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[h1][b][color=black]🎭[/color][color=violet] 𝒦𝒶𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒯𝓊𝓇𝓃 [/color][color=black]🎲[/color][/b][/h1][/center]
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It was time to return to Oxen ‘the Strong’.

Sarhush had permitted that one to possess the Me of Weaving for long enough, and the Patrons had informed him that yet more of the Mes had afterward come into the hands of Oxen and his tribes. To hear the tales of Glory, Oxen had achieved much. As the Lord of Civilization, Sarhush felt both entitled and obliged to venture there in person and taste the fruits of the tree that [i]he’d[/i] planted through righting Oxen’s path.

The journey would not be short. Hills rose and fell, rivers were stomped through, and plains unspooled beneath immortal feet. There was little to busy Sarhush’s mind save conversing with the trio of Patrons that yet remained as his travelling companions.

At one point along the way, they came upon a dense jungle. There they halted for a moment so that Fire could lob a few great fireballs and kindle a conflagration that would break this stronghold of Nature. As the canopy’s gaps became like chimneys, Sarhush reflected, [color=#9E5020]“I have begun to understand fire more deeply. It is more than just something to be unleashed.”[/color]

Every tongue of fire in the eponymous Patron’s body twisted toward Sarhush’s voice at that, not quite in offense, but in rapt attention and interest. “Understanding falls short of mastery,” Fire insisted, “and shorter still of ownership or dominion.”

Lord Hierarchy scoffed, “You were compelled to divulge your secrets to him once. The order of things remembers.”

Glory, who’d been apathetic thus far, began to brighten at the signs of a possible power struggle.

[color=#9E5020]“Fire is a tool, but it must be properly harnessed. Controlled.”[/color]

With a voice crackling low, Fire retorted, “You’ve seen only a glimpse of my power, and yet you think me a tool? Those that kindle me think themselves the masters for having struck the spark, but I can burn them like anything else.”

As they trekked through the burning jungle, they came upon a small stream. The Patron of Fire approached it, and the water hissed and receded from its heat. But it was not interested in the water; instead, Fire rubbed a burning hand over the black sand along the riverbank. The mineral grains glowed red and melted. Sarhush watched, fascinated by the display, as the heat quickly receded and the molten sand began to cool and solidify into a mass of slag and vitrified glass. The surface of the dirty, malformed glass still managed to gleam in places. In a few, it caught the firelight and bent it strangely into warped shapes that did not quite obey the wind. 

The glassy slag cooled further still, cracking with stress in places. Fire seemed uninterested in the remnants of its work, but Sarhush stooped down to poke at the crude glass and some of its metallic inclusions.

[color=#9E5020]“See? You only prove my point,”[/color] Sarhush mused aloud. [color=#9E5020]“When controlled and made to linger, your touch leaves behind more than ash.”[/color]

Fire did not bother replying, its flames shifting restlessly to lean away. So they moved on through the infernal jungle, walls of fire clearing a pathway, but soon Sarhush noticed a place beneath the curve of some burning branches were the smoke was not rising upward. Instead, it drifted sideways. At first the god took that for just the work of an eddy of wind, but as he stared in stupefication, the smoke did not deviate in its course. Sarhush’s eye followed the plume of horizontal smoke. Maddeningly, in one or two places it seemed to dip down.

[color=#9E5020]“Heat is meant to rise. Smoke is meant to follow cause.”[/color]

Glory seemed to just find this more droll than maddening. “It dances!” the Patron cried.

“The smoke here wanders. It rebels against the way of things,” Lord Hierarchy corrected. “Fire, what is the meaning of this deviancy?”

“I do not know,” Fire admitted.

Something was very wrong. Sarhush’s divine senses were sharp, his hearing just keen enough to hear a strange noise through the roaring of the fire and the chattering of the Patrons. He advanced toward the burning arched branch that was the origin of this anomalous smoke. As Sarhush crossed underneath it, the thing finally was overcome by fire, and it broke from the tree to fall down as a flaming heap that was as much charcoal as wood.

The strange sounds were louder now. [color=#9E5020]“Do you hear that?”[/color] Sarhush asked his Patrons, but there was no response. He turned back, eyes sweeping through the treeline, but saw no signs of them anywhere. Grumbling at how they’d already scattered off to gawk at something else, he turned back around to investigate the noise.

