A forceful, violent, slam destroyed the serenity of the red hued night; something generally cherished by the unfortunate denizens of Debatur. 

The abused door rattled in its frame, but quickly became silent as if out of fear of further mistreatment. 

Into the small, one room home, had stormed a short and stocky, wild dirty blond-haired woman. She rambled frantically to herself, swears thrown in intermittently beneath her breath. From a built-in rack on the wall, adjacent to the door, she snatched a well-worn green bag. 

“Damn it, all of it!” She seethed as she roughly pried the mouth of the bag open. “Everywhere. They’re everywhere. Watching me. Always were, since I arrived.” 

She seized up. The graveness of her situation cast down onto herself by her own words, a tremble was brought to her frame. She stared down into the empty darkness of the bag. 

Heavily, she inhaled. One hand throttled the bag and she marched over to the wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Messily she fumbled with a key tied to her belt, trying desperately to free it. Urgency led her to snap it free with a sharp yank and she knelt down and unlocked the chest, hoisting the lid open swiftly. 

There was one thing she was going to do before she left. 

Pants and shirts were tossed over shoulder. The articles of clothing landing haphazardly throughout the red moonlit room, either landing against the pale, blue stone walls, the inlet shelves, the desk, or chairs in the living area. 

More and more rapidly, things were tossed one after another when the desired item was not found until at last, the last shirt hit the wall beside the door. 

The chest lay empty. 

“Where-where is it? I left it here!” 

In a fit of rage, she flung the heavy chest into the solid rock wall. Bits of splintered wood dispersed in the air. Sounds of wood being compacted in on itself ruptured the air, resonated through the walls. The impact shattered one end. Its lid held on by only one hinge as it hung open like a dislocated jaw. The damage went completely ignored by the woman who’d turned to digging through the scattered clothing. 

Soon she began to tear the whole room apart. Even the bed was flipped up against the wall to search beneath it. Frantic panic left no room for any trace of uncertainty. She had to be completely certain she didn’t overlook anything. Only thing not done was tear the shelves down from the walls. 

Disarray was all around her as she stood at the center of it. A look of confusion plain as day on her features. 

“How-?” 

A bristle of pain caused her to recoil. Hand gripping her arm as she attempted to shake it off and regain composure. She raked her nails up and down the arm to forcibly soothe the irritation. 

As the scratching slowed her eyes darted around her overturned home. There was one window, just across from the bed, sporting a pair of wooden shutters. The lock was simple and old. Wouldn’t be hard to pick open. At least, she assumed so. Such technical things weren’t a strong suit. 

But the obvious was clear- 

“They took it.” She muttered. 

But why? 

A sudden knock at her door jolted her out of her thoughts. 

Most likely her neighbors, possibly even guards. She swore under her breath, contemplating whether or not to book it out the window. Her home was several floors up but she assumed she’d be fine by this phase. Not like she’d be sticking around for much longer. Especially with what they knew. She let the knocking continue. 

The time taken, she began to pluck up the mess of clothing piece by piece and shove it into the sac. While doing so she began think of alternatives for her plan. Shouldn’t be hard to remake what she lost. 

A metallic click came from behind her. 

Immediately she shot up and whipped around. There in the doorway was the confirmation of her conspiratorial suspicions. 

Dressed from head to toe in black and white was a jester. It was the uniform of the ones working under the court Jester: The Pentatrope. Specifically, the mute entertainers of the common folk. It was hard not to notice their presence. There seemed to be one on every block; silently entertaining, watching and listening. 

She didn’t bother questioning how: furious, she began to charge the invader. 

“Get the fu-” Her words cut off when a knife was produced and keenly aimed at her throat. The blade giving a beautiful sheen in the red moonlight. 

“Now, now, I know my entrance was rather rude, but I merely responded in kind to your lack of answer.” Chided the jester, taking a step into home. She was forced to take a step back. The voice was that of a man in a tone typical of those in the job, overly cheery to the point of mocking. Decidedly he sounded snide. 

He forced her back another step before shutting the door behind him. Despite the presence of bells on the attire, there was not a ring from them. Evidence of enchantment. An odd deviation from the uniform she noticed was the white mask's chin was pronounced, not conforming to the jawline. 

“Is it the smell or sight? Or, maybe it’s instinct?” He mused aloud. Step by step he continued to force her back. The difference in height caused him to hunched down somewhat. The jester leaned into this, making the gesture all the more forceful. 

“It’s a damned dagger.” 

“Fair.” The jester conceded, but almost in pace with a step suddenly lashes the dagger out, slicing open her forearm. “But, not the entire reason.” 

Reeling back, the short woman held her arm with a gasp of pain. The strike stung hot as a burn. Within the open lesion was mess of, bloody thick fur. The locks clumped together closely by the ichor. She squeezed it closed, more to hide what’d been exposed than to stop the bleeding. 

