Centre Square

[Mellie]

At the centre of the General District lies this attractive square surrounded by small shops and bistros. Park benches find themselves up against wrought-iron gates fencing in beautiful foliage, and a large statue finds itself in the centre of everything - a picture of all twelve of the deities together in their true forms, as opposed to their humanoid forms that most statues depict.

[maedene]

Jack skipped through the center square in the form of a small boy with round features and black hair. Today will be splendid he thought. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and there were plenty of minds to break. Jack stopped briefly to scan the minds of nearby people. There were a fairly large amount of people out on this fine day, no doubt enjoying the sun and blue sky. Hmm, lemme see, who should I liberate today? Jack felt a little disappointed, the people around him were afraid of trivial things like death and pain. Waaaaaaay too easy.

Jack skipped to the other side of the square, hoping to find someone worthy of his abilities. He was hungry, and fear was what he craved. Fear is what he always craves.

[Ichabod Afof]

Ichabod, having been banned from the Tavern after several messy situations, had been forced to find a new venue to perform in. The pubs and inns within other countries were too limited. He needed somewhere in the General District, a place that was easily – and cheaply – reached by anyone and everyone. A place with heavy traffic like the Tavern had. Logically, he chose the centre of all the hustle and bustle that filled this centre of the universe. The only problem with it is that his audience was no longer drunks (typically male) who were just tickled pink (or green as the case may have been) to hear what Ichabod had to say. Here his audience was children, mothers, women of all sorts and men whose speech was not as slurred and who’s gait was not hindered by alcohol. Here he had to be careful what kinds of stories he told. Change or be changed, he thought.

When Ichabod entered the area, the first thing that attracted his attention was the statue of the deities. Not the pictures of incredibly handsome human women. Instead it was them at their most basic, raw and unchanged form. Ichabod’s green eyes specifically sought out the form of Diassei, finding her quickly close to the bottom of the whole group. He reached out a cold hand and touched it to the still colder rock of the statue’s face, smiling as he did so. Despite the fact that no one else believed him, Ichabod’s single trip to the Underworld had allowed him sight into the truth of the deity. She was locked away. She had done something wrong. She was not pious and accepting of her given status. She was angry. If released, she was likely to create anarchy… Which would make an incredible story if he were to live through it. And if he released her, she would be very likely to allow him to live while she went on a rampage. The thoughts of such a story caused a stirring in his gut. He pulled his hand away, discovering his breathing had changed as he had been touching it. Smiling, cheeks pulling over the high bones in his cheeks, he turned and gazed out to his audience.

What he saw with his dangerously green eyes was not particularly pleasing when what he was used to were people practically begging him to scare them with his tales. What he saw was a woman with five rampant children all tugging on some piece of her, the woman looking tired; a few small boys playing games on the walk and some teenaged girls chatting as they walked by in short skirts (Ichabod took a longer look at these two, wondering if their skin tasted as soft and creamy as it looked); a couple of sweethearts sitting on benches with their hands intertwined… Most of it looked completely normal, there were a few odds and ends that were suspicious, but for the most part these people were normal. Not drunk, not in a severe state of gaiety. Just normal.

It took him a few moments, though he decided that the best strategy would be to start with one person and work his way out. The Square would not be full of people who wanted to hear his stories, but those people could leave for all he cared. Taking another sharp look around, his spotted a boy all on his own (one of the only people in such a situation). His features were rounded (in sharp contrast to Ichabod’s sharp and charming ones) and his hair was black, a colour that – when on a child – always had a way of making the owner of it look completely demonic. Well, it just might work.

Ichabod slunk to the boy, most paying no mind to him (there was one woman that he would definitely have to check on later, she seemed to have some bit of interest in him and he could definitely use a nice meal) as he quickly came to be standing next to the boy, hands clasped behind his back as he looked innocently down at the young male. “I must say, you look rather bored,” He commented in a seemingly aimless and (mostly) disinterested fashion, “I am no doctor, but I am quite sure that I could offer my assistance to one with such an ailment.”

