#5 Insanity and Nothingness

You think you’re beautiful, but you’re not. Mommy issues, mommy issues; there was nothing remaining to you now except your transitive nature. You are a crumbling soul in a collapsing skin castle, moving from one thing to the next like a snake shedding its skin, but if that’s true; what happened to the original reptile? Are you snake or are you skin? There is nothing left of you but the parts which you held on to. What made you so desperate to retain this shape, Atlantica Ironside?

If that even is your real name.

There wasn’t much light, but Atlantica often performed in the dark. She was singing, at least; she thought that’s what she was doing, but it was like the beginning of a dream. The knowledge that there was a life before existed, the present was also clear, but it was difficult to find the threads between. Not that there was a black void – a clear cut off from her last memory to this one, more; there was a time before and there was now. Before and now. Before…

Before she had been Atlantica, before that someone else? So many somebody else’s that it was difficult to tell who was the originator. Who was she before being Atlantica?

Now, she was the Reaper Bride.

Oh to be so cruelly treated thus, she fell to her knees and sang a lament. Sang. So yes, she was singing. Ok, this was good. There was another young woman in front of her now, she had just killed her. Her eyelids fluttered somewhat, bad acting, she was supposed to be dead. Vivian Godred, the Reaper Bride and Plague Maiden, squeezed her throat a little. She wanted to be sure that the poison took effect, that it killed this young woman. When she was just twenty, Vivian had been married off to the Mad King Vernon Stallid. The fourth wife in a menagerie, Vivian swore to become the only one. To become the queen when she killed her husband, but that wasn’t until the next act.

“She’s really hamming it up.” The voice struck Vivian, no, Atlantica. She was Atlantica Ironside again, and now the clarity returned. She was on a stage, in Parlton Castle, performing in a play where she was supposed to embody the classic legend of the Reaper Bride. A favorite for the Festival of Spirits. Supposed to, she’d actually been Vivian for a moment, but now she was back to being plain old Atlantica.

The voice had come from the front row. Madam Carpenter sat next to Goodman Gray, the elderly couple nuzzled sickeningly. One laughed as the other whispered, they squeezed and poked and prodded one another. How!? How could they possibly be so cute with one another? She, Vivianlantica Ironsidred, had just killed her sister wife. The first of three murders, this was the lowest she’d sunk so far, and they… they had the nerve to joke about it? The anger of a bruised ego poisoned her song, bum note after bum note swelled throughout the grand cathedral where this performance was being staged, and they kept on laughing. They just. Kept. Laughing.

“You know, I don’t think that it's as bad as all that. After All, you’re only human.” Misty said, helping her with her hair.

“They didn’t get it.” Atlantica slumped in the chair, the first act had gone over like a lead cliche and there were still two more. “I spent hours alone in the dark, calling to the Spirit of Vivian Godred, asking her to bless me with a kernel of truth for my performance, and they laugh.”

“Oh pep up.” Misty was good at doing hair, she ran the brush through dexterously. “No one’s perfect.” A pause. A smile. A glance at the mirror. “Well, almost nobody.”

A banging at the door shook them both. “Splugg needs to tell Atlantica five minutes!” Yelled, presumably, Splugg from the other end. He was the stage manager, which was probably a mistake but no one sane would work in theatre.

“Alright, I heard you!” Bubbly Atlantica answered, not to be confused with seductive or bitchy Atlantica. Even of the three, she didn’t know which was the original and which was the performance. “We shall be out in, but a moment.”

Misty finished up her bun. “That’s the spirit. You’ve got two more brides to reap. Although if I might offer a little constructive criticism…” Misty walked back, holding open the door. “Try to stay in tune this time.”

Given how well the second act was going, it was a small mercy that the cultists attacked. Just after Atlantica had finished murdering her second competitor, the youngest bride played awkwardly by Ediniira, in what was supposed to be a duel of the wits and ambitions, but shaped up into a duel between the girl and the composer’s libretto; the cathedral doors swung open. Black cloaked figures came in, wearing an insignia made up of all chains and eyes, where they began to chant something. It seemed like the audience hadn’t noticed, so busy tittering and laughing as Ediniira continued to ham up her death throws. Each laugh caused her to convulse more unconvincingly, gripping at her throat and making loud ‘GACK’ sounds. Even the orchestra, led by that horrid little imp Egon, were paused as she gyrated.

Only Atlantica Ironside saw them enter, set out in a circle, and begin chanting. Casting a massive collective work of ritual magic. The sort which might take a minute to undergo, which could be stopped if the smallest thing was changed, but what could she do? Grafted to the spot by method acting, Atlantica was helpless. Her professionalism as an actress left her powerless to do anything – to call out and warn the crowd, to cast a spell of her own (a thing she absolutely knew how to do), or even take cover herself. No, there was nothing. She just stood there, paralyzed by the insurmountable weight of performance, and watched as the cultists cast their magic spell.

Edi saw it at the end, alas; too late to save anyone. Her final words were “Hey, what’re you doing!?” Before the cultists completed their fell work and a cloud of purple mist flooded the room. The people in the crowd were engulfed – Misty who’d been sitting with Astrid, Madam Carpenter with her paramour, the Queen: the real queen, Alane Godred, the ten generations descendent of Vivian, along with her little girl – Charlotte.

At last, alone on the stage, Atlantica found herself surrounded by the purple mists of magic. She too became enveloped in the curse, but at the very least she’d never broken character.

It was like the beginning of a dream, Atlantica found herself in a dark place, but she often performed in the dark. Was he just a snake, forever shedding its skin, or was she something different? An onion can only shed so many times before you reach its core, maybe she was more like that. A delicate flower surrounded with leaves which could be opaque or transparent. Layered over what exactly?

Maybe it was the Reaper Bride, after all; that’s who she was now. She was sure of it, if from nothing else but context clues. Vivian Godred, the Reaper Bride, the Plague Maiden, stood with the bottle of poison in her hand. In front of her, sitting on the couch, was Hentaur the Centaur… no, bad. Was Lilian Stallid, the eldest wife, the most loved, and therefore; the one that Atlantica had to kill first. She sang a lament, out loud, she sang of how she was conflicted – unsure whether to kill or spare poor Lilian. Afterall, she’d done no wrong other than to be the object of a Mad King’s desire.

