Timemaster

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🎭 Lionel of the Juggling Turn 🎲

The boy’s name was Lionel, once spoken softly by a tired mother, now carried a little differently on his tongue. He stumbled forward out of the shimmer of color and sound, feet touching earth, breath stopping as the world settled. When he turned back, expecting ribbons of light or laughter, there was only a house. A plain thing. Wattle walls, a low roof, smoke curling from a hole in the top. The Carnival was gone as if it had never been.

A few startled yelps cut through the air. Someone gasped. Someone else dropped a basket. Eyes fixed on him, as villagers took in the strange boy who had appeared where no boy had stood before. Lionel froze, heart thudding, hands half-raised in a reflex he no longer quite needed. He felt taller than he remembered, lighter too, as if the ground was politely asking him to stay rather than demanding it. Then the moment broke.

A trader laughed nervously and shook his head. Another voice muttered about tricks and wandering spirits. Life, relentless and incurious, surged back into motion. People stepped around him, not away, just around, carts creaking, voices overlapping, the smells of animals, sweat, smoke and food. Lionel of the Juggling Turn let himself be carried with them, slipping into the flow.

As he walked, he became aware of himself in pieces. His scars, once clumsy marks of childhood, were gone, replaced by smooth skin that still remembered them. His reflection flickered in a polished bowl on a trader’s stall, not alien, not perfect, just better, like a story told by someone who loved it.

The feeling in his chest, warm and bright, pulsed in time with music that wasn’t there. He smiled without quite meaning to. People met his eyes and held them a second longer than they should have. A woman haggling over dried fruit laughed at nothing at all. Two children stopped arguing and stared at him, then at each other, then ran off grinning as if they had shared a secret. By the time he reached the center of the village, no one was watching him anymore.

He was just another figure among many, another child, another curiosity soon forgotten. Lionel of the Juggling Turn rested a hand against his chest, steadying himself and thought of doors that were not doors, of games that mattered because they were played, of laughter that chose you back. Somewhere, far away and very close, the Carnival breathed. And Lionel, newly fae, took his first steps into the world, ready to ask a simple question that could change everything.

Lionel of the Juggling Turn did not notice the sadness at first. Amid the noise of voices and the clatter of trade, something tugged at him, a dull ache that did not belong to him. It was heavier than the small worries he brushed past every moment, heavier than hunger or irritation or fatigue. This was deeper. Hollow. It made his chest tighten in answer.

He slowed, then turned, letting the feeling guide him. It was not a sound or a sight but a pressure, pulling him the way a scent pulls a hunting hound. Each step sharpened it. The warmth he carried from the Carnival dimmed slightly, focusing, narrowing in on a single source. Lionel of the Juggling Turn followed, weaving between people, past stacked baskets and tethered animals, his path growing clearer with every breath.

The crowd thinned near the edge of the village. There, beside a low fence and a heap of discarded tools, sat a woman with her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook in small, broken motions. The sadness rolled off her in waves, so strong it made Lionel stop a few steps away as if he had reached the edge of something fragile.

He watched her for a moment, uncertain. This was not a game. There was no laughter here, no thrill of risk, no spark of challenge. And yet, the pull was undeniable. He felt, instinctively, that leaving would be wrong in a way he could not explain.

Lionel approached slowly, careful not to startle her. He crouched slightly so his shadow would not loom and spoke gently, his voice still carrying the softness of a child, though steadier now. “Hey,” he said, sincere, “what’s wrong?”

The woman looked up sharply when he spoke, eyes red and unfocused. For a moment she seemed confused, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to notice her at all. Then her expression hardened, embarrassment and grief tangling together. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, waving a hand at him without looking directly. “Go on now. Find your parents. This isn’t a place for children.”

Lionel hesitated, then nodded as if he understood, taking a step back. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he bent down and scooped up three small stones from the dirt, testing their weight in his palms. The woman frowned, watching despite herself. “I said go,” she muttered, her voice thinner now, less certain.

Without a word, Lionel tossed one stone into the air, then another, then the third. They arced clumsily at first, almost dropping, before settling into an uneven rhythm. It was not graceful. It was messy, exaggerated, clearly on purpose. His tongue stuck out in concentration, brows furrowed as if this were the most serious task in the world.

He pushed it too far. One stone slipped, bounced off his forehead with a dull clack and fell to the ground. Lionel froze, eyes wide, then slowly crossed them as if trying to look at the spot it had struck. He wobbled in place, knees bending, arms flailing in an overly dramatic attempt to stay upright.

A sound escaped the woman before she could stop it. A short laugh, sharp and surprised, like something breaking through ice. She clapped a hand over her mouth, startled by herself, then let out another breath that was almost a chuckle. The tension in her shoulders eased just a bit.