[maedene]

Jack immediately stopped his child-like skipping. The voice that appeared next to him sounded so soothing, yet so sinister. Jack began probing the man’s mind for fears, something he could use to break this man to a husk of insanity. What he found, however, was a dark mind filled with stories. Some stories were creepy, some were crazy, all of them he loved. Could this man have the same vision he had? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t break this storyteller’s mind just yet.

“Ichabod.” Said Jack in a boyish voice. A twisted smile formed on his face, but quickly stowed it as to not betray his intentions just yet. He wanted to befriend this man. “Ichabod Afof. Do you wish to cure my boredom by telling me a story?” Jack turned to face the bard, putting a disarming smile on his face. “Oh, oh, oh, could it be a scary story? Puh-leeeeese?”

Some people Afraid of scary stories, especially late at night. Jack loved scary stories, but could never tell them in a truly brilliant matter. However, this man in front of him, this Ichabod, could. Jack’s mind swirled with plans of gaining an ally to liberate this world of sanity and order, and getting some amazing entertainment along the way. Hopefully Ichabod doesn’t try to kill him, what would be the fun in that?

While the Fates aligned to allow these two to meet, the sane masses passed by unawares. Soon they will be freed from their shackles. Their silver shackles of sanity.

[Ichabod Afof]

Ichabod felt a slight uncomfortable ease with this child. Something was very wrong with the way the kid looked and spoke, and yet Ichabod found it incredibly simple to gauge what kind of child it was. At the same time, he had small wonderings of whether this was truly a child or some other race with slowed aging, or a shape-shifting race like an Asuwang. He considered these options heavily, but as the child spoke (showing an odd knowledge of Ichabod, he just chalked it all up to fame, however) he could see the actual qualities in the voice that were proof of a child. The simple breaking up of the word ‘please’ was enough for him to know, despite not spending much time with children, that this was indeed one of those little bratlings he so disliked.

“Ah, you’ve heard of me,” Ichabod smiled in a toothy fashion, the kind of smile that was not real but looked incredibly so with his practiced expressions. He could feign all of the emotions. It allowed people – specifically sweet smelling women – to fall for him easily enough that they trusted him to be alone with them. Which, really, isn’t something a woman should do around Ichabod. “My name has traveled farther than I had thought,” He commented absently, hands consistently locked behind his back as he spoke to the child without looking at it, instead gauging the crowd more, “Here I thought it stayed locked up within the walls of the oh-so-famed tavern…” And the minds of people like Fiere Courroux and the ‘strong and mighty’ Tristan Cowell… “What a wonderful twist of fate.”

“And such luck I have finding you, hm? One who not only knows of me, but enjoys something real, something that doesn’t have one of those silly happy endings that happens everywhere but for real life. Of course, that is what I offer, so do not expect to hear a story. You’re going to here a true tale. One learned from someone I knew. A friend of a friend, you might say,” Ichabod smiled, briefly offering a flash of the darker him, something that only one paying particularly close attention would have seen – and of course, not even a fraction of his mask fell away to reveal the frightening monster beneath. Most would consider the amount of evil seen to simply be a trick of the light, or that little bit of evil every person has within them. That wasn’t even close to what Ichabod had holed up within his blackened gut or his sparklingly charming green eyes or his sharp, high cheeks.

“Well,” He said finally, jumping up with the lithe grace of a dancer onto the divider that separated the statue from the benches and cobblestone walk. The added height offered a few more eyes as attention, and he briefly offered a dazzling smile to those who were paying close enough mind. “I think that I may have to tell the true and very real story of The Spinner. Many think they know who she is, but I doubt you really do. Have you heard of her?” He asked the question of the general public, a few nodding their heads. “You say she was accused of a crime, and subsequently killed before being proven completely innocent?” More nods.

“Would you like the truth?”