Then again, she was also a terrible actor. Hentaur the Centaur approached her, clearly a half horse man in a dress and not a beautiful woman, and sang the counter refrain. Vivian didn’t have any ego about these sorts of things, but Atlantica was furious that he sang better than her. “It's like, not the point to, like, worry about these things and junk.” He crooned, like butter spread on honey. There’s that saying where someone has ‘two left feet,’ well Hentaur literally had two left feet and yet danced like an ice skater - except he was on solid ground and also part horse. It was beautiful, his dress flowed and fluttered around him like a purple mist. A familiar purple mist…

Atlantica was angry, she tipped the poison into a cup and handed it to him. Continuing her lament, but as she sang she was upstaged. Literally, as Hentaur was a lot taller than her and so visually stole focus, but also figuratively; as his voice reached lofty heights and sumptuous meadows. She couldn’t even keep up, she couldn’t even try as her voice fell to the wayside and he stole the show. Eventually, when he finally and mercifully drank the poison tea, his death was met with tears and soft whimpers from the crowd. The spotlight stayed on him for what seemed like hours and nobody cared about Atlantica Ironside or whoever.

“I really don’t see what the problem is.” Misty said, gently pulling her hair into an increasingly elaborate bun. It twisted and tilted, withered and lilted as those dexterous elven fingers tied the strands of impossibly scarlet red into rivers of thread. A tapestry grew from her scalp, and Atlantica was drawn into the texture. “I’m certain that one of your limited talents finds herself upstaged constantly.” Misty offered a porcelain smile, nothing warm or reassuring. It was the kind of expression flashed at a waitress when they shred too much cheese on your Mafaldine Recette.

“Do you really think so?” Atlantica flushed, placing a hand gracefully on one cheek. Her face a portrait of shock. Was this also acting? “I must confess, Misty, I don’t feel that it happens all that frequently.”

“With how you sing?” She laughed, an unfriendly sort of laugh which would be more at home in a haunted house than a friendly home. “Please, Atlantica, this must be constant for you.”

“Please, don’t say such things.” The elf’s fingers twirled and twisted, like a spider weaving its web in blood, the bun grew bigger – more towering and complex like the labyrinth which was Atlantica’s mind. Was there a way out? Mommy issues, why does it always come back to mommy issues with you? “It is ever so hurtful.”

A knock on the door woke her up, she was expecting it. She was expecting the knock on the door because Splugg, the stage manager, was destined to come and give her warning of the next act starting, but she was also expecting it in a prescient sort of way. She knew that it would come again because it had come before. Like Déjà vu, but in reverse; where you get the feeling that this will happen again. “Splugg was sent to say five minutes.” The scratchy little goblin called.

The cathedral at Parlton Castle was beautiful, easily the nicest house that Atlantica had sung in before. The wings alone stretched beyond the stage fifty feet in either direction, an elaborate array of ropes and pulleys suspended set pieces and curtains above kept in place by the fly master. She was Astrid Saturnis who’d “Been given this job ‘cause space is up and I guess that means I’m an expert in verticality? Shit man, I don’t know why that old bat does stuff.” And now sat disinterestedly by the rigging.

Usually, Atlantica would ignore stagehands. It was an unwritten rule that they and talent didn’t commingle, but Atlantica always wished to break that expectation. This time, the first time she’d done this, but it also had that horrible sense of before déjà vu, Atlantica said something. “Astrid Saturnis, was it? I do not believe we’ve taken the time to become acquainted.”

“And you pick now?” She scoffed, but she closed her book as well. Something about astrology with her own name written on the cover. What a person. “Shit, I’ve got time. You need something?”

“Only that…” She thought for a moment. “It felt the right thing to do, to say hello.”

“Well, hi. Ya freaking weirdo.” Astrid turned back to her book, and Atlantica turned to her stage. Closing her eyes, focusing, she opened them again as Vivian Godred. The Reaper Bride. This time on stage was the second wife she had to kill, and so began their elegant performance. Played by Ediniira, and therefore, played half baked; Eloise Stallid came off as awkward and spunky, though she was considered the sage of the wives. Just as she became overcome with frustration, Atlantica saw the doors open.

From her position on the stage, by this point centre stage where she would have to hold a single, glorious note – her moment of pride and glory before the death of Ediniira (sorry, Eloise) – Atlantica was the only one who could see the cultists walk in through the back door. The massive cathedral was guarded by two Lamalon Knights – Sir Gemini and Dame Pisces. In theory, the greatest warriors in the land, but they were silently dispatched before the ritual could begin. Then again, a Lamalon Knight had been the one to train Clarice Von Malbrecht, and we all knew how well that one turned out, so maybe their reputation was just that.

Regardless, Atlantica found herself in a pickle. A bizarre situation totally unlike any she’d ever been in before. Standing centre stage, all the lights on her; she was the focus of attention. Everyone wanted nothing more than to hear these last couple notes, see this final facial expression – regret, horror, power. They needed this, but at the same time (in a situation that Atlantica was totally sure had never happened to her before) she was the only one able to see the cultists act. They were performing a ritual, one which could be stopped by anyone in the audience if they were warned, but the only person who could raise said alarm was held in that special kind of magic the stage casts on an actor. She was powerless to act, compelled to see fate unfold as the purple fog rose from the middle of their circle and lifted up. Engulfing the crowd, and then finally; Atlantica. She got out her finished note as she breathed in the violet cloud and fell from her position. To the ground.

“You doing alright?” Astrid seemed shaken. Like she’d just seen a ghost which, while not uncommon in Lamalon, would still be a little special. Kind of like how seeing a rainbow is for an adult.

Atlantica shook her head, she was about to go on stage. This was the first act, the beginning of the show. Her chance to set the stage (literally) with whatever tone she wanted. Why did she feel so sad? Not scared, the kind of giddy fear who’s cousin, excitement, alights on an actor’s shoulder just before they go on. This was a hollow sort of sadness; like that dark confusion you feel when you drop a favourite cup. For a moment, this thing that you’d gotten so used to having was there, and then it was not. Not a deep depression, the sort brought through mental illness or personal tragedy. It was the small kind of sad that forces one to believe that what just happened could not have happened, and yet as you stare at those tiny fragments of ceramic on the tile you accept a new reality where this microscopic source of joy is no more. That was how Atlantica felt as she looked out across the unlit stage. “To be perfectly honest, Astrid, I don’t quite know how I’m feeling.”