The forest thinned abruptly, not burned away but bent aside, as if the world itself had made room. Lanterns hung from branches that should not have supported them, casting warm, shifting light over paths that curved just enough to hide where they led. Canvas stalls stood between the trees, stitched in bright colours, their fabric fluttering despite the lack of wind. The air was thick with sound: laughter, the oddly rhythmic noise that Sarhush would eventually learn to call music, the low murmur of voices overlapping in a way that never quite became loud. Everything felt inviting, like a celebration already in full swing that had simply decided Sarhush was late.

Tables lined the paths, laden with food that steamed gently and drinks that refilled themselves when set down. The smells were simple but tempting, roasted meat, sweet pastries, fruit, strong alcohol. Games were everywhere. Wheels spun, cups hid rolling tokens beneath them, boards were laid out with pieces that shifted position when no one was looking directly at them. Most were games of chance or close enough, the kind where instinct helped but never guaranteed anything. 

The abundance and organization of this place was astounding. How had the mortals here managed to achieve so much without his help? There was a quick revelation in Sarhush’s heart – the fire that he’d kindled might destroy all of this before he could even witness it! – but when he turned back around, he didn’t see the approaching orange glow of the burning jungle. Come to think of it, he didn’t hear the flames’ roar, and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meats with hardly a hint of woodsmoke.

Beyond the stalls, the Carnival stretched deeper, lights growing brighter and shadows thicker in equal measure. Performers moved through the crowd, some clearly mortal, others harder to place, all smiling a little too knowingly. No one rushed Sarhush, no voice called out to him directly, yet everything seemed arranged for his benefit. A drink always within reach, a game waiting to be played, a path opening just ahead of him. And as the denizens of this place came close to him they made way, but they did so without the terror and reverence that he’d come to expect of mortals. 

Kaelinor noticed the shift before he noticed the god. The Carnival always reacted first, a subtle tightening of its laughter, a pause in the music like a breath drawn in. Then he felt it properly, the weight of something vast entering the Carnival. He straightened from where he’d been leaning against a stall, grin already forming, eyes bright with interest. “Oh,” he murmured to himself, “this one’s tall.”

Sarhush adapted quickly, despite the disorienting press of unfamiliar sounds and motion. There was an earthen mug that sat upon a table, seemingly unattended, and filled nearly to the brim with some dark fluid. The god lifted up the clay cup to sniff at its contents suspiciously, and his nose wrinkled at the vigor of its strange aroma. He set the draught down without tasting any of it, then walked to another table nearby where a great many people were gathered. Stepping right to the edge and towering over them all, he interrupted their game to lean over the table with a presence dominating enough to demand the full attention of all its patrons.

He slipped through the crowd with ease, people parting without quite realizing why, until he stood beside Sarhush, craning his head up theatrically. The Fae looked him over once, twice, then let out a low whistle. “You interrupt a game without placing a bet,” Kaelinor said cheerfully, voice carrying just enough to cut through the murmurs. “Bold move. Terrible etiquette. Very memorable.” He tapped the edge of the table the god had commandeered. “Points for confidence, though.”

Sarhush squinted at the one that had appeared next to him as if he’d always been there, with a familiarity that none had ever dared. [color=#9E5020]“What is this place?”[/color] he asked of everybody around that could hear: Kaelinor, the patrons of the table, the faceless people milling around between the tents.

At the question, Kaelinor laughed, like bells shaken by hand. “What is this place?” he echoed, as if savoring the words. “Depends who’s asking. To some, it’s the best night of their lives. To others, it’s where bad decisions go to stretch their legs and ask for seconds.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Officially, it’s the Carnival of Alechior. Unofficially, it’s where chance goes on holiday and forgets to come back.”

He finally offered a bow, exaggerated, sweeping enough to be half mockery, half genuine respect. “You’ve wandered into the party that never ends.” Kaelinor finished, eyes sparkling up at Sarhush. “Stay long enough and you might even enjoy yourself.” He flashed a grin. “Careful though. The longer you stand around asking sensible questions, the more the Carnival starts asking questions right back.”

Kaelinor tilted his head back at Sarhush, eyes bright and added, “Ah, the Carnival, a place where chance dances, luck comes and goes and every soul brings something to the table,” then he leaned in just enough to be friendly, adding, “some bring new foods, some alcohol, some bring stories…and some, it seems, bring an atmosphere so strong it arrives a moment before they do–and lingers.”