“Werewolf.” The Jester began, wiping the silver blade off with a black glove, “The only type seen outside of the Opal Woods, are the accursed type. Wild, predisposed to animalistic rampages.” 

“If you think I’ll go down easily...” 

“Be a poor werewolf if you did. But, rather than messy ourselves, open those ears and let’s talk about,” He produced a vile from behind himself, “this.” 

As he continued, he twirled it from between one finger to the next. The clear liquid inside sloshing from one end to the other. 

“Wolfsbane. If you're so willing to go against silver, I doubt this is for yourself.” 

The false sweetness slipped away from his voice. Leaving something, that sounded eerily familiar. This was enough to cause her pause. Before she could fully pin down what that was the jester continued. 

“How about you have a seat?” He’d grabbed one of the overturned wooden chairs and righted it. Leaning against it, arms crossed and rested atop the back. He jabbed his black gloved hand down at the seat. “Right, here.” 

She sat with a huff. The jester still leaning on the chair, she looked at him over her shoulder and stiffly questioned, “What do you want you loon?” 

“I have a proposition for you, Joan Heatherway.” The merry, taunting tone fell away completely to something that hauntedly resonated with her, said right into her ear. Enough that it startled her. She wanted to spring from her chair, but she stayed still not wanting to get stabbed. The jester leaned the side of his face into his right hand that still held the dagger. “Werewolves have immunity to the red plague. You’d be a very useful asset to me.” 

Just as she’d begun to wrap her mind around why the voice pulled at her memory; she was thrown off by the sudden shift. The jester had become very matter of fact. Business like. From her closness, she could see his eyes through the holes in the mask. Another oddity, all the other Pentatrope member’s masks were solid, no holes. Given one way visibility by way of enchantment. 

She saw two eye colors, one yellow, the other a pale blue. 

“Don’t speak of the dead, Joan.” 

The jester had noticed the recognition. A name caught in her throat, she held her tongue. Still given the confirmation, her eyes followed the jester as he moved back around to the front of her. Her olive-green eyes were alit with surprise and sudden elation. 

Barely containing herself, Joan asked, “What happened to you...” Her voice faded off at the recollection of what had separated them initially. “I thought you and your sister were killed by the wretches?” 

“That’s exactly what happened.” The mask was pulled of, revealing a pale white face. The pristine, unmarred, and smooth appearance gave the impression it wasn’t makeup, but that his countenance had been bleached completely. In contrast the purple lipstick, red dots at the corners of his lips, and blackened eyelids were clearly makeup. Hair a harvest gold, cut short but kept well. His expression was even and hollow as his words. 

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This person, even with the makeup, looked like the one Joan remembered. Even years older she could recognize traits but the demeanor couldn’t be more different. It left her with an uncanny, disjointed sense of recognition. One she didn’t know how to approach. So, she asked him, “Then, who are you?” 

He pondered this for but a moment. “An echo, trapped in a vessel. I am called, Thatch.” 

“The court jester.” Joan recognized. 

“Yes.” Thatch confirmed. He stepped forward and leaned down to Joan’s face. “Now, back to my point being here. I want you to join my trope. You recall your routine?” 

Joan averted her gaze. “It has been years...I would be beyond rusty.” 

The jester passively dismissed this, “Hn, that can be fixed with training. But that is not the main reason. As mentioned, prior, your werewolf blood will be useful.” He leaned in closer, just a breath away. “That said, do not think you are pivotal. My doctor can easily find use for werewolf blood.” 

“Not leaving much of a choice, are you?” Joan retorted stiffly, inwardly she was bristling. The chair she sat on was relatively in the middle of the floor, but she felt cornered. Regardless of what he called himself, she didn’t want to harm a friend. Thatch’s empty gaze told her he didn’t feel the same. Whether it be he kill her, or have her killed. 

“Your choices, to join or not.” Thatch affirmed. He tilted his head and added, “But, if you do join. I will grant you one thing.” 

Joan raised a brow. “And what’s that?” 

In turn, Thatch asked, “What do you want?” 

Her eyes went to the arm that held the vile of wolfsbane, currently tucked behind his back. If her theory about the Pentatrope was correct, and by the sound of the way Thatch was talking, her resolve strengthened. She turned her gaze back to the dead eyed jester. “I came here after someone. The one who turned me.” 

“The werewolf criminal Thranger?” Thatch assumed calmly. 

Surprised, Joan stared. “You know him?” 

“There is nothing that goes on in this fortress that I do not know of.” Thatch stated evenly. There was no hint of grand ego, he said it as fact. He looked off, recollecting a recent moment. “He’s a wild animal. Even though he made it into my fort, he restrained his animalistic, murderous tendency for not a week. He’s killed, sowed panic, and attempted to establish a pack in these walls. My trope easily drugged him and has him imprisoned. I made contact with the Opal Forest clan, but they merely sent word to do with him as seen fit.” 