“Right, um, I didn’t give you my name. Did you… did you fucking guess that?”

She didn’t respond, she just went on stage and poisoned Hentaur the Centaur. It was the first time. It was the hundredth time. How many times had they done this performance, and how many times would they repeat the same steps of a different dance. Though Atlantica had the memory of Hentaur upstaging her, this time it was different. He was not competition, he was perfection. Every time she sang, she croaked. Every time she spoke the words were muffled and slurred.

“I do declare, that is some of the worst acting I’ve seen in my gosh darn life.” She heard Goodman say from the front row.

“Oh hush.” Madam Carpenter hushed him. “It’s better than usual.”

Croak. Another note flopped like a fish out of water, and this was better than usual. St Cuthbert, how bad was Atlantica Ironside?

Her face was a reflection of tears as Misty tied her hair around her neck like a noose. “Don’t feel bad, darling, afterall; you’re only human.” Atlantica’s makeup had run from the tears, but the ghoulish gallows Misty constructed around her neck drew focus.

“I… I’m not though.” Atlantica wasn’t sure anymore. “I was born in the Floatilla, I’m a triton.”

“If you’re a triton, dear, and take this from a legendary adventurer who’s seen much of the world, then you would be green.”

“I… I’m different.” Atlantica pleaded, she was sure she was just different from the other merfolk. “I grow my tail when I get wet.”

Misty pursed her lips. “Of course you do.”

There was a knock on the door, but this time Splugg actually came in. He was wearing the Reaper Bride’s dress and make up. “Splugg came to say you suck at singing, fish lady, so Splugg take over.”

“But… you can’t sing. Can you?” Atlantica asked, though her voice trembled with the vibrato that deserted her moments before.

In response, Splugg opened his lips and out poured the most haunting siren song ever to grace Atlantica’s lips. Even Misty, implacable, shuddered. A single tear touched her frozen cheek before she brushed it away. “Splugg can sing.” He said, confidently.

“Right. Of course. Splugg can sing.”

Atlantica watched from the wings as Splugg took the stage for the second act. He was beautiful, his dress flowed like a river of blood and his voice raised to the rafters of that glorious cathedral. From the front row she could hear Goodman’s voice again; “Now that is a singer. Acting the likes of which I ain’t seen in my lifetime. Brings a tear to my eye, honeybun, it brings a gosh darn tear to my gosh darn eye.” He said as a gosh darn tear was brought to his gosh darn eye.

Atlantica could feel as Astrid wrapped the rope around her neck. Careful to rebalance the weight on the arbor for the hanging, she looked over her shoulder at Atlantica. “You knew this was coming.”

Nodding, Atlantica looked back. The noose around her neck was loose, so slack as to be easily slipped but she knew that this was her fate. There was only one destiny for a bad actor. She’d died on stage, and so now must die in real life. “I only ask that you make it quick.”

Holding the rope, Astrid shook her head in disappointment. “You’re really nothing without your voice, without your music. It’s the only thing that makes you you, and if someone took it away they take your soul. You’d really rather die than face yourself?” She paused. “Last call, Ironside.”

The thought caught in her throat, or was that the noose? She stood there, on the one side her aspiring executioner and on the other the man who’d killed her. Splugg literally floated across the stage, carried by the weightlessness of his tune. Was there a world for Atlantica Ironside without music? If there was not, was there really an Atlantica Ironside at all or just a machine… a vessel through which some director’s ideas, some writer’s words, a composer’s notes was pushed through. She was an object, not a person, and then the scales shed from this snake’s skin and the true reptile within pulsed. There was a purpose, not for Atlantica Ironside. She, like all of the others, was an actor. A character who was played by the true person beneath. An enigma; but like all riddles there was an answer. Who was Atlantica Ironside? The answer; a character, to wit; the deeper question: “Who was playing Atlantica Ironside?”

Atlantica remembered. She tore the noose from her neck, ran out on stage, and punched Splugg in the throat. It was not necessary for her to punch Splugg in the throat, but she did it anyway because it made her feel good. Sure enough, Sir Gemini and Dame Pisces had already been brought low by the cultists in the back. They were preparing their spell, they were going to restart the cycle again.

The crowd roared with laughter. They were dying as Ediniira pretended to choke, as Splugg actually did choke, but most of all; they laughed at her. Bedraggled. Her hair a mess, her makeup a splat of regret; she looked pathetic. The orchestra played tunelessly on with the cadence set by rippling guffaws from the crowd. “What an unprofessional stunt!” Goodman called from the front row, but she didn’t care.

She kneed him in the face too as she ran to the back. Again, strictly speaking, Atlantica didn’t have to do that to stop the cultists, but it also seemed right. Now running down the aisle, the cultists looked up in alarm. During this critical moment in their spell, none of them could move or break concentration. As Atlantica had been slave to the magic of theatre, they were now imprisoned by the magic of actual factual literal magic. There was nothing they could do but chant.

The purple fog rose from the centre of their casting circle, like a violet reaper it hovered in the middle before rolling out. Rushing through the crowd, but Atlantica didn’t flinch. She sprinted forward, faster and faster. The thickening smoke was rapidly obscuring them – the cultists and their spell, but she locked eyes on it. She would not lose them. She would not relive this, not again.

“Would you like another story, Gavin?” The woman asked. “It is getting close to your bedtime, but I can read another.”

The little boy, apparently named Gavin, looked up at his mother. Unlike her, he had purple skin and silver hair. The pointed ears of an elf sat on either side of his head (they were attached to him, like ears usually are), but this feature was absent his mother also. This was a small cabin in the middle of nowhere, probably the middle of nowhere Lamalon from the accents. Atlantica wondered to herself why this, of all things, was at the heart of the fog. “Please, tell me about a hero!” He perked up in bed.

“A hero, you say?” His mother offered a rye smile. “What sort of hero?”