[color=#9E5020]“Civilization leaves its mark,”[/color] the god agreed, mistaking the slight for praise. To punctuate that declaration, he hefted the great sack that hadn’t left his hand in days. The bag that held so many of his Mes rattled as he placed it atop the table, claiming half its space by right. The god determined to still himself for a while and make sense of all that was around and all that was said.

Kaelinor’s laughter burst out. “Oh, civilization,” he echoed, savoring the word like a sweet that had gone slightly sour. “You gods do love that word. Always sounds so heavy when you say it, like it ought to thud when it hits the ground.” His eyes flicked to Sarhush with open amusement, not mockery exactly, more like delight at a familiar tune played slightly off-key.

Then his gaze dropped, brazen as a stage spotlight, to the immense sack claiming half the table. Kaelinor let out a low, appreciative whistle. “But that,” he said, grinning wide, “that is a sack worth singing about. A proper big sack you have! Truly heroic. You must get terrible back pain hauling something that…substantial around.” He waggled their brows, unapologetic, the joke landing with the ease of someone who had thrown far worse jokes.

Sarhush’s gaze swept across the Carnival again, the noise of Kaelinor’s babbling fading into irrelevance. The abundance of this place was somehow more nauseating than the camp of Ur-Kur-Laka had been, but at least here there was vigor rather than a multitude of languid figures whiling away their times in between trash heaps. After a few moments, realization settled in with a subtle grunt. It was impossible that mortals left to their own devices, and bereft of his guidance and Mes, could have wrought a place so maddening. The revelation did not sit well with him. This was all surely the work of a god, perhaps that [i]’Alechior’[/i].

[color=#9E5020]“I am Sarhush,”[/color] he eventually declared. Nothing more was needed for introduction, for his reputation surely preceded him. [color=#9E5020]“But just who might you be?”[/color] He paid no heed to the cryptic warnings of reciprocal questions to come. The little prattler beside him seemed anything but divine, but that did not mean that he was entirely devoid of power. [color=#9E5020]“You speak for this ‘Carnival’ and these people, or are you only a part of the din?”[/color]

He hopped up onto a nearby stall, striking a flourish so exaggerated it bordered on parody. One foot kicked out, arms spread. “Kaelinor of the Laughing Turn” he announced, voice ringing like a call before a show. “Fool, flatterer, licensed nuisance and blessed to be the King of the Joybound Fae. I juggle words better than knives and knives better than most juggle their lives.” A deep bow followed.

He leaned in closer to Sarhush then, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial. “Some speak for the Carnival, some are part of the noise. Me?” A shrug, bells chiming softly. “I dance between the two. The Carnival speaks when it wants to, and when it doesn’t, it lets people like me do the talking.”

With that, Kaelinor reached beneath a stall and produced an absurdly large cup, sloshing with dark, frothy liquid. He slid it across the table toward Sarhush with a flourish. “Now then, great sack-bearer,” he said cheerfully, “welcome properly. Have some of Alechior's Grog. Strong, generous and liable to make even gods feel lucky or very sorry. Sometimes both.”

How could water be ‘strong’? This ‘King’ seemed more fool than ruler, but Sarhush indulged him anyway. Naturally he harbored suspicions about the odd-smelling dark brew, but his blood burned hot enough to purge any poison, and curiosity overcame him. Sarhush’s brawny hand wrapped about the cup and overturned it, sipping slowly at first but then steadily, drinking the entirety before parting the vessel from his lips.

The god’s brazen eyes only brightened at the burst of flavor. [color=#9E5020]“This is not water,”[/color] he realized aloud. The grog’s forth bubbled oddly upon his ashy tongue and between yellowed teeth, alive in a way that no other drink had ever been. A warmth kindled deep in his chest, too: this was not the searing, ravenous heat of the Me of Fire that he’d once placed in his mouth, but something gentler, like the lingering warmth of rocks bathed in the afternoon sun.

