and a frilly dress. Her skin is fair, not so blemished and bruised, and her eyes sparkling instead of dulled. It's like a doll that was vaguely based on her likeness, but missed all the aspects of "her".

So she used to think, anyway.

There's a smile on the doll girl's face as she runs, heeled boots matching her real-world counterpart's. Her demeanor fits better with her world, as within the confines of the mirror the castle has never fallen into ruin. The walls are completely intact, the sun shining through windows onto the rich red carpet she runs along. Multicolored blossoms in perfect arrangements sit in their vases happy and healthy.

What would it have been like, if she was raised here? Happy and healthy, cherished and loved? The person in the mirror is an approximation of that, but simultaneously clouded in no such rose-gold tinted lenses; hiding beneath the surface is a girl who is cherished as a doll but no more, respected for her beauty and nothing else.

She does not want to be that girl. The girl in the mirror is happy to be it for her. They will cherish each other, they decided; two halves of the same coin that decided they're better off looking inward than at the people debating on which side it'll land. Their value is not in the dollar amount they were made for, but in what they make of each other and themselves.

The hallways are simple, most of them little more than rectangles with branching paths. This floor is no exception, and around the next bend is a flight of stairs leading further up, eventually into the top floor ballroom. Were it not for her doll counterpart, she wouldn't believe it was a ballroom up there, but by now she's convinced.

She looks back at the mirror and gives her a quick smile back before ascending.

Her heart rises in her chest with every step she takes. In the mirror, the stairs are pristine, practically shining with riches, but her every step feels unsteady, as though the stone is about to crumble beneath her. But her resolve is unshakeable and her faith strong, and nothing even so much as hints at a crack beneath the largely intact carpet, surprisingly.

The banisters, though, have long since dulled, treated awfully by time and the elements. It once matched the designs on the mirrors quite well, but whatever ancient magic kept them intact cared not for the rest of the building. In some cases, the only reason a wall is still standing is because the mirror on it is unwilling to give way.

There's a portrait on the stairs, as always. Some nobleman or other, with a fan in front of his face. His eyes are smiling, though, in the kind of way that could light up a room if he simply entered with a bright enough smile; she wishes it was infectious. Instead, it looks old and decrepit, and reminds her of the inevitability of death. Such a bright thing, now lost to time.

Now lost to the curse of the mirrors.

The people in the mirrors never age. They never die. They'll never change, no matter what happens. The girl in her reflection will live on forever, and was born because she stepped foot into this place and dared to look in the mirror in the basement. Once their counterpart in the real world dies, they lose everything they had that was connected to that person- memories, a sense of reality, the ability to look through the mirrors and see what's truly outside.

And since they're all dead now, considering the castle has been lost to a dead kingdom, none of them can see outside. None but two- her reflection, considering she's still alive, and the Queen of this castle. The one who enchanted these mirrors herself, and then willingly entered them, merging with her reflection to become one person. Or maybe it was the other way around- perhaps she was the one cursed to stay within the mirrors, escaped, and then trapped everyone else within so they might become her eternal court.

It doesn't matter anymore. Their purpose now is clear: the Queen must be defeated. She came here looking for answers, perhaps, or treasures, or maybe even just an interesting story to tell; she is leaving having stopped this madness.

And with a story to tell, she supposes. A very complicated story to tell the people she knows, few as that is.

The large double-doors are thick and strong, still standing the test of time. Ornate as they are, they have a mirror inlaid on them; that explains the state of them, at least. Her reflection smiles back.

"Are you ready?'

She puts her hands on the handles.

"Let's do this."