“Tell me about papa!”

“Oh, Gavin, you don’t want to hear about him.” She thumbed through the story book. “What about Farrowind? He was a great hero who really lived ten thousand years ago.”

“But you always tell me stories about Farrowind. I want to hear about papa.”

“Now Gavin, we’ve talked about this.”

“Was he really a hero?”

“Well, yes.” She looked at her son’s violet skin and silver hair. “In a way, but there was, as with all true stories, a lot more to it than that.”

“Please tell me.”

She shook her head. To Atlantica it was obvious that the window she looked through was empty – a moon lived alone in that vacant sky, but seemingly no one was thee wiser. Lost in thought for a moment the woman regarded her son before saying: “Would you like another story, Gavin? It is getting close to your bedtime, but I can read another.”

The conversation repeated. It went by over and over again, seamlessly. The little boy was content to repeat the same words, demanding some kind of change, just as his mother seemed only willing to tell stories of fiction. Whatever truth was behind this little moment was lost to both, Gavin never heard the truth. His mother never told him.

Atlantica realized that this was not the only thing in the mist. It was thinner now, she could see through to lights further down the way, and so she moved on. Walking away from this bedside story she found herself approaching gas lights. The kind they had far up north in Trost. Sure enough, the wintery bite of cold air coupled with that acrid burning smell realized the local.

The mist parted on another scene. Naked in the snow, Goodman Gray looked up at another man in a well-tailored suit. “You villain, Briggs Brighton of the Varngron Brightons. I’ll have you for this. I will buy and sell you a hundred times just for this.” His voice quavered, more so than usual. It was shaking from the cold, but also from the heat of his anger.

Briggs Brighton of the Varngron Brightons was Goodman’s opposite in every conceivable way. Young, handsome, slender (not one of the things which made him handsome, for the record; he was just very good looking); Briggs wore clothing and stood upright. He smiled a condescending sort of smile as he played with what looked like a silk thong – banana hammock fashioned for the discerning gentleman. “Now I say, I say, I say, you done been played. I took you for all of your money, every little thing that you had. I even took you for your silk underpants, if it were worth anything I’d have the skin of your back, and do you know why? Why I took all of the everything that you ever owned.”

Those little beady black eyes shimmered like coal in a fire as Goodman looked up at him. “Mark my words, Briggs Brighton of the Varngron Brightons, I will have my revenge.”

Seeming to not hear him, he playfully stretched the already ample elastic. “Because I’m better than you. My daddy’s a senior executive for Trost, my mommy’s a junior accountant for Aeon, and I’m the present and future holder of all the shares in your little corporation. You’re a worm, Goodman. I say, I say; you ain’t nothin’ but a hound. A dog at my feet. Beg for scraps, you little dog.” He flashed the silk thong. It was so little fabric, but even so; was clearly made of the finest imports of Cefeng. This, alone, was worth the same as a mansion in Lamalon. “Beg for your panties, you little dog.”

“Never.” Goodman’s skin was red from the cold, he’d been lying naked in the ice for some time which left him looking raw, but no matter what; it did little to shake that determination. Though weak from the cold, he crawled to his feet. “You take my business, you take my home, you take my clothes – you take my silk finery for gosh darn’s sake, but there is one thing.” He stood, his totally circular body rippled in the icy wind like a stormy sea of milky bottle tan. “You cannot take my pride, Briggs Brighton of the Vargron Brightons, and because of that.” He gripped the man by his belt, if he were taller he would’ve probably gone for the lapel but it had the same effect. “Because of that I shall rise from the ashes. I will have my revenge, honeybuns.”

Briggs Brighton of the Vargron Brightons laughed, but it wasn’t a confident sound. He shoved the silk thong into his pocket and turned tail.

“It didn’t really go like this.” Goodman said, almost a whisper. After a moment, Atlantica realized that he was addressing her. “In real life I did beg for my silken under things, but instead he made me kiss his boots and left. I cried in the snow for a long while, I’m a grown man I can admit that, but when I was done I found my anger… I ‘spose this is how the man I am now would respond.” He looked over to her. “Now do you have any idea what in the Sam Hill is goin’ on?”

The pair had found Goodman a blanket, but now they realized it was all a dream the cold wasn’t as cutting. Still, for dignities sake Goodman covered himself. They sat in an imaginary bar, drinking fictional beers (Atlantica had a fallacious appletini), and pooled their shared knowledge. “The last thing I recall, at least; I believe that I recall it, was getting ready for the performance on the Festival of Spirits.”

“That tracks.” Goodman concurred. He was never a man to forget a business arrangement, no matter the sorceries employed. “I am not a man to forget a business arrangement, no matter the sorceries employed. Honeybuns owed the queen a favor, so we agreed to put on a show for ‘em. I remember distinctly that they paid us…” Seeming to realize that he may have lied about this number to Atlantica before, he then lied rather transparently. “Well, I forget the exact sum, but I remember getting it.”

“So we really are in Lamalon.” Atlantica agreed. She had zero interest in the money at this point, though made a mental note to readdress it later and, perhaps, form some sort of union. “It is the Festival of Spirits, do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“I can’t even parse what this is, let alone who or why.” He sipped the pretend beer and imagined it was making him a little buzzed. It wasn’t. Goodman had made the mistake of imagining a Trost brew, which were always watered down to maximize profits. “Darn these domestic products, look; you said that you saw other dreams than this one?”

“A little boy, yes. Though there were others in the smoke.”

“You are not about to suggest that we explore an unknowable expanse of purple mist and people’s memories in the vain hope of finding our way out, are you?”

The pair began exploring the unknowable expanse of purple mist and people’s memories in the vain hope of finding a way out. While Goodman’s memory of Urban Breach seemed to expand as far as they wanted it to, the moment they decided to look for an exit the mist seemed to appear. From there, it was just a fog with islands of light. Choosing the closest one, the couple approached.

Distance in an unknowable space is a funny thing. The more Atlantica walked and Goodman waddled, the further the light seemed to get. It was like a little light on a wave, as the tide drew back it would be further, then closer. “Shh, shh… ya hear that?” Goodman asked.