Cups and tankards were strewn across every counter in sight, crowding every tabletop. Without hesitation or thought, Sarhush seized another one in arm’s reach and drained its contents in an unbroken pull. [color=#9E5020]“It [i]is[/i] strong,”[/color] he admitted, his voice smoothed and clear. [color=#9E5020]”This water has been altered, worked into something more! This drink has been fortified.”[/color]

Kaelinor laughed again, delighted, clapping their hands as Sarhush drained yet another cup. “Oh, look at that glow,” he said, practically preening on the grog’s behalf. “That is the face of someone who has just discovered that water can, in fact, fight back.” He leaned closer, peering at Sarhush’s relaxed shoulders with theatrical scrutiny. “Careful now, mighty one. It sneaks up on you. First the warmth then the cheer then suddenly the music sounds clever.”

He straightened and gestured grandly to a nearby stall where an absurdly oversized pitcher waited, already beading with condensation. “The grog,” Kaelinor continued, voice filled with pride, “comes from the juice of trees Alechior made at the very start. Before any other trees existed. Not planted, not grown. Willed into being. Trees that learned joy before he learned roots.” He hefted the pitcher with both hands and passed it to Sarhush, whose brows had raised at the talk of willing trees into usefulness. “Fermented laughter, aged patience and just a hint of bad decisions. Have another. You’re doing wonderfully.”

Sarhush accepted the pitcher and drank directly from it, being unacquainted with the notion of one large vessel that existed only to refill smaller ones. He drained the pitcher in what seemed like a single gulp. It was rare that Sarhush was in something like a good mood, but just then he found that he was. The tumult of the music no longer seemed so jarring, while the press of the bustling crowds became easier to overlook. His shoulders had slackened too, unbeknownst to him. [color=#9E5020]“What ‘games’ do you play here, while you await the arrival of order and rule?”[/color]

Kaelinor spread his arms wide, nearly knocking over a stack of dice. “Infinite,” he said simply. “If you can imagine it, someone here is already playing it or losing at it or arguing about the rules.” His grin turned sly. “Some games reward skill, quick hands, sharp eyes, sharper minds. Others care only for luck, blind and cruel and laughing as it passes you by.”

He paced as they spoke, counting on his fingers. “There are games where you throw knives at spinning targets, games where you roll bones painted with lies, games where you wager memories you will not miss until they are gone.” A pause, then a shrug. “There are games where you stand perfectly still while the world tests your patience. Blink and you lose. Breathe wrong, and you lose.”

Kaelinor chuckled, softer now. “Some make sense. Race the flame before it dies. Stack stones without letting them fall. Answer riddles that change halfway through the question.” He tilted his head. “Others make no sense at all. Guess which bell will ring without being struck. Bet on which shadow moves first. Compete to see who can forget their own name the fastest.”

He finished by planting himself back in front of Sarhush, eyes bright with invitation. “Here, order does not arrive. It wanders in, plays a round and usually leaves poorer for it.” Kaelinor lifted his own cup in salute. “So pick one. Or let a game pick you. Either way, the Carnival always plays fair. It tells you the rules. It just never promises they will help.”

[color=#9E5020]“Order came when I entered this place,”[/color] the god proclaimed with a hiccup, but without a shred of irony. [color=#9E5020]“But to think of leaving poorer! Ha!”[/color]

Sarhush used the back of his hand to wipe the foam of his latest drink off his lips. [color=#9E5020]“Hear me, little ‘Joybound’ king: I am Sarhush and I am the binder of all things. I have luck; I am also clever, fast, and strong. I will win all of the games and best this place as easily as I conquer the forests!”[/color]

Kaelinor’s laughter cut clean through the smoke and music. “Leaving poorer,” he echoed, savoring the words. “Clever, fast, strong, lucky, conqueror of forests and tables alike.” He clutched his chest theatrically. “Oh, my King of Cups, if confidence were coin you’d bankrupt the Carnival just by breathing.”

He placed a small circle made of Fortunite on Sarhush's hand, boots tapping in rhythm with unseen drums. “You say you will win all the games,” Kaelinor went on, grin widening, “but you’ve already made the oldest mistake here. You think winning is about strength or speed or even luck.” He leaned in, stage-whispering. “It’s about timing. And punchlines.”

Kaelinor straightened, arms thrown wide as lanterns flickered brighter in response. “So let’s make it simple. No boards, no dice, no cups to hide things under.” He pointed at Sarhush, then at himself. “You and me. One joke each. No threats, no sermons, no proclamations of inevitable victory. Just wit. Whoever makes the other one laugh, wins.”