Lionel grinned, rubbing his head and giving her an exaggerated bow. The sadness did not vanish, not entirely, but it loosened. For the first time since he had followed the ache to her side, the pull inside him softened, as if he had taken the first right step. As the laughter faded, Lionel tilted his head and looked up at her again, eyes bright but steady now. “So,” he said gently, as if the word itself were a second attempt at the question. “What really happened?” He did not press, did not rush. He simply waited, hands folded behind his back like a child expecting a story, not a confession.

She looked away toward the road beyond the village, where wagons sometimes came and sometimes never did. “A caravan,” she said quietly. “My husband went with it. Our child too. Traders, guards, families, all of them heading east.” Her fingers curled into her sleeves. “They were attacked. Slavers. That’s what the survivors said.” Her voice cracked at the word. “The chief told me it’s too dangerous. Said we can’t spare people. That they’re probably already gone.”

Lionel frowned, not in sorrow but in thought, like someone rearranging pieces in his mind. “That doesn’t sound very fun,” he said at last, plainly. He took a step closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “I could bring them back. Your child. Your husband. d I’m very good at finding people who don’t want to be found.” She snapped her gaze back to him, disbelief flaring hot through the grief. “You’re a child,” she said sharply. “This isn’t a story. You can’t fix this with tricks.” Her hands trembled now, anger and hope crashing together in equal measure. “Don’t play with me.”

“I won’t,” Lionel replied and for the first time there was something ancient behind his smile. “But I will play with you.” He gestured between them, then down at the ground. “A game. Just one. If you win, I go and bring them back. No songs, no stories, no lies.” Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “And if you win?” she asked, already knowing there would be a cost.

Lionel’s grin returned, softer this time. “Then you talk,” he said. “You tell people about Alechior's Carnival. About the games. About the joy you can find when the world says no.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing at all. “That’s it. No blood. No pain. Just words, spread where they’re needed.”

Silence stretched between them. The village sounds crept back in around the edges, footsteps, barter, distant voices. At last, the woman wiped her eyes and looked down at him, really looked. “What kind of game?” she asked. Lionel crouched and picked up three small pebbles from the dirt, smooth enough to roll but plain enough to mean nothing on their own. He held them out on his palm. “We keep it simple,” he said. “Chance only. No clever hands, no tricks.”

He closed his fist around them, shook once, then hid his hands behind his back. “Left or right. Three times. Best of three wins.” As he spoke, the air around them subtly shifted. Sounds dulled, colors sharpened. It felt like standing just inside a warm tent while the world continued outside, slightly muted. The Carnival, thin as breath, had taken notice.

The woman hesitated, then pointed. “Left.” Lionel opened his hand. Empty. He opened the other. A pebble rested there, pale and unassuming. For a heartbeat nothing happened, then the boundary settled fully. The ground seemed firmer, the air brighter, as if the space itself had agreed to watch. Lionel blinked, then laughed once, light and honest.

“You win the first,” he said. “Good start.” They reset. Lionel gathered the stones again, rolling them between his fingers before hiding his hands once more. She closed her eyes, breathed and pointed again. Lionel opened his hand. A pebble lay there. This time, when he smiled, it carried something sharper. “Mine,” he said simply. The space hummed, approving.

The final round lingered longer than the others. Lionel felt the pull of it in his chest, the way the Carnival always leaned closer at the edge of a decision. He shook the stones and hid his hands but this time he felt oddly hollow, like something was already slipping loose. The woman stared at him, then at his hands, then laughed softly, almost to herself. She pointed.

Lionel opened his hand. Empty. The other followed, revealing the last pebble. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the air pressed inward, gently but firmly, sealing the result. The Carnival withdrew its attention as quickly as it had given it, leaving only the echo of certainty behind.

Lionel’s smile did not fade but it changed. Somewhere deep in his mind, a pressure bloomed, sudden and unavoidable. A thought, no, a need, looping endlessly. Find them. Find them. It was not a command spoken aloud, but a tune he could not stop hearing, like a song remembered too late at night, just as sleep was almost within reach.

He straightened, breath steady despite the pulse behind his eyes. The impulse did not hurt but it would not be ignored. It threaded through him, tied to the woman’s win, bound by the game’s simple rules. He nodded once, solemn now. “Alright,” he said. “You’ve won.”

The woman stared at him, hope and fear colliding on her face. The space around them felt normal again, the village noise rushing back in, but Lionel remained still, listening to that quiet, relentless melody in his head. He looked up at her, eyes bright with promise. “I’m going to bring them back,” he said, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. The woman blinked, the moment catching up to her all at once.

She shook her head, half laughing, half crying and waved her hands in front of her. “No, no, it’s fine,” she said quickly. “You’ve done enough already. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. It was just a game. You’re just a child, I don’t expect you to fix what grown folk couldn’t.” Her voice softened, trying to undo the weight of what had just settled.

