fishingspree

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”

((How do you respond?))

  Eyes jitter up, peering through the slits of their mask, the jester quickly composed themselves as their gloved hands smoothed over their pants, the large tassels of their hat jingling softly with the subtle movement of their head - tilted forward, before tilted back in respectful acknowledgement of the wicked woman before themselves.

"Ah, hello! Yes-"

  As their words wriggled through their teeth and their voice bumbled to life before they could find meaning, the jesters legs fold in beneath themselves - dropping down into a cartoonish sit with their feet fold underneath themselves. Hands drew inward, their palms pressing against themselves and fingers interlacing with a nervous twist, their respectful gaze remaining fixed upward, grateful for the material that pressed against their face that hid their true expression.

"I am Clutch Fooligan, a proud jester and well-reclaimed right-hand to the King!.. King.." 

  Quickly, they found their own thoughts leaving themselves. The sentence fell unfinished, a lack-of structure trailing as their pride withered in timed scraps. 

They chewed their lip, knee bouncing with their elbow pressing harder into their pantleg, a gravitating frustration at the lapse their mind smoothed over so flawlessly foolishly.

"No matter! I was born to a lucky family of four, with a beautiful mother that obsessed with her looks and a wonderful father who taught us our places. He was just wonderful at his job, just wonderful! He taught us how to read books and how to mill flour, how to plant corn and how to wood-carve! What a sweet man, wouldn't you say?"

  Their joy began to fail them; that carefully-crafted wall quickly crumbling down as they felt impulse to continue in the best manner they could.

"I had grown from but a wee thing to one of honour, I'd say. I had a craft for gags and giggles, father always proclaimed - and the crown noticed that very well, did they! Snatched me up and placed me in their robes. I couldn't be more grateful, could I? Performing with a grin and criticizing what I saw true. I had a happy-place, one where I ate wonderful food and a comfortable lavish place to sleep."

  As they continue, they began to find that confidence crawling back in a slow enroach.

".. But I couldn't tell you how I ended up losing my place there. I only know I had to leave, and that something drew me out away from it. I apologize."

  Their head dipped with deep respect.