The fae bowed low, eyes gleaming. “The Carnival will judge. If you win, you walk away richer in pride and proven right.” He snapped his fingers once. “If I win, I take one of the things in your sack. I choose.” Kaelinor tilted his head, smiling. “After all, King Binder, what’s the risk, if you’re so certain you’ll never leave poorer?”

Sarhush’s eyes glowed red in the Carnival’s torchlight as he pondered that proposal. [color=#9E5020]“You would make a game of this without even knowing what is inside?”[/color] He turned over the fortunite in his palm before placing it beside the growing heap of his emptied grog-mugs. 

[color=#9E5020]“You’ve hazarded nothing of your own,”[/color] he went on with a scoff, [color=#9E5020]“...so it makes no difference to you. Hardly sporting.”[/color]

Silence stretched as he ruminated, but then the start of a wolfish grin tugged at his lips. [color=#9E5020]”But I am a generous god!”[/color]

He pushed off the table that he’d been leaning upon and shuffled back a pace, eyes leering as they roved the Carnival. His gaze fell upon a tablecloth splayed nearby. Sarhush chugged the mug of grog that rested atop that table, for he was not wont to waste, and then wrenched the whole cloth away to let the emptied vessel clatter to the ground. He cast bundled fabric upon the table beside his sack of Mes and began tearing off strips of it with his bare hands, as easily as mortal hands might peel fruit. [color=#9E5020]“Go on,”[/color] Sarhush dared, his fingers still working, [color=#9E5020]”make me laugh.”[/color]

Kaelinor clapped once, delighted. “Ah. Of course I wager nothing,” he said. “That’s gambling at its purest. You didn’t wager anything either when you taught fire to hands that only knew how to grab. You simply assumed the world would learn to burn properly.” He gestured vaguely outward, as if forests turning to ash were an amusing footnote. “And look at that, it did.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret only gods could appreciate. “Most beings gamble hoping to win. You gambled assuming you already had. Burn the forests, yoke the weak and call it progress. Either it works and proves you right or it fails and proves the world was unworthy of your ideas.” Kaelinor smiled. “Heads or heads. A flawless system.”

Sarhush’s brows rose, but his hands never paused their work. Now he was twisting and knotting the cloth to some ends. [color=#9E5020]“Word of my glory precedes me,”[/color] he remarked, glancing up only briefly. As Kaelinor went on, Sarhush turned away again. He reached for a nearby platter, seized a leg of roast meat, and stripped it apart with his fingers, piling the greasy shreds beside the cloth. The bare bone he lifted to his mouth and cracked between his teeth. From the splintered length he tore free a thin shard, sharp and long, and set to shaping it into a needle.


Kaelinor meanwhile spread his hands, laughter bubbling up. “That’s what I admire most. Others invent rules to protect themselves from loss. You invented civilization so losing would become illegal.”

He nodded toward the sack at Sarhush’s side, then toward the crowd. “Even now, everything around you is proof that the joke landed. People didn’t ask whether they should. They asked how fast they could keep up.”

Kaelinor bowed deeply, theatrical and sincere all at once. “So go on, great Sarhush. Laugh. You already won the punchline ages ago.” His eyes gleamed. “This game is just applause with witnesses.” As if on cue, laughter around them seemed to explode and even the patrons at other tables were lifting their drinks towards the two. Even as the crowd’s raucous guffaws reverberated all around, Sarhush did not join in. Their laughter washed against him, but he remained as hardened and unfeeling as a stone tossed into a bonfire.

The god continued his craft. A twist of the cloth created something that resembled a head. A long, narrow scrap looped and cinched until it suggested a grin far too wide for its face, a grin that Sarhush fixed in place with the bone needle. He held the crude figure up at arm’s length, studying it with a flicker of drunken mirth.

[color=#9E5020]“Do you see a resemblance?”[/color] he asked the crowd, or Kaelinor, or perhaps even himself.

Deciding to do more, he brought the doll back to continue. His fingers worked not quite deftly, but decisively. The cloth twisted, folded, knotted. The makeshift doll’s limbs were pulled too long, then shortened by tearing rather than cutting. He spat into his palm and smeared the dampness across the thing’s face, pressing in two hollows with his thumbs. [color=#9E5020]“But I have little patience for the gutless,”[/color] he explained as he scooped up the stringy, half-rendered scraps of meat he’d torn off the bone. He crammed them into the open fold of the doll’s abdominal cavity to represent entrails, then sewed it shut there.

