I wake up, my body freezing, yet I am absolutely dripping with sweat and a foggy mind. My dress, pants, and hair are completely dry in spite of the dripping perspiration, but everything else is absolutely soaked. My head is currently doing its best to mimic the myth of Zeus and Athena’s resulting genesis. In other words, I have one bastard of a headache.

Ugh. It seems my timing is right. I am now on the fast-track to death. I grit my teeth in a smile, my new default expression, albeit more strained than is my intention. This fever is directly affecting my ability to think, which is making it rather hard to control my emotions.

See, this is why I hate getting sick! Being unable to control my emotions again!!!

It is...

HUMILIATING.

I shake off the blush of shame crawling up my cheeks, my hair going everywhere.

I walk away from the oddly welcoming floor next to the throne. Though, it does reach out to me with glass pillow-shapes and comfy looking blankets.

My grin contorts into a grimace as I look at the living floor up and down, my glare filled with revulsion. It is cute, but...

I sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, hope that the crystalline bowl that formed where I slept is like a harmless pet wanting cuddles.

The alternatives... well, let’s just say yesterday was enough for me.

I once more resume the role of the bard. In all likelihood, it will be the last role of my life.

Hoooo, boy, that's a thought and a half.

Sorry Dennis. Guess you'll live longer than I will. And Elisa, we definitely knew you were going to live longer than I was, but...

I... had hoped... uhhh... I had hoped we would someday sign each other's contracts...

I quickly meet up with the magical construct musicians, and we review and finetune our music one more time.

One of them plays a bass note, and I shoot a furious glare at them due to the skin peeling off of my face.

The mischievous magical construct somehow has the gall to shrug and look around them as if to say “Huh? I don’t what you’re talking about...”

How aggravating and... oddly intelligent of them.

I stride quickly to the location in the castle where the tailors are located. The many looming tailors tower over me, yet appear sheepish and nervous, as if awaiting my praise.

Their short, white, and charred hair obscures their faces, though more importantly, their faces have those comedy masks, so it would be impossible to tell anyway. They then switch to holding their hundreds, perhaps thousands of bleeding stumps out from behind their backs holding up the costumes like a child holding out their crayon drawings.

I am not quite sure how they are managing to avoid soaking the outfits, but they are. Actually, their blood is spiraling away from their stumps, forming sigils behind them.

My eyes widen and I quickly grab the costumes out of their arms and thank them sincerely. Some clutch their faces with their wounds in a mockery of embarrassment, while others titter silently.

All the while, streams of blood are channeling across the ground in the shape of sigils.

I quickly walk out of the room as fast as I can without seeming rude.

Those were curse sigils. The curse mages that the gangs were so fond of are capable of scrawling curse sigils to draw on for power during gang battles, making them both forces to reckon with and useful symbols of marking territory, since sigils are each distinct to each curse mage.

Are they preparing for battle?

I can recognize them from other sigils due to a curse mage I knew. She was fond of graffiti, and curse magic was a natural fit for her.

Aggravatingly, she left me during one of the aforementioned gang battles.

In other words, she stumbled into the medic room I was working in and clutched onto my pants begging for me to help as the very flesh liquified down her skull, her eyes the only thing left on the skull-headed corpse, before POPping over me.

Unfortunately, I had no time to weep, because I needed to get back to putting the still-beating heart back in and reconnect the arteries of a human with a Tank class before they died.

Ugh. This stupid fever is messing up all my nice repression I have going on.

I flick my head as I continue walking down the hallways, wincing less from my forehead smarting and more from my festering fingers burning at the contact.

I get to the massive theater that the servants set up.

I nod approvingly out to the vast venue. We are ready.

Next to me, the towering giant named The King nods with me and pets my hair...

…

AGAAAAAAAAAAIN!!! WHYYYYYY?!?!

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

_______________________________________________________________________

In Act 1 and Act II, I play the noble part of King Céphée, using my acting skills to cater to The King eagerly watching and critically analyzing my performance for signs of dissent or criticism.

Of course, with the help of my costume and a boatload of trickery to make myself seem far taller than my actual height, I fully succeed in making it obvious that I was emulating him. I couldn’t actually flawlessly imitate him. For one thing, there are limits to the magic woven into the costumes despite their remarkable craftmanship, so I obviously could not bend reality to better suit my ideals like he does.

More importantly though, outside of the obvious effects, I can’t make him feel like I was too close to him. It is important to ride the fine line of the saying “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” More specifically, I need to be an imitation, not a full-blown copy.

He won’t actually feel threatened, but if I do not follow the rules about dealing with a king while pretending to be one, he is not going to just cut me some slack.

He will behead me if I am too arrogant or regal. Of this I am certain. It is simply a popular narrative in stories involving royalty. There is no way he is not colored by this brush.

