"Well done!" Toulouse giggled, uncaring that Cicero hadn't said a word. The Imperial only stared wide-eyed at the jester, seemingly mortified by his own actions. "No, no! This is what I wanted!" The jester kept laughing until he felt a second stab beneath his ribcage on the same side. He trembled as he clutched onto the other, feeling his strength leave.
The story where the image came from:
Laughter Incarnate'The Jester lies dead. My final contract has been completed. Oh, how he laughed and laughed, until he didn't. The Dread Lord will be pleased, I'm sure, with a jester fit for a king. Maybe I could have spared him, sent him away. Far away where no one could find him. He was an interesting fellow, and very funny, perhaps too funny. I feel regret, an emotion I haven't given the time of day in over ten years.'
With a quill between his fingers and his nerves in an uproar, Cicero shakily wrote in his leather-bound journal. His free hand clutched the cover of the book tightly; his knuckles were white.
'But did I save his soul? No prayer for this one, no, no. The Listener is gone. What does it mean when our Matron does not sanctify the contract? Does the soul still make it to Sithis?'
The young man sighed, finally seeing how tightly he was holding his journal. He let it go and occupied his palm with his chin, staring at the page he'd written on. He frowned as he scribbled down a f
Toulouse Archambeau © Maya Brisa
Cicero © Bethesda
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