[color=#9E5020]“The smell isn’t quite right.”[/color]  He found another mug of grog beside his elbow; he dumped half the fluid onto the doll to soak into the cloth as a sort of blood, then drank the rest in a single gulp.

His fingernails dug into the table to pry free little chunks of wood. He pressed those into the eye-hollows on the doll’s head and tied them down with loose threads, and then finally leaned back. The macabre product of his craft was unsettling, but by some mix of skill or drunken luck, he’d fashioned the doll with an uncanny likeness to Kaelinor.

[color=#9E5020]“Look,”[/color] he rumbled, voice thick with mockery, [color=#9E5020]“here, we have a king of laughter. Of joy!”[/color]

He bobbed the puppet once, making it bow. Then he bounced it again, making it wobble as though dancing. The lantern light caught its folds and cast a jittering shadow across the table. [color=#9E5020]“He thinks civilization is a trick, something clever that twists defeats into victories.”[/color] Sarhush twisted the doll around so that its sagging grin of grog-drenched cloth faced the crowds. [color=#9E5020]“Civilization is fire! And is not the whole of Ashuru dry enough to burn?”[/color]

He sat the doll down upon the tabletop and reached into the sack of Mes. He did not rummage; his hand returned, closed tight, at once. Wisps of smoke escaped from the gaps between his fingers. 

He turned his fist over and opened it to reveal a hot coal that was the Me of Fire resting upon his palm. [color=#9E5020]“All that is within that sack are my gifts to mortals,”[/color] he explained, [color=#9E5020]“so I gift fire to the little king!”[/color]

With the neat motion of one finger, he flicked the little coal off his hand. It landed perfectly atop the doll. Grease, grog, and fabric began to smoke and smolder.

Kaelinor watched the construction with his head tilted, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracking every crude adjustment with open, almost childlike focus. He nodded once as the head took shape, again at the too-wide grin, a third time when the entrails were stuffed and sewn in. Not impressed, not repulsed. Merely attentive, the way one humors a toddler proudly holding up a misshapen carving. “Mm,” he murmured, approving in the most minimal way. “You didn’t rush it.”

When the likeness became undeniable, Kaelinor leaned closer, inspecting the doll as it burned and smoked. His expression softened, thoughtful rather than amused. “I see what you were reaching for,” he said calmly. “The posture is there. The confidence. You even caught the way I stand like I expect the room to listen.” He tapped one elongated finger against his chin. “That part’s clever.”

He straightened as the coal bit deeper, fabric darkening and curling. “But it’s unfinished,” Kaelinor added, tone gentle, almost apologetic. “Fire alone isn’t enough. Fire just destroys. Anyone can do that. You taught that lesson early.” He gestured vaguely, as if forests turning to ash were common knowledge. “This little thing doesn’t react. It just burns.”

Kaelinor smiled then, small and knowing, eyes flicking back to Sarhush. “If this were meant to be me, it would have laughed. Or danced harder. Or tried to bargain with the flame.” He shrugged lightly. “As it is, it just sits there. Quiet. Weak. A prop, not a punchline.”

He gave the doll one last look, then dismissed it entirely, attention returning to Sarhush with an easy confidence. “Still,” he said, pleasantly, “nice effort. For a beginner.”

Sarhush crossed his arms and said nothing in return. The weight of his mute stillness was so potent and oppressive that others, even those not arrayed around the table, took notice. For five tables all around, laughter was smothered. The loud chatter and gossip thinned to anxious murmurs; breaths were held. Sarhush remained silent for what felt like a long time even as he stared at Kaelinor.

Beneath the Me of Fire, the doll on the table between them began to change. The grog, the spit, and the meat juices that stained its fabric began to heat, and soon they boiled and hissed. Steam forced its way out through seams and stitches in thin, shrill bursts. The sound rose and fell, uneven, almost rhythmic.

The fabric blackened where the coal rested, then sagged. The Me sank slowly into the doll’s stuffed belly, its heat softening the knots and stitches from within. Small flames crept up along the soaked threads. As the cloth tightened and the packed meat expanded, the doll jerked. Once. Then again. Its limbs twitched in short, frantic motions, tugged by heat and pressure rather than will.