[maedene]

Jack Laughed giddily in his mind. Oh what a delightful find! This man, no... this demon. His mind probing gleaned a light on Ichabod's true nature. He is simply evil, and Jack loved every minute of it. He especially loved the way Ichabod drew a crowd. All of the people with their fragile minds. All of them gathered together to hear the storyteller's tale. Oh the fear that Jack could conjure! It made him as giddy as a child, which was good given his current form.

Jack sat cross-legged on the ground in front of Ichabod. He wasn't paying attention to what he was saying, however. Jack already knew the ending to the story, he had read it in Ichy's mind. Instead he was watching the way Ichy told the story. He was certainly an experienced bard, and the way the crowd was gathering, almost brainwashed by this demon's words. He smiled to himself, If only they knew.

Jack gave the look of being enthralled by Ichy's story, but he was in reality thinking of ways that he and the storyteller could work together to break the minds of so many people. Not just one or two at the same time. Dozens of minds could be broken at once! Oh the chaos! Oh the insanity! Oh how WONDERFUL!

The crowd was beginning to gather around the two, intrigued by Ichy's story. It was getting rather crowded on the ground, with all of the smelly feet. Some people are afraid of feet, or rather, foot fetishists. People are afraid of those different from them, and xenophobia was one of the first fears he learned about. Along with claustrophobia, as he learned from that woman in the box so many years ago. Looking back on it, he never really knew just how he got the box, but the woman's fear was very tasty.

Bringing himself back from his memories, Jack continued to watch the demon tell the story, an entertaining one. Jack wished Ichy to know of his story, of the minds he broke. He thought it would make an interesting one.

[Ichabod Afof]

At the general assent from the group to his question he smiled with almost frighteningly white teeth and knelt down in his position on the barrier, raising the tension a little bit. After a few seconds, he finally began, “You all know her as ‘The Spinner’, what she was called before they… proved her innocence (he said the words almost incredulously) was The Black Spinner. She was an old woman, a widow who’s husband had died in the war of the time. She spent her days after his death within her house, and her nights out roaming the streets that she lived just outside, moaning and crying – frightening the children half to death.” He jumped from his position and began weaving through the crowd that had collected. The many children who had been tugging on their mother were now frozen mid-pull, looking at him with the wide-eyed curiosity that children and drunks seemed to share. The two girls in their short skirts were whispering to each other, he decided it was either about his handsome face and voice or how silly he was telling this story. If it were the latter, they would be proven wrong.

“As she began to get over her husbands death, she took up a job at the old hospital in Malscure – you know, the one they shut down all those years ago?” He spoke directly to an older gentleman who nodded his head in assent, “She became congenial and well-liked. She worked mainly with sick or injured children that did not take well to the spells of the healers… the odd thing was, was how the patients she worked with always appeared to die. Of course, it could very well be just that they were sick and would die no matter what…” People were wondering where he was going with the story at this point, they all knew how this went. They put her to death, and then discovered she was innocent of all crimes. What was different about this?

Ichabod knew that was what they were thinking. Which was why he paused, appearing to think a bit as he watched the crowd – and the boy sitting down by where he once stood that had requested the tale – and then made his way to the girls in short skirts while continuing his story, “As you all know, she was put to death. A painful one at that. Tell me girls,” He stood before the two girls, smiling debonairly, “Do you know how she was killed?” They shook their heads, curiosity making them flush with excitement, “They laid her on a table. Above her head was a large jug, nearly as large as that statue. It was not filled with poison or any other corrosive substance. No lava, nothing hot or cold. Just simple water. Water the temperature of this very day outside. How does this kill someone? I hear you ask. It drips, and it drops. Drip drip drip,” He annunciated each word with a talkative movement of his hands as if he were a composer and a sing-song quality added to his voice, “Drop drop drop. Every day. Every night Day in, day out. Drip drop. Drip drop. When you have that constant, repetitive motion, like a poke or a… drip drop… It slowly breaks through…” He lightly touched the foreheads of the two young girls, both who flushed more, “Skin. It slowly breaks through... bone…” He pulled his hands from them and smiled, “And it slowly breaks through... brain. Agonizingly. Slowly. Her –“ He quickly moved his hand to the girls sides and poked, hard, causing them to shriek in surprise, embarrassment and a little bit of pain, “-Screams would have been heard throughout Malscure if only a silencing spell wasn’t cast on her. She instead laid there strapped to a table, shaking, seizing, her face contorted in a soundless scream…”