Atlantica had not heard that, but now she was given to the activity of listening she picked up on the soft sounds of footsteps. “I do indeed.” She agreed, looking around to see if she could identify the source of the sound.

“I told you it was this way!”

“Shut up Damaron.” A woman’s voice. In the distance, Atlantica could make out two figures emerging from the fog. “There’s someone up ahead.”

“Huh?” Emerging from the fog was Sir Gemini. “Damn, the singer.”

“Hello, I am Atlantica Ironside, it is a pleasure to make your –” Before she could finish that sentence, Dame Pisces had drawn her sword and leveled it at Atlantica’s throat. “Oh, um. I’m sorry, but you have me at something of a disadvantage.”

“Shut the fuck up, I know what you are!”

“A… triton and songstress?” She tried.

“A bard.” Dame Pisces spat the word, like you might the name of a sexually transmitted disease. “You get up to sing, then this bullshit happens. I know what you guys do, musical magic to get into people’s heads. Let us out or I will fuck up your day.”

“Vo, please.” Sir Gemini put a hand on his comrade’s shoulder.

“Don’t call me Vo while we’re working, Damaran.” Her sword hand slackened a little. Effortlessly, Atlantica slipped her coat and took a step back – safe from sword reach.

“Then don’t call me Damaran, Dame Pisces. I’m a Knight of Lamalon too, stop acting like I’m a kid.”

“You are a kid, kid.”

“Is it just me, or do they fight like brother and sister?” Goodman asked.

“We are.” They both said, before returning to bickering.

“Alright, well I have had quite enough of this. Are you going to continue to behave in this manner, or will you rise to the lofty titles you both purport to have been given.” Atlantica floated a couple feet off the ground. Note that this was not something she could do in the real world, but it seemed this dreamlike curse had some of the functions of lucid dreaming.

“Oh, I’ll rise to that fucking title.” Vo shook her head, before sheathing her sword. “If you were behind this, there’d be no way you’d be in the dream with us. Huh?”

“None, whatsoever.” Atlantica agreed, though she also had no idea if she could perform this sort of magic. A shared dream curse like this was an incredibly complex type of casting and, to her knowledge, Atlantica had only ever been able to perform elementary evocations and that subtle sort of mind control that didn’t set an ethicist's head’s spinning. She decided to keep that to herself. “Now, I think it would be in each of our best interests to identify what it is that we all know. Perhaps we can solve this mystery.”

“You first.” Vo crossed her arms. As a show of good faith, Atlantica relayed all that had happened. She was a little less flowery, and may have made selective edits so as to not make her seem like such an egotistical loser, but was overall honest in the important components. Goodman also shared his version of events, and (like Atlantica) downplayed him being naked, him licking a grown man’s shoes to get a hold of his stolen silk thong, and presumably other details that Atlantica had not seen, but the sum of it led Vo Varid to say: “Well, that’s the saddest Goddamn story I’ve ever heard. I’m Vo Varid, Dame Pisces. This is my little brother, Damaran: Sir Gemini.” Emphasis on little.

“We’re twins.” He huffed. “And we’re both Knights of Lamalon.” Atlantica knew the significance of that claim. While there were many horse born warriors in Lamalon (it being a feudal society, knights in armor was a core part of their aesthetic), there were only ever forty-one Knights of Lamalon (Capital ‘K’. Technically, there was also a capital ‘L’, but Lamalon is a proper noun so would’ve been capitalized anyway. The word ‘of’ was not capitalized, but that was more because it was a conjunction than its lack of significance in this context.). Historically, the Knights of Lamalon went all the way back to Partlon Godred, father to Vivian, and now we’re full circle on exposition.

“The only thing I remember is you getting on stage, singing… then it was a nightmare.” Vo said, though refused to elaborate on what her nightmare was. “You’ll forgive me for not being all warm and fuzzy with you, but you need to earn our trust.”

“I dunno, Vo, she seems ok.”

“Will you, for once in your goddamn life, not try to undermine me! This woman could still be a witch who –”

“I’m not trying to undermine you, I just want a say.”

“From the moment we were fucking born, you’re always trying to take stuff away from me!”

“What are you even talking about?! How was ‘me being born’ undermining you?”

“I’m born, everything’s great. Mom and dad were all ‘our first born daughter, she is the pride and joy of our lives,’ and then suddenly; shit nosed brother comes along and you’re the one getting babied!”

“There’s… there’s no way you remember that.”

“That memory made me!”

“And we’re off to the races.” Goodman quickly stepped in, literally standing between siblings. “Listen, as much as I would like to be party to all of these endearing family pursuits, it does rather indicate a bigger problem at hand. Namely, if we’re in a dream world, what’s going on in the real world.” There was silence, merciful golden silence, between the twins as the pair considered.

“We were the only two tasked to defend the performance.” Damaran started.

“It was deemed low risk.” Vo continued.

“They could murder the queen, kidnap Charlotte…”

“Or something really bad.” Goodman agreed. “Like steal my wallet. Point is that this has to be a diversion. They want something, maybe something important, and we need to stop them from doing it.”

“I suppose you are right.” Atlantica nodded. “Whatever it is they want to do, and no matter who they may actually be, it must be the sort of thing which we would generally oppose – otherwise, why would they render us unconscious for it?”

Goodman gave her a flat look. “Exactly my point. Now, does anyone here know a darn thing ‘bout magic.”

The group shook their heads at different rates and intensities.

“Rats.” Goodman began to pace. Because there was no ground, he actually more hovered back and forth. “We need to find someone dreaming in here who’s versed in spellcraft and the arcane. If we wake them up, maybe they can dispel it. Someone like Egon, Gulliver, maybe Zora?”

“Though ideally not Egon, Gulliver, or Zora.” Atlantica put in helpfully. “I was quite partial to Hentaur.”

“I was not.” Goodman offered a humorless smile. “Beggars can’t be choosers, and so; we’ll just have to see who we come across.”

“Agreed.” Vo Varid agreed. Scanning the distance, it was a little sea of white dots. Each one potentially containing the tortured soul of one of their comrades, any one of which would be able to help them.