The doll’s grin held, and the thing danced as long as the fire allowed. [color=#9E5020]“Once I thought fire was only hunger,”[/color] Sarhush chose to break his silence before the fire consumed it all and reduced it to ash, [color=#9E5020]“But then I learned to bind it.”[/color]

He gestured at the blackening doll, its drying fabric twisting and tightening. [color=#9E5020]”It transforms and improves what I give it: meat softens, clay and speartips harden, forests are cleared away...”[/color]

The god finally grew bored of watching the doll burn, so he reached into its charred innards to pluck the coal free, bouncing the Me of Fire upon his palm. [color=#9E5020]”Touch it, and you’ll see,”[/color] he offered with a grin, stretching his open hand toward Kaelinor. The hot coal of the Me rolled to the very end of his fingertip as if yearning to be grasped by the fae.

Kaelinor did not interrupt. He watched the doll writhe and twitch with the same attentive stillness he had given its making, head inclined, eyes following the way heat forced motion where none belonged. “See,” he said, “it does try to dance after all. You were right. Fire teaches enthusiasm very quickly.” His gaze flicked to Sarhush. “Not grace, mind you. Just urgency.”

As the stitches gave and the coal sank deeper, Kaelinor crouched slightly to look level with the table. “It’s almost flattering,” he added “I spend time coaxing movement out of crowds and you manage it with boiling fat and thread.” He nodded once, approving. “Efficient and loud!”

When Sarhush spoke of hunger and binding, Kaelinor listened closely, the way one listens to a craftsman explaining a favorite tool. “Ah,” he murmured as the doll blackened, “so the joke wasn’t the doll at all. It was the lesson.” His eyes traced the tightening fabric. “Fire doesn’t need permission. It only needs direction. Left alone, it eats. Given a task, it builds.” He straightened. “That explains quite a lot.”

At the offered coal, Kaelinor did not hesitate. He reached instead for a nearby cup, lifted it and only then extended two fingers to brush the Me of Fire. The contact was brief. His pupils flared as the vision struck, the knowledge crashing through him in a rush of heat and certainty, fire as gift, as blade, as answer. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden.

The Me slipped from his fingers as the cup jerked. Kaelinor choked, turned and spat the drink in a reflexive spray. Alcohol met open flame, and the air bloomed. A short, violent burst of fire rolled outward, bright and roaring. Heat washed over the table. The crowd laughed. Kaelinor staggered back a step, eyes wide then slowly broke into a grin. Even Sarhush looked bemused.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at the scorched space between them. “Right,” he said, delighted now, voice warm with genuine appreciation. “Now that was amazing!” His eyes lifted to Sarhush, grin widening. “Let's do it again, old master.” he added, his voice giving away something from his past, something he had half-forgotten. Pre-Cataclysm. 

Sarhush didn’t miss that either. [color=#9E5020]“So you were one of mine,”[/color] he more stated than asked. He found another cup of grog and drank, swaying slightly. At last, he claimed the only chair around that would hold him, and dragged it to the table with one foot. He collapsed down into the seat, flames still burning between him and Kaelinor, their light reflected in the table’s wet sheen and in Sarhush’s reddened eyes.

Without looking, Sarhush’s hand plunged into Kaelinor’s cup to retrieve the Me of Fire. The heat around dimmed at once as the coal dulled between two smothering fingers; the god leaned back in his chair. [color=#9E5020]“Tools wander,”[/color] he started, already casting the Me back into his sack. [color=#9E5020]“I gather them.”[/color]

The god rubbed at his eyes, feeling strange. The gleam of the fortunite that he’d been given caught his attention again. He seized the golden coin from where it’d rested on the table, played with it in his hands, and challenged the fae king, [color=#9E5020]“Another game?”[/color]

Kaelinor inclined his head, the grin softening into something quieter. “Long ago,” he said, voice steady, almost fond, “when humans were still raw things, barely shaped, I heard your lessons.” Fire taught hunger and warmth both. Stone taught endurance. Order taught obedience. “You were loud then too,” he added mildly, “and the world listened.”

He did not boast of survival. He simply stated it. Years piled on years, forests burned, seas vanished. Kaelinor walked through all of it, sometimes laughing, sometimes not, learning when to bend and when to slip between the cracks left behind by certainty. “I wasn’t clever,” he admitted, “just difficult to finish.” His eyes flicked briefly to the sack at Sarhush’s side, then back.