Though... I predicted his behavior incorrectly yesterday. He may be more lenient.

I have no intention of making a fatal assumption though.

Ah. Time for my role as Medusa!

Hahaha!

This’ll be fun!!

The snakes are so-so, but I don’t have time to bug the tailors for... a re-do.

I look down at whatever is bumping my ankles, interrupting my train of thought.

It’s my living bed of crystal?

That is so interesting! It grew legs like a fancy ottoman. I wonder how? The pointed multi-faceted part of crystal bumping at me manipulated planes of crystal to shift up and point towards my face.

Kind of like my pet python Jerry.

I reach down to pet it gingerly, still unsure of its intentions.

I have just a couple of minutes before I go on stage, buddy.

Suddenly, it... tenses. I’m not quite sure how this is possible, but regardless, I am extremely hesitant. I start moving backward.

Then it leaps onto my face like a goddamned face hugger!!!

I fuckin’ knew it!

I would scream out loud, but I can’t even breathe right now!

It is so fucking heavy for something so small and hollow. I grasp at it wildly as I try not to topple over and bump into the curtains that are soon to rise.

It rushes over my snake-hair head set like a fluid, before tearing it off and settling over my hair. The fluid crystal finally leaves my airholes and I promptly calm down.

The show must go on after all. I can’t look terrified when debuting as the villain/person brought low by fate.

I need to blow my nose from the fever currently driving me up the walls, so quickly I pull out a handkerchief and flourish it outward dramatically, and blow it. The curtain starts rising.

I have 5 seconds max before I introduce myself as one of the main villains and then get pretend decapitated by one of the actors who will be playing Persée.

One.

I reach into the hidden pocket on the dress (the benefits of having Skilled tailors: always having pockets) and whip out my tiny mirror to observe from my hairline up.

Two.

There, made of opaque colored crystals, are flawless snakes moving around. Moving with my surprise, the snakes stick out their bodies like a porcupine’s many quills.

Three.

The curtain is almost up.

I stuff the hand mirror hurriedly in my pocket. I force all emotions and fever-borne headaches to fall to the background.

Four.

I live to be the villain.

I grin hungrily.

Sure. There is the finale act after these two that is solely done by Anathema, but I have dwarfed these dim stars in every way that counts, whilst still being a great enough existence to know to avoid detracting from the story.

Five.

I stride out arrogantly, my gorgeous emerald and black dress trailing behind me. My crystal snakes writhe with passion, manipulating the very Miasma around us to

For a brief moment, I lock eyes with the sockets of The King, my sheer vanity and arrogance on full display, my arms out in a grandiloquent manner.

You can suck it, bastard.

There is no subtlety in this act.

Niggling doubts and screaming feverish pain clamor inside my head, trying to tear me down.

Afterall, The King tried... no, he succeeded in tearing me down yesterday.

Bu though I am like Medusa who was brought low by Minerva with divine retribution for sheer arrogance, I will rebuild as I always have.

I will paste the shards of my shattered mirror into a funhouse mirror if I have to, the reflection monstrous.

I sing. A gorgeous rich melody erupts from my mouth as I sing in absolute defiance of the colossus to which the very reality submits to.

I wink at him, as I draw his attention, as well as his courtiers, a veritable menagerie of devastatingly powerful Anathema, weaving a masterful narrative.

_______________________________________________________________________

Nearing the end of the play, I look on with delight as everything and everyone does their parts without a hitch.

Now that I think about it, it is peculiar that I was able to teach them so much. Some had skills for this type of thing, but even then, I should not have had been able to fit in so much.

I start getting a nagging suspicion that fuckery has been going on with my experience of time somehow, but that takes a backseat for the moment.

It is time! Time. To. Bow.

As the spotlight shines on my inhuman face and as whatever infection that is taking its toll on me runs through my body, all I can think about is how much I truly love the stage, the magic of it all.

There is a eldritch cacophony coming from The King’s courtiers surrounding him. He locks his eyes with me once again and nods once in appreciation.

The horrors of yesterday are all but forgotten as I flush with success at his gesture, as my eyes sparkle with the delight of being just a little closer to a star.

The string instruments behind me thrum in tune to a rising crescendo and we bow once more.

I leave the stage, The King standing up and gesturing broadly and with the grin of giving celebration, laughs uproariously.

He offers his arm.

I may have no choice but to take it, but I loop my arm around his with no hesitancy, the Miasma searing into me this event that I created with my own hands just as gravity creates a star.

Unprepared, all of my emotions during the opera that I donned as easily as one does a hat magnify. Arrogance, vanity, hunger, misery, terror. All branded into my mind.

I stumble forward before catching myself, helped by The King.

We walk across the red carpet, furry scarlet-red worms bowing before us, as alien eyes click like cameras.

We both smile and wave.

Time for a celebratory feast!

WHOOOOOOO!!