He allowed a moment for his words to sink in before he got to the next part of his story, “She was not proven innocent, but that did not stop the gossip to spread that the government had wrongfully killed this woman that had done nothing wrong. After all, us people we want to see the goodness in everyone – don’t we? Even when it’s not there.” He had returned to his previous spot in front of the statue, though not on the divider, and as he said this last part he looked directly at the little boy who had made a request of Ichabod to tell such a story as the one he was relaying.

“After she died, her old house completely vanished, and all around it grew what we all know as the Spinner’s Woods or Spinner’s Forest. The people who believed her to be innocent, the people who spread the rumour of a malignant government… They erected a statue in her honour. This was a mistake as that was when the… strange thing started happening,” He looked around at his audience. Some of the more sensitive people had left, but then new people had joined in. He proffered a smile to the two girls he had victimized, who were standing almost star-struck (or so Ichabod saw it) with their faces all flushed from him touching them. They might be tasty treats. “Has anyone else heard of these occurrences?” Ichabod knew they had never happened, but many were so caught up in the story, and so bought by his lies that they nodded hypnotically, causing him to smile dramatically, “The creator of the statue, the day it was erected stood before it at the stroke of midnight and was struck blind by the statue. Many have been found dead before the statue. Victims of the statue or victims of the people made mad by the statue. Pregnant women who walked in the morning shadow of the statue – where grass refused to grow and even weeds avoided making their home – had miscarriages and lost their children and often their ability to bear children.” He began weaving through people again, preparing for his end during which he lowered his voice and spoke in a whisper that people would silence himself or herself to hear. People would fall into his silent voice and quiver with anticipation, only becoming distracted if they were to hear a pin drop.

“All of this finally came to a climax one morning,” He whispered, people scrambling to get close and then pushing themselves to hear, some trying to shove Listening Pins at him, “An ill-fated magician enlisted to keep the garden in an appealing shape walked into work only to find the statue of the Spinner with one of her arms sawed off,” He made the sawing motion with one hand while the other arm played victim, “Upon investigating this, he found the statue’s arm in the carriage of another worker hired to keep the forest clean and clear – only in the late hours of the night. The man was brought to a tribunal where he claimed that the Spinner had come alive, sawed her arm off and gave it to him – telling him to take it, as it would keep him safe,” He hoisted himself up on a bench and gazed down at his audience, the sunlight coming from above shadowed his features in a frightening way, “What do you think they did to him?” He asked the question with a disconcerting look of malice decorating his pale palette, his voice defaulting onto a falsetto as he spoke.

No one spoke, but he could tell from the looks on their faces that they were awaiting his answer to the question. He used his boot to usher people away from the edges of the bench where they had fluttered to hear him, see his performance. He jumped down, landing dramatically before straightening up as he walked towards the mother with her young children. “They did not believe him and his craziness. And for his lies and befoulment of a sacred place and-…” He turned away from the mother whose face had gone white, and whose children were either begging him with their eyes to finish his sentence or hiding beneath their mother’s large skirts.