“At some point,” Kaelinor continued, spreading his hands, “I stopped surviving and started choosing.” He glanced around the Carnival, the light, the noise, the promise humming beneath it all. “Alechior offered a place where fire didn’t have to consume to matter, where risk could be shared instead of imposed. Where being happy is all that matters. True happiness.” He smiled again, smaller but truer. “That’s when I learned what happiness felt like, and why I stayed.”

[color=#9E5020]“One day I will find that place,”[/color] Sarhush decided aloud, intrigued by its description.

Kaelinor’s smile returned at once, as though it had only been waiting its turn. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head in agreement. “A game of chance, then. No skill to lean on, no strength to bully the outcome, no clever hands to tip the scales.” His gaze flicked to the fortunite as it danced between Sarhush’s fingers. “Only knowing when to trust the fall.”

He spread his hands, palms open, empty. “No boards to rig. No rules to twist. No one to blame but the moment itself.” The Carnival seemed to hold its breath around them, lantern flames steady, music thinning just enough to listen. “A game so fair,” Kaelinor finished, eyes gleaming, “that even victory won’t be able to explain itself.”

"I'll let you choose this time." he added with a sly grin.

Sarhush smirked. [color=#9E5020]“What you see as chance or chaos is just a void has not yet been ordered and filled,”[/color] he asserted. But to declare the impossibility of such a game, or admit defeat in even conceiving one, was unacceptable. So he pondered the concept of chance until he came up with an idea.

[color=#9E5020]“There are three primal ways to shape the world,”[/color] he began to explain, [color=#9E5020]“One can crush, cut, or bind: that is the hammer, the knife, and the rope. The hammer smashes the knife; the knife cuts the rope; the rope entangles he who holds the hammer. The game is that we will each choose our tool simultaneously, and see who triumphs.”[/color]

Kaelinor tilted his head, listening with an expression of polite interest that slowly, turned amused. “That’s not chance,” he said firmly. “That’s order wearing a blindfold and pretending it can’t see.” His eyes flicked back to Sarhush’s face, bright with something teasing but not dismissive. The god only scoffed. “If you speak of chaos as a void waiting to be filled, then you truly haven’t met Alechior yet. Chance isn’t empty. It’s playful. It bites back.”

He stepped closer to the table, close enough that the heat of the lanterns and the lingering warmth of fire still pressed between them. “But,” Kaelinor added, spreading his hands, “I like this. Simple. Clean. No space to argue once it’s done. Three tools, one moment, no revisions.” The Carnival seemed to lean in with him, the noise around them thinning, attention narrowing as the lights around them as if put under a spotlight. “Very well,” he said. Together, they began to count down aloud to the moment. [i]Three, two, one…[/i]

Kaelinor’s fingers straightened into a line, his grin returning, sharp and delighted. “Knife.”

In the exact same moment, Sarhush’s hand had balled into a fist. [color=#9E5020]“Hammer,”[/color] he’d boomed over the sound of the fae’s own declaration. The god was smug, smirking as Kaelinor tossed him a second fortunite coin.

“I like this. One more? C’mon. Another one! Another one!” Kaelinor said with a grin that seemed to grow wider by the second.

[hider=Summary]
Sarhush is bantering with some of his Patron buddies as they travel to check up on Oxen the Strong again and reclaim more Mes. Sarhush is also an avid student, studying the Ideal of Fire and trying to convince the Patron of Fire to acknowledge him as master!

Fire says he’s got a long way to go. As they hike through a fiery hellscape of a forest (of course they burn everything they pass), Sarhush hears some odd noise and accidentally stumbles into the Carnival, leaving behind his Patron buddies.

He’s confused and then fascinated by what's inside the Carnival. He’s never seen so many people, and never experienced music or alcohol. Initially suspicious of the latter, he takes a great liking to it.

Kaelinor notices Sarhush’s coming and they play some games. In the first one each tries to make the other laugh with a joke, but despite their best efforts, neither cracks. They end up philosophizing a bit about fire while Sarhush burns his joke’s little prop. Kaelinor briefly touches the Me of Fire at Sarhush’s offering, and for a moment he’s a dragon.

But then the gambling begins in earnest…

[hider=Conviction Expenditures]
Sarhush is continuing in his efforts to master his understanding of Fire, which will mean ultimately adopting it as a second portfolio. 
[b]2 conviction[/b] is spent towards that goal. 
He's still got a ways to go.
[/hider]
[/hider]