A look of barely contained rage took over Joan’s gaze. There was a crunch as her hands gripped the chair’s edge in a vice. She wanted nothing more than to snatch him by the collar. Her voice trembled. “Give him to me.” 

Interest flickered in Thatch’s eyes. This was he wanted to see. Nearly nose to nose with her he looked directly into her eyes. “Tell me what you want do to him. Give me every detail. Let me hear your conviction to revenge. If you are to join my trope, I want to see what kind of dedication you are capable of. Don’t hold back. Let me hear all of it.” 

Memory. Violent memories, years since scored into her mind yet so vividly fresh. Lost in the husk of lands, long drained of life. Low on vital ingredients to sustain life. Preyed upon by the undead and desperation. Grievously misplaced trust, lead to bloodstained loss, accentuated to petrified screams. The ghosts of which ushered her response, 

“What do I want to do to him? I want to make him suffer just as I have. Make him feel the same agony that he inflicts on everything, everyone around him. Leave him helpless and vulnerable. I will tear his guts out with the teeth he has given me. Watch the pain, the fear, in his eyes fade out as his foul, rotten blood pools around him. Spit on his corpse before I set it ablaze. Watch every bit of him burn to ash his hair, skin, flesh and bone. Reduced to dust. After that, his remains can scatter to the Wastes for all I care. Be fitting.” 

Thatch didn’t reply. His eyes gazed at her with an unchanged evenness, unphased by her wrath. It felt like he was appraising the genuineness of her words, seeing if there was true desire in it. Each word’s strength and their weight judged. 

It insulted her as much as it unnerved her. He just stood there, staring into her eyes. Unmoving like he’d become a statue. The room felt smaller. Walls pulled inward. Trapped here with him. 

“Well?” Joan snapped, just attempting to jostle him from his stillness. “That good enough for you?” 

A hum, thoughtful and deliberately slow, letting her know he was deliberating with himself. He pulled back to his full height. Thatch wasn’t particularly tall, but her lacking height made her feel all the smaller. Her eyes darted to the silver dagger. He was lightly tapping the forefinger that held it. She couldn’t bring herself to move. She was reduced to prey-again. 

Minutes ticked by like hours. Slowly, steeped in silence, she began to feel a cold sweat creep over. 

In a smooth motion, Thatch slipped the bone white mask back on. Voice back to its mock, saccharine vibrancy, “It shall do.” 

Joan could manage no response. 

He beckoned her up with insistent flicks of his fingers while stepping back. It felt like a gulf had opened up between them. “Up, up. It’s time we get moving. Orientation, familiarization, and all that muss to get to. Gather your things. No longer will you stay here, but rather among peers.” 

Thatch’s arm waved flippantly from side to side. Demeanor so casual, more akin to asking someone to a friendly outing, rather than joining a shadow organization. With a showman’s flair, he flicked his arms outward, “Night is young and still so much to be done! So, hurry along now.” 

Joan stood.  

Briskly gathered up whatever was needed. 

She stood before Thatch.  

Now beside the door. 

Joan blinked a few times. Her packing had gone by in such a haze... 

“Mn, quick enough.” Thatch’s words refocused her on the present. He opened the door and stepped out into the red moonlight. White sections of his costume were stained red. 

Already heading towards the steps down he called back to her, “Pep to your step. I have other obligations to see to. Much, much more.” 

By the time Joan stepped out, he was already heading down the hand carved steps. She passed by other homes. Many with lights, either crystal or candle, on. As he said, the night was young. 

She’d heard once that it’d barely be midday in times before the red plague. 

Down the steps she followed, but stalled when the sight of Thatch talking to a couple of guards caught her eye. Either this was a ploy to catch her, or more hopefully one of her neighbors had simply told on her. 

Confusingly, the guards left. Seen off by a wave from Thatch. 

“What was that about...?” She asked carefully when she made it to the bottom of the stairs. While the jester kept moving dutifully to whatever their destination was. 

“Noise complaint. Tossing furniture into walls tends to do that. Don’t blame you for not knowing, it’s a lesser-known fact.” Thatch snarked as he rounded a corner. “I told them all was fine and they saw themselves off.”  

Joan was left puzzled. He was the court jester yes, and he controlled the Pentatrope but neither was he in his apparent purple getup or held sway of the guard. Least, as far as she could tell. What further, why was he headed this way? This way led straight into a wall. 

She stopped walking as the jester did at the wall where he purposefully touched a section of the stone. It sunk inwards and pulled out of sight, without making a sound. A secret entrance, of course. 

Thatch stood beside it and looked to her, expectantly. 

Joan looked from him to the cleanly cut out hole in the wall. It was pitch black inside: far from a welcoming or comforting sight. Not helped by the red light of the moon bleaching the opal-colored wall red. If she went in, there’d be no going back. She’d be used as a tool and not just against vampires, no not with a group like this. However, it’d also led to the bloody revenge she craved. 

She looked the at the leeringly masked jester directly in the eyes, before she walked forward.