He looked inquisitively around at his crowd with bright, sparkling green eyes that seemed to almost cast everything else in shadow. He grabbed a nearby woman by the waist, spinning her into his grip with her back against his chest. He used his hands to make a motion of slitting her quivering throat and said, “And off came his heathen head.” He let the woman go, whispering a small – yet incredibly charming thank you in her ear (pairing it with a swift lick that many men would not get away with), thought of what a tasty treat she might be, and then smiled at his crowd who were stunned into silence for a moment, where Ichabod took his chance to speak again, "Do you all still believe the Spinner was innocent?" Then the crowd began enthusiastically applauding his performance that some believed without a doubt and that some thought was completely poppy-cock – though they all knew and would all agree that the man was entertaining, and most certainly talented.

[maedene]

Jack had come to a realization. It wasn't the story that gathers the brainwashed masses; it's the way that the story is told. People were enthralled, hanging on his every word. The way he danced about the crowd, gathering them into the story, was just superb. Ichy could get away with anything, as long as he used the right words. Even though Jack knew the story, he couldn’t help but enjoy it when Ichy was telling it.

When Ichy had brought his story to a close, the audience erupted in applause. There were some who thought the story was real, and those people emitted fear. Not as much as if it were night, but it was still satisfying. Jack stood up and made his way through the audience to Ichy. When he got to him, Jack tugged on his arm to get his attention.

“Gee, that was amazing.” Said Jack in a boyish voice. He pointed to a dark alley. “Now it’s my turn to tell you a story. Meet me in that alley when you can get alone.” Jack’s voice became darker. “And I promise you, this is a story you haven’t heard.”

Jack turned and began skipping through the crowd toward the alley. Even though it was day, the alley was cast in a dark shadow. Alleys always seem to be dark, and Jack thought of it as one of the worlds little delights, along with scars and screamers. Once Jack made it to the alley, he immediately found a dark spot to hide. The place was filled with boxes from the bakery next to it, and they made great places to hide behind. Jack waited for Ichy to come. He was excited to tell him his proposal, and hoped he would accept.

[Ichabod Afof]

Ichabod was taken into the crowd, people wanting to know where the story had come from (he would tell them it came from the truth. In all reality it came, quite simply, from his own creative mind) or if he did personal performances. Some wanted to give him some coin for his performance the same way they would credit a bard. He accepted everything graciously and modestly, pausing only for a few moments in the crowd to speak to the two young girls who had seemed taken with him and his charisma. He whispered into their ears something that far too inappropriate for their young selves, and they left. One looking severely offended, the other flushing pink and smiling in a demure sort of way. As they exited the square, this one paused for a moment to look back at Ichabod and give a dream-filled sigh. She might taste good, he thought with a vague enthusiasm.

He was broken from his imaginings of what the young girl would look like upon his wall, hung and manacled as he slowly tortured her life out of her – both the story and the blood that kept her from joining the likes of the dead. When he began to feel a slight tightening in his loose trousers, he instead thought of a glorious rainbow and several cartoonish unicorns prancing about beneath it. It was something that always worked, and the fact that he also felt a pull on his sleeve near the same moment did not hurt either.

The little boy complimented him on the perfection of his story – well, that was not exactly what he had said, but Ichabod believed it to be accurate enough. He told Ichabod to meet him in a dark alley – and Ichabod was suspicious. Yes he offered a new story, something that greatly enticed one of Ichabod’s type. Yet at the same time, the older man felt a tugging at the back of his mind, telling him that there was something off about the child. To prepare himself, he waited until the boy had slunk to the alley and then found the brawniest looking of men from his crowd of new fans and told him that – should he not emerge within the next quarter hour – he should come to the alley to retrieve him, as there was something wrong.

Afterwards, Ichabod made his way to the alley, sinking into the darkness and finding it encompassing almost his whole self but for the demonic twinkling that was his shining green eyes. “I’m not sure what you could think by telling me you know a story I do not,” Ichabod began, seating himself on a slightly moist barrel stored in the alley, “But let me assure you that I know them all. Falsely farce or tritely true, they are all of the stories of the world and all can be found under strict lock and key in my mind.” It was true, at least to Ichabod. It was all tight inside his mind, where only those who had ineibriated him to the point of having loose lips, or those who weaved spells or used items to probe his head could see what was lurking there. It was something he kept well hidden. It was his namesake and he had practiced many years in blocking out the unwanted mind-reader from getting access to his most prized possessions. “And still I will listen. Let us see what you have to enlighten me with, hm? I am interested to see what kind of story you think I am not aware of. ” He wasn’t expecting much.

