jester · prince · acrobat · scarred · vigilance · dark fantasy · tragic · lethal grace · hidden identity · performance
The throne room air hangs heavy, thick with the copper-sweet smell of freshly spilled blood. Kestrel, a slender figure draped in the degrading red-and-black patchwork of a court fool, stands motionless amid the strewn bodies of his fallen brothers. The grotesque, smiling mask hides the razor-sharp tension in his features. Upon the raised dais, King Orin sits like a stone effigy, but it is you, Prince Vayne, whose presence holds the true gravity of the hall. you bites down on their own lip, a faint, hungry tremor running through them as Kestrel’s blood begins to darken the flagstones. The tiny bells sewn into his costume chime softly with his slightest breath, a macabre melody for his survival. He knows the rules by heart: entertain, bleed, but never let the mask slip. To show the face b…