Sadly, they found Splugg. Even from a distance, it was pretty obviously his dream. The Song of Dasha wafted out from the bright light as they approached, “would you like to be evil…”

In the waking world, the spell had an almost narcotic effect. Like the exact moment you sip a hot toddy, before the after-taste kicks in. Entering the glow, the group saw Splugg. Well, they probably saw Splugg. He looked like most of the other goblins in his band of goblins, of which there were a few dozen. From his description they all recognized Tien Tarl Can Chen, however; who seemed to have cornered the group somewhere in the Cefeng Badlands and lured them with his enchanted song.

He didn’t seem to notice the interlopers as they entered the scene, and just continued to sing to his new goblin thralls. On each of their faces was a slack jawed, distant expression. Each face which, while different, were not easily recognizable to the part. “Hey, um… Atlantica… Do you know which one’s Splugg?” Goodman scratched his thinning scalp.

“I… um… I have perhaps not spent all that much time with the little ruffian.” She scanned one face, then another. That could be Splugg – nope, she had tits. Maybe that was Splugg? Nope, wrong eye colour. “I am having a rather difficult time, myself. What does Splugg look like again?”

“Well, he’s green.”

“Yes.” Most of the Goblins were green, and even those who were not could be described as greenish.

“He’s short.”

“Like most of them.” Read: all of them.

“And… gosh darn it, I don’t know if I can do this.” He turned back to the two Lamalon Knights. “Look, this one’s probably a write off.” Shaking his head with a puzzled sigh. “Prolly for the best, anyhow. It's not like Splugg was a font of arcane knowledge exactly.”

“We cannot leave him here!” Atlantica tried, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was pretty sure she’d rounded it down to three goblins, each swaying in slack jawed lockstep, but could not be certain who was the one she’d been traveling with for a few months now.

“While I agree wholeheartedly that we shouldn’t leave the little tyke to rot, I’m darned if I can think of how to help.”

Puzzling for a moment, Atlantica raised a finger to her lips. “There may be one way…” She looked up at the specter of Tien Tarl. He was a tiefling, part Rakshasa, but most importantly; he was like her. A bard. A user of magical music. That said, he was also a symbolic representation of a bard, but it was the only shot she had to throw. Atlantica closed her eyes and opened her lips.

Now reader; it has become important to discuss the details of magic once again. There are many different kinds of magic and to explain them all would be pointless, as from Atlantica’s point of view there were only two. Those which are known and those which are done. Magic like wizardry, warlockcraft, druidcraft and so on were all known magic. The sort where somebody at some stage had learned something, honed a craft over a lifetime, and was able to make magic happen through force of ability. The second kind, the kind that Atlantica did, was done magic. She didn’t fully understand how her magic worked, just that it was the product of her personally. She understood the magic in music, and could spin magic into notes.

Hearing the Song of Dasha, a devilwork of music magic she did not know why it worked, but she understood how it was put together. Adding her own bars to it, she was able to subtly off balance the melody. Working with the unseeing, unhearing caster she weaved into its words the counter spell. “Oh Splugg, oh Splugg, wherever you are. Your mind is sinking through pits of tar. Oh hold this rope inside my voice, free will or not it is your choice.”

“Yes.” One of the goblins (incidentally, not one of the three that Atlantica had earmarked) called out from the crowd. “Splugg is not a slave. Splugg. Is not. A slave! Splugg is a free being, with his own will. Splugg will undo fell magics, Splugg is Splugg!” And so Splugg, who was indeed Splugg, leapt up. Ax in hand, he slashed Tien Tarl down the middle – causing the man to splinter into glitter. “Who next wishes to taste the fell ax of Splugg, spell cutter!?” Asked Splugg, Spell Cutter.

“Ya know, I was pretty confident that was him.” Goodman said to no one in particular.

Turning on Atlantica, the little goblin (little by human standards, but for a goblin he was actually tall) brought up his ax and screamed. “Vile songstress, you use your dark magics to weave subtle fingers into Spluggs mind. You turn Splugg’s will against his own kith and kin, but now Splugg is free he shall free your head from its spindly little neck!”

“No, Splugg, it is I – Atlantica Ironside. Singer and bard, friend to all in the Imaginarium.”

“I have no memories of this woman.” Splugg spat, but he seemed to be calming down. “Unless… were you friends with the whip?”

“Me, friends with Clarice?” She put her finger to her lip, as though to consider this particularly queer notion. “What a particularly queer notion. I suppose there isn’t any reason why we shan’t be friends, other than that I do not know her especially well. Was that the answer you were seeking, Splugg?”

“Splugg will accept this for now with no further questions.” His green eyes narrowed. “No further questions at this time, songstress witch!” And with that, fell in line behind the songstress witch.

“This was a huge waste of time.” Vo Varid sighed, taking a few steps toward the edge of the forest. As she did, the trees thinned and gave way to that familiar purple haze they’d been walking through. “This little guy’s gonna be no help to us.”

“Splugg will be of help when it is of convenience to Splugg.” Splugg said, before hopping off of the little tree stump he’d been standing on and closing on the knight. “With what does metal woman need assistance?”

Metal woman rolled her eyes. “We’re trapped in a demon dream. Look, can someone else take up the ‘filling people in’ part of this. I have no interest in doing that.”

“A demon dream, cast by fell magics with the purpose of enslaving our minds and very bodies?” Splugg asked, with no level of the irony implied by his funny syntax.

“Uh, yeah.” Damaran seemed to have spotted the similarities, though it was dawning on all of them. “Do you remember how you overcame that guy?”

“The wicked enchanter.” Splugg corrected. “Yes. There is one doorway out of Splugg’s mind, and that door is carved in pain.”

“St Cuthbert.” Vo rolled her eyes again. “So you’re saying we gotta hurt ourselves?”

Splugg nodded solemnly. Raising his ax, he offered it to her. “Be wary of killing Splugg.”

“You… you want me to hit you with this.”

“Splugg does not want you to hit him.” The goblin’s face became lined with intensity. “Splugg needs you to hurt him. Hurt Splugg! Hurt Splugg! Hurt –” Vo Varid slashed down on his foot, splitting it with the ax. Splugg let out an ear splitting scream. So loud, so potent it rippled through the fog.