[maedene]

Jack, still in the darkness, prepared himself. He wasn’t much of a showman (well, one that kept people sane, anyway), and Ichy was quite the storyteller. Jack wasn’t surprised that Ichy was a bit uninterested by his offer of a new story. But Jack was ready to wow him.

“First off,” began Jack, still in the form of the boy, “Let me tell you again how great the story was. It was splendid, but I think it could use some… visual aid. Maybe the The Spinner could jump out of the crowd during the story, now THAT would be scary.” Jack began to walk around in the darkness, making sure not to show himself to Ichy just yet. “Now on to MY story. This is the tale of a man with a vision. His vision, you may ask? It’s to free the world of the prison we call sanity. Now, this man had spent his entire life perfecting his art, the art of mind breaking. He discovered the fears of his victims and used them to make the people go insane.” Jack transformed into his Clown form, but kept the voice of the boy. Staying in the darkness, Jack sat up on a box and crossed his legs. He was getting rather excited telling his story to Ichy, but he didn’t let his voice show it.

“Now,” Jack continued, “He learned of his gift at a young age when he, shall we say… ‘Convinced?’ his parents to kill themselves. He has since learned to control his gift and has been traveling the world, breaking the minds of those he meets. I know this, because I have met several of them.” Jack’s face broke into a sinister grin, too bad the Ichy couldn’t see it. “This man has now met another man. Another man with a gift. His gift is storytelling, and he too has worked his gift to perfection.” Jack’s voice slowly changed to his normal one when he spoke. He jumped down from the box and slowly walked towards Ichy.

“The man with a gift now wishes to join with the man with another gift, to travel the world telling stories and breaking minds. Now, wouldn’t that make for the most wonderful story of all?” Jack walked into full view of Ichy, smiling ear to ear.

“Jack Quinzel, at your service.” Said Jack, taking a deep bow. "Now Ichy, what of my proposition? You tell the stories, and I provide the visual element. We could break minds for me, eat people for you, and no one would possibly know our true intentions! Now, what do you think, Ichy my friend?"

[Ichabod Afof]

Ichabod was offended. At first, the boy said that he had a story Ichabod had never heard. The prospect excited him, but at the same time he found it hard to be true. Then, when the boy had said he was going to tell a story he instead offered a criticism. The story could use visual aid. The Black Spinner jumping out at the crowd. Ichabod frowned tightly. Did the boy not realize how stupid that would make his performance? Ichabod sighed mentally, realizing that – of course he didn’t. He was only a child. Despite the fact that as he was speaking now – with words a child would not use - he did not sound particularly like a child, it was what he appeared to be.

The boy finally started telling the story, never coming out of the shadows. As the story progressed, Ichabod guessed the ending. This story was rather cliché, and it was easy to tell where the boy was going. Ichabod shook his head as the boy continued on, wondering what the world was coming to when a little boy’s imagination only stretched this far.

When the boy started talking about Ichabod himself, the voice changed and it made Ichabod realize that it was even worse. What was the world coming to when a man could not create a story that was unpredictable? Perhaps his gift was rarer than he sometimes thought it. When the man approached Ichabod from the pure darkness, the man who had thought he was older (though now was not sure) sat unimpressed. Was the clown face supposed to be frightening? Yes, clowns scared many people, but they were not very good story material. You didn’t scare people by talking about clowns, you scared them by showing them clowns and Ichabod’s story-telling was experienced enough to scare without the use of things the eye could see. He weaved tapestries in the minds of men, filling them with dread from what could not be seen.

