[center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/301690986252206080/379764193303461888/Daimyon.gif[/img][/center]
[hr]
The performance ends, and there is great applause. The man on the stage, tall and dressed in a green coat and matching scarf, takes a theatrical bow but remains where he is. He steps up to the microphone, an honest smile on his pale face.

[color=seagreen]“Thank you! Truly, you are too kind to this humble poet!”[/color] He clears his throat, the chilly air having taken its toll on his voice. [color=seagreen]“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have one more surprise in store for all of you!”[/color]

He signals backstage, and an older man comes forward with a guitar in hand. There is a surprised cheer from the crowd, especially when the guitarist starts playing some soft opening chords.

[color=seagreen]“Most know me as a man of words, not melodies,”[/color] the poet continues. [color=seagreen]“But now with the help of an old friend, I am here to show you that the wonders of art know no boundaries!”[/color]

The guitarist picks up his tempo as the applause dies down, playing a distinct blues rhythm. The poet begins, not singing, but fitting his words to the instrument:

[center][color=seagreen][i]“The blue sky fell on me like a great hat,
And loyal friend, I had one: the fog.
Amongst full plates, I hungered
Before fiery furnaces, I froze!”[/i][/color][/center]

The combination worked very well and created a fantastic atmosphere on the stage and in the audience, who did not expect to hear much music at this gathering.

[center][color=seagreen][i]“...and somewhere among the autumn litterfall
In an old thorn bush, on which only
A sinful star's crooked colour falls:
I, Daimyon Londe, will rest
Blessed and blasphemed everywhere!”[/i][/color][/center]

The poet ends the last note with outstretched arms, taking in the final applause.

[color=seagreen]“And so goes the No Man's Ballad. Thank you!”[/color]

[hr]
Daimyon let out a wistful sigh as he reread the recollection of his last performance before being hospitalised. Illness had struck him down at the worst time; he had been full of energy and vitality, genuinely living a second flush of youth.

He remained hopeful, however, that the ballad would not be Daimyon Londe's swan song. Besides, that was not even what he was looking for when he opened up his trusty notebook; he merely stumbled upon it. He was looking for a different memory, namely the one shedding light to the bunch of unexplained scars tattering his chest. They were small and thin, covered under his shirt and he had only noticed when he had first taken a shower here. Even then he had ignored it until today when he decided that he would finally get to the end of the matter. Smaller accidents and injuries slipping his mind were not uncommon, but if it even had a modicum of importance—and those scars looked like they did—he had recorded it in the notebook.

Alas, that did not seem to be the case. He skimmed the thick document carefully, but it brought no fruition. Resigned, he put it back down on the wooden table, lay back in his chair and breathed out. His eyes wandered back to the other writing sitting conspicuously on the table: the mysterious book he had procured some time ago from the study. The unshakable gut feeling that the piece was vital persisted, and thus he devoted more and more time to it. These recent days, most of his waking moments had been spent trying to crack and understand its secrets; it had him like a man possessed. Even its title was cryptical: he had managed to figure out some additional letters, making it the [i]‘Ryoshi Membook’[/i] when read together. What became clear at least that it had once been a schoolgirl's personal diary, something certainly not meant to be published. How it got to a hospital library was beyond him, but it just added to the overall eerieness surrounding the book.

Of course, it was not the title that held his interest the most. He had read through the book more thoroughly and found, aside from numerous pages that had been unmistakably ripped out, a few entries that were, for the lack of a better word, censored. Almost every identifiable name in them got plastered over, as well as details of seemingly essential events. Hungry for information and a mind bursting with imagination, Daimyon had decided to restore these pages to the best of his ability, using context cues to assemble the missing pieces of the enigmatic girl's life. He had made good progress already, though unfortunately, it came with the price of him being cut out of the loop with matters concerning the rest of the Infinite group. He had caught bits and pieces of big things going down but generally stayed out of the action.

[hr]
It would have been the same today too, had he not heard a commotion outside. There had been a few before, but this was the first time that he was not too engrossed in anything else to care about it, not to mention this time the centre of the action seemed to be particularly close. Also, was his nose misguiding him or did he just smell smoke? That was certainly unusual. He stood up from the table and stretched out his numb legs before picking up his e-handbook and opening the door.

The sight of the opposite room wide open with a number of people standing inside registered in the poet's mind at the exact same instant that a terrifying ding hit his ear:
[color=magenta]“A body has been discovered. The patients have a limited time to collect evidence before being called into the court of carnage. Do your best everyone!”[/color]

[color=seagreen]“W-what? A...body?”[/color] he uttered, an inexplicable force pushing him forward into the room ahead of him. He did not get farther than its door before the image that had been looming in the background as he approached came to the forefront: a woman strung up by her wrists, her write dress bloodied by several—

[color=seagreen]“—Marianne!”[/color] Daimyon exclaimed. She was the only one who he had honestly spoken to in a few days: she had knocked on his door to check on him when he was just getting into his restoration work; he had even noted her thoughtfulness. And now she was...no!

The same force that drove him this far now shut him down completely. He only managed to make it to the corner of the room before he had to lean against the wall for support. He shut his eyes as if to escape from the scene, but the image only got more vibrant in his head. The room also came alive with a cacophony of sounds: people shouting, talking, crying; some entering the room, others leaving in a hurry. The initial shock passed for Daimyon, too, overtaken by crippling...numbness? Why? Why was he not feeling anything? Marianne was important to him...was she not?

It took him several minutes to recompose himself. His incessantly vibrating e-handbook was what snapped him out of it finally; opening it up he saw numerous ‘truth bullets’ already discovered by the more acute Infinites. Of course...that was how things went in Axis Mundi. If you kill, you have to get away with it too.

They were not going to let that happen.

Grasping onto this shot of determination to shake off the numbness, he looked around in the room—the murder scene. He took out his notebook to make some observations but was rather surprised to find out that he had forgotten to bring his pen. Though his room was close, his first instinct was to reach for the desk here to procure a writing instrument. The table, however, was blackened—not unlike the killer—by the fire and there was nothing on it. The room in general was a mess, and Daimyon almost turned around and left for his own. Not before he nearly stepped on something, though: a pink card of some sort lying on the ground nearby, its edges charred but mostly intact. It stuck out sorely from the scene, and the poet found curiosity getting the better of him.

Curiosity had the right idea, for once.

The card had a single sentence written on it:
[b]‘They were the original infinite trickster, before the current one.’[/b]

They? Who? Marianne? The Infinite Trickster? That did not sound right—and was entirely too suspicious to be an ordinary writing by the room's owner. He slid it into his notebook for safekeeping; perhaps it would serve a purpose at the trial.

Having also found a replacement pen amongst the scattered debris, Daimyon felt compelled to sit down at the table. He could feel it: the swallow of his imagination was taking flight again. A glance back at Marianne's lifeless body and right then and there, on the burned table, he began penning down a piece.