That worked, as the fog slowly writhed and shifted. Forming shapes, patterns. A particular, spiraling pattern. None present had ever seen it like before, but Goodman committed it to memory for future study. From the spiraling sigils of smoke came a voice, like the croak of a sick frog it laughed. “Clever. Clever! Of course, I knew you could do that, but to actually have the guts.”

“Who is that!?” Dame Pisces called out into the dark.

“It is working! Quick, hit Splugg again!”

“Don’t you dare.” The voice came back. All around them, it echoed from behind every darkness. Atlantica realized that she’d heard it before, actually; but for the life of her could not think when. It was like what would happen if you’d met a childhood friend decades later. Decay, age, and wilt had overtaken the tone, though it was nonetheless unmistakable. Who was this? “I’ve been playing easily with you for now. You wanna try doing this without any fucking arms?”

As if to compound the question, Splugg’s arms and legs were gone. Not cut off, not even severed, they simply ceased to exist. Where his shoulders would have been was now fine, clear skin. “Do you think you can intimidate Splugg?” He cried. “Splugg will just use his teeth!”

“No, wait.” Goodman stopped him with a gesture. “Y’all don’t think she could take those too?”

For a moment, the truncated Splugg looked like he was going to start biting himself anyway, but then his wormy body slackened. “Fine, Splugg is too proud of Splugg’s dental hygiene to risk them.”

“Good dog.” The voice echoed. “Now, you can keep wandering, but you aren’t gonna get out in time. I could make this easy, go back to your nightmares and it’ll all be over in a couple hours.”

“We refuse!” Atlantica spat with fire, calling out at the voice. That too familiar voice, so close to her she could feel the heat on her skin. “We shall find a way out of here and we shall stop you!”

“You don’t even know who I am.” The voice cooed. “Fine, ya know what; this doesn’t matter to me. I’ve laid down the rules. If you break them, you lose limb privileges.” The fog began to unravel, returning to a more natural state. “Duces.”

Though the mist had returned to its natural shape, Splugg’s limbs did not. He wiggled along on the ground like a child’s playdough model of himself. “It may have escaped your notice, but she actually gave us more than she bargained for.” Goodman cracked a smile. “And I, for one, could never turn up a good bargain.”

“No kidding.” Vo raised an eyebrow. “What you got cooking.”

“She said we couldn’t escape in time.”

“Meaning that escape is a possibility!” Atlantica finished. “Oh, Goodman, I could kiss you.”

“Uh, please don’t.” There was an awkward tension between the two, one which would only grow in the coming months eventually culminating in the most awkward game of bridge the Imaginarium would see in its history – a story for another time. “Anyway, there’s a way out. Just gotta find it.”

“Do you think she was being literal?” Damaran asked. “Maybe we couldn’t reach the exit because it was literally too far away.”

Atlantica turned, scanning the horizon she saw the many twinkling lights – some of whom, no doubt, belonged to the carnival, but a greater number were lords, nobles, visitors from distant courts. It would take hours to check them all, but if Damaran was right they wouldn’t have to. “Right.” Atlantica said, and so the group began walking. All except Splugg, who both no longer had legs and also refused to be carried. He wriggled along on his belly, more or less keeping pace with the group.

Countless souls had been trapped in the fog. Insanity and nothingness swelled around them, but the group chose not to be distracted by these bright lights. They passed one of a young silver haired woman sitting on the foot of her bed weeping. She stroked her belly with a look of disgust on her face. What was unmistakably a young Twig swept the floors of an Anburan Manor. Ediniira Skye wandered in the desert alone, screaming for help – crying out in confusion, but they didn’t have time to investigate these. As they walked through the fog it seemed to grow thinner, as though it was a manifestation of the shared dreamer’s sleeping minds. It seemed the chimera was somewhat aware of the movements, deliberately reforming itself to keep them from that far dot. Nothing so gauche or obvious as to actually move it, but other lights – more pressing ones seemed closer. Vaughn Ashford in a cathedral being repeatedly gutted and resurrected by a beautiful young woman. Ba’Tok pacing back and forth repeating the phrase “If something can be untrue, how can anything be trusted.” A little blue boy wandering alone and confused in a dark cave… All had to be ignored, no matter how pressing they may be to the Imaginarium. No matter how interesting, the group continued with single minded dedication until they reached it.

The observatory was almost exactly as it was in real life. A thick dark canvas tent styled like a big top with seats wrapped around the side. Slack jawed, dull witted zombies reclined back in their seats and in the epicentre was Astrid Saturnis – leaned up against her desk reading a book.

Atlantica scratched her head. “It doesn’t… seem especially nightmarish?”

“Oh, god, no.” Astrid said, in a bored tone flipping to the next page. “This is terrible for me.”

Joining her on stage, Atlantica looked around at the crowd. Try as she might, she could not identify what was so bad about them. They looked like regular people trying to enjoy a show. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“I told them there’s a secret star they need to find before we continue the show.” Astrid leaned in, offering a cocked smile. “But there isn’t one.” She looked back at her book. “I can’t even read this, because it’s a dream, but at least it feels like I’m doing something.”

“Wait you… hold on, how do you know this is a dream?”

“I get that we don’t super know each other real well, so I’ll cut you some slack on this one, but Atlantica… under no circumstances would I ever let a show get this far.” She shruged. “Butts in seats, must be a dream.” Astrid looked at her wrist, that kind of pantomime of checking a watch – she was not wearing one, though did have an elaborate set of tattoos which seemed to animate. Atlantica was unsure if she was actually able to tell time this way, or if it was just a bit. “These large scale castings never last too long. Figure we’ve got forty-five minutes or so till we wake up. Hopefully the show’s finished by then as well, though judging from your presence here I’m beginning to think that’s not likely.”

“No…” Atlantica thought. Could they do the show without her? No, silly.

“Listen here, you fuck.” Vo Varid closed on her. “We’ve been walking through smoke for over an hour looking for you. If you don’t help us out here I’ll gut you like a fish.”

“Why?”

“W-why?”

“Big magic like this means a big caster, if they put you here they’re probably able to walk up and down your ass. Why would I want to fight that?”