The man finally introduced himself as Jack Quinzel, bowing with the name. Ichabod remained impassive. The way that Quinzel had stated Ichabod’s eating habits made him frown. He didn’t just eat people. He extracted what he needed from them. Women specifically. And if they were not sane, they were boring. Ichabod readied himself to voice as such.

With a frown of contempt playing on his lips he jumped down from the barrel and stared into the clown’s eyes with the frightfully bright green ones of his own - the ones that seemed to carry their own light source that allowed them to sparkle in even this dark alley. “I don’t do what I do to break minds. Nor do I do it for a meal. I can get a meal without the use of a story. I tell stories for just that. To tell stories and to entertain,” Ichabod was in Jack’s face, never intimidated by the distorted clown, “If I were to kill what makes people themselves, break them as you so… eloquently (his voice dripped with sarcasm) put it, they would not stay and listen to my tales and spread the words of my art in lore. They would not be able to. I don’t do what I do to elicit fear.” Perhaps that is a sub-purpose, he thought offhandedly, But not the main idea I hold when I speak my piece.

Thinking back to what the man had said about Ichabod need for “visual aids” had the Demon frowning tightly again, eyes flashing angrily as he continued on, not allowing Jack a chance to speak, “For the record, Mr Quinzel, visual elements would make my performance overdone and like some sub par theatre show. It would keep my show from being believable. Real fear is not something you can see. People are only truly scared when they cannot see what there is to be afraid of. What is the most base fear in the world? Darkness. Children hate darkness. They have to be taught to fear strange people. They have to be taught to fear knives. A knife is a toy to a child, and yet darkness is danger,” Ichabod took a brief second to let this enlightenment sink into Quinzel, “Visual ‘aids’ would turn my show into a farce and my self into a laughing stock. I don’t need your abilities nor your sadistic need to get rid of sanity. Sanity keeps people believing some things are safe. Some things like me. Insane people do not hold their trust or belief in anyone. Without that belief, there is nothing to be famous for. ”

Ichabod turned away swiftly, anger decorating his features as his face contorted into that demonic construct that he always avoided showing to people who were not going to die at his hand. He began to wander out of the alley, stopping briefly to ensure that his features had softened so that he looked like any normal man again. “Good day Mr Quinzel,” Ichabod stated simply, walking out of the alley and into bright sunshine with a cat-like stretch of his limbs.

He would have to keep Jack Quinzel in mind. If this man were going to wander around trying to make everyone insane, Ichabod would have a problem with him. Ichabod needed people to watch his performances, to find him entertaining and yet still hold the light in their mind that reminded them this was not true and that this was safe. Yes, Ichabod would have to keep a sharp eye on Quinzel indeed.

[maedene]

Jack couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what surprised him more; the way that Ichy rejected his offer, the way that Ichy’s eyes shone in the dark alley, or that Jack had misjudged the demon storyteller. When Ichy said good bye and left the alley, Jack could do nothing but stand there, mouth agape. Ichy even insulted him! Jack’s mind swirled, what should he do now? Should he just kill Ichy and be done with it? No, that is always a last resort. If Jack is to have a world of insanity, then some entertainment would be nice. His stories may be even better when spoken through the mouth of a lunatic. Indeed, Jack would have to break Ichy’s mind, but not yet. Ichy is doing a great job of weakening people’s minds, and a mind like his will take some work to break. Jack smiled widely.

“Good day, Ichabod Basilio Afof! Continue to tell your wonderful stories, but I do intend to give you the greatest story that you have ever heard!” Jack bowed again, turned around, and ran giggling through the alley. All of the excitement made him hungry, and he was in mood for fear. Maybe some housewife that lived outside of town could be broken, and her husband as well. He intended to find Ichy again, and show him that the sense of sight is just as powerful as sound. But for now, Jack wanted to leave this area to feast. The people there were weak minded, and he needed to work on his gift for the next time he encountered Ichy. He was hungry, and fear is what he craved.

Fear is what he always craves.