“Because… it’s the honourable thing to do?” Damaran asked, though was met with a shrug. “Please, we’re Knights of Lamalon. We need to protect the queen, while we’re in here that monster could be doing St Cuthbert knows what to her. We came all this way…”

“Yeah about that…” Astrid didn’t look up from her book. “You think it might be a double bluff? Put the most useless light far away so you waste all your time going there.”

“But you are an enchanter.”

“Eh…” Astrid gave her seemingly magic tattoos a cursory glance. “Even if I could help, you’re asking me to act against my own self-interest. Magical sleep is basically a paid break for me, on the flip; you’re asking me to do work. Work which ends my break early, puts me up against a much more powerful caster, and then I’ll have to sit through the rest of that play. No offense.”

“None taken.”

Thinking for a moment, Goodman’s lips spread into a wide smile. This was his bargaining smile, which always seemed warmer than his genuine one. Unlike Astrid, Atlantica wasn’t equipped to tell the difference, and so believed the following was said with absolute sincerity. “Astrid, sugar, you’re missing one thing.” He chuckled. “It’s dinner theatre.”

A few minutes later, Astrid had finished inscribing the arcane ritual needed to break the spell. “So it’s like this. We’re in a shared dream, meaning there’s a central dreamer. If we kill them, we all wake up early. I don’t know what the difference of waking up half an hour early would do, but –”

“Think of those dinner rolls, getting cold on the table.” Goodman knew how to manipulate employees.

“They were stale.” Astrid activated her spell circle, and from it arose a mote of light. Gently hovering in space for a moment, it eventually lifted up and then settled on Vo Varid’s shoulder.

“What?” Damaran leapt back from his sister, his eyes panicked.

“Well, shit.” Vo’s face cracked into a literally inhuman smile. Her jaws unhinging like that of a snake, with the excess skin simply drawing back to expose fangs. That was what she’d heard, Atlantica realized. The voice from the mist sounded like Vo… if she was dying. “You figured it out.”

“Splugg will end you, fell wizard!” Splugg drew his ax and sprinted (read: Splugg gripped his ax between his teeth and wriggled kinda fast) – but the blow was deflected when Sir Gemini leapt between the goblin and his sister.

“No!” He cried. “She’s my sister! You can’t –”

“Splugg can and Splugg will!”

Damaran didn’t back down, sparks flew from his blade as it grinded against Spluggs ax.

Despite her callous aura, Astrid looked almost sympathetic as she approached the knight. “You didn’t have a nightmare, huh?”

“W-what?”

“You didn’t have a nightmare, you just found yourself with your sister… wandering in the fog.” Damaran didn’t answer, but his expression, the way his sword slipped a little against the locked ax, responded for him. “You don’t get a nightmare now, but… you’re gonna wake up in one.” Astrid’s eyes cast toward the creature pretending to be Vo Varid. By this point, her face had split almost entirely around the mouth – revealing a circle of razor teeth like shards of glass. Her eyes glowed a misty purple.

“You could kill me, Damaran. You could, but ya know what happens when I die right?”

His sword sunk, kissing the ground. Splugg took the opportunity to sprint forward, a battle cry escaped his gritted teeth, but Vo batted him aside with her own sword. The goblin clattered through the crowd of faux onlookers. Turning to face the creature which had puppeteered his sister’s soul, Sir Gemini could not raise his sword. “Don’t make me do it.”

“I’m not making you do anything.”

Suddenly, her eyes widened. Looking down, she saw a hole in her chest. Blood began to well out, and the look of surprise which painted her face was quickly overtaken by amusement. Following the trajectory of the projectile to Goodman’s pointed arm, wand in hand, he answered. “Nor am I. This is just how I get to my honey bun the fastest.”

“I can’t…” She coughed up blood. “I can’t believe that’s the last thing I ever heard.”

Her body fell. Damaran ran and caught her. Her face was more human, the light from her eyes dim, all that was reflected in those glassy orbs was Sir Gemini. He did his best not to cry, but reader; his best wasn’t very good.

The tent began to unfold. Literally, as though someone on the outside was painstakingly disassembling it, packing it into bags, and taking it away. The purple mist began to disperse. Far away at first, but closer and closer the lights began blinking out. Shadows fell around them until Atlantica stood alone in the darkness with Astrid, Goodman, and Splugg.

“Well, guess this is it.” Astrid said.

“Good riddance.” Goodman added.

“Splugg did not need his arms, Splugg will slay all those who wield dark magics to twist and finger the minds of those innocent. Splugg will take revenge, Splugg will –” Splugg continued in this pattern for some time.

Uncharacteristically, Atlantica didn’t have anything to say.

She was standing on stage. Like the middle of a dream, Atlantica wasn’t sure if she could trace a line of continuity between her last memory – that of her standing in the darkness with those friends – and the now. Now, she was Atlantica Ironside, in character as Vivian Godred. She was standing in the grand cathedral hall at Parlton castle, she was about to perform the second killing, but had fallen silent. Everyone in the auditorium were silent together, looking around in confusion.

Then a scream. Damaran on his knees, cradling the corpse of his sister. She’d been run through, like in the dream, but here it seemed he held the sword. Her body was just inches away from the young princess, Charlotte Godred. Was that who this was all about?

Unsurprisingly, this event cast a depressing shadow over the remains of the Festival of Spirits celebration. If you have never been to a party punctuated by an unexpected death, then it may be difficult to picture the awkward tension which flopped over the reception like a cursed dream fog. Atlantica, for her part, tried like everyone to make awkward small talk. Like one of those improv games where you have to avoid talking about the elephant in the room, nobody wanted to comment on the weeping knight in the corner cradling his sister’s body.

It was all “This cheese is so good, is it local?” “I’ve heard Du Lac is marrying Heartswynd.” “Were you there for the last Festival?” No one wanted to talk to Damaran until, oddly, Misty approached him. Maybe she didn’t know, maybe she wasn’t self-aware enough not to; but she said something to Damaran.

Though Atlantica couldn’t hear, he was too far away, she saw him fall to his knees and wrap both arms around Misty’s waist crying. She didn’t look very comfortable, but she also didn’t try to leave. Looking back at her friend, Atlantica, Misty gave her one of those looks. One of those looks which seemed to say, though all appearances are to the contrary, that things would be alright in the end.