Lionel stepped closer, close enough that she finally noticed how still he was. Not scared. Not unsure. Just focused. “No,” he said, gently but firmly, cutting her off mid-sentence. “It was not just a game.” His smile was gone now, replaced by something calm and unyielding. “You played with a Fae. The Carnival watched. That means it binds.”

She opened her mouth again, but Lionel continued before she could speak. “I will find them,” he said. There was no pride in it, no bravado. Just fact. “Dead or alive. The game does not care which, only that the promise is kept.” For the first time, the woman felt a chill run through her, not fear of him, but awe at the certainty in his voice.

Her hands trembled as she pointed down the dirt road leading away from the village. “The caravan,” she said quietly. “They were last seen near the trade path, by the split stones. That’s where the slavers were spotted.” Saying it aloud made it real again.

Lionel nodded once, committing the words to memory. He did not say goodbye. He turned and ran, small feet striking the ground faster than they should have, already following the pull in his chest like a hound on a scent. Behind him, the woman watched until he vanished from sight, only then realizing that the game had already begun moving the world on her behalf.

The trade path ended in silence. The stones there were old and split down the middle like broken teeth, half-swallowed by dirt and weeds. Lionel slowed as he reached them. Something had happened here. The ground was scuffed, churned where feet had scrambled, where weight had been dragged instead of carried.

Even without knowing why, his skin prickled. He crouched, small hands brushing over the dirt. He did not know how to track. No lessons, no tricks, no names for signs. But his eyes caught things that felt obvious once seen. A line pressed too deep into the soil, like a cart wheel forced off the path. Threads of cloth snagged on thorny brush, fluttering faintly in the wind.

Lionel leaned closer, head tilted, letting his gaze soften instead of narrowing. Footprints overlapped, some light, some heavy. Too many for a normal caravan. Some prints walked calmly. Others dug in, heels biting deep, toes skidding forward. Fear left marks, he realized, even if he did not have words for it. He stood and followed the direction the ground seemed to pull him toward. Every few steps, he stopped, scanning ahead, then back, then to the sides.

A broken branch pointed the way it had been forced aside. Flattened grass told him which way bodies had passed more than once. His eyes picked up differences in color, damp earth against dry, fresh disturbance against old stillness.

The further he went, the clearer it became. The tracks veered off the trade path and into rougher land. Lionel felt the tug in his chest tighten, the same rhythm as before, steady and insistent. This was right. This was forward. He did not question it. Without meaning to, he began to hum under his breath, a soft tune with no words, keeping time with his steps. He followed the marks left behind, not as a hunter, not as a warrior, but as something new, guided by sharper sight and a promise that refused to loosen its grip.

The tracks ended too cleanly. One step they were there, pressed into dirt and crushed leaves, the next the ground lay untouched, smooth as if nothing had ever passed through. Lionel stopped short, heart thudding. The light dimmed beneath the canopy, shadows growing thick and uneven as dusk crept in. His eyes searched the ground again, slower now but there was nothing left to follow.

Something tightened in his chest instead. Not fear. Not exactly. A hollow ache, like laughter cut short. The lack of merriment pressed against him from all sides, heavier than the dark. He drew in a breath and let the feeling guide him, turning his head slightly. There. A pull, faint but sure, tugging him away from the path and deeper into the trees.

He moved carefully, branches brushing his shoulders. The forest smelled of damp earth and old leaves, but beneath it lingered something sour. Sweat. Fear. The sadness grew stronger with every pace. Lionel dropped low as the trees thinned. Ahead, a faint glow flickered between trunks, firelight wavering against rough shapes. He crawled the last few steps and pressed himself behind a fallen log, peering through splintered wood. A makeshift camp lay before him. A fire burned at its center, fed with snapped branches and half-dried logs.

Around it moved men with clubs and sharpened sticks, their shadows long and warped across the ground. There were about ten of them, laughing too loud, voices sharp and careless.

Beyond them, tied with thick rope, were the captives. Four children huddled together, eyes wide and faces streaked with dirt and tears. Two adult men sat slumped nearby, wrists bound behind them, shoulders sagging with exhaustion with multiple visible bruises on their faces. The sadness Lionel felt slammed into him all at once, suffocating.

He stayed still, breath shallow, heart racing. The camp was real. The game was real. And somewhere inside him, beneath the fear, the promise stirred again, steady and unyielding, urging him not to turn away. Lionel stayed crouched behind the log, watching the rhythm of the camp. Who moved where. Who laughed loudest. Who kept their eyes on the captives and who didn’t. Ten slavers, all armed, all alert enough that a straight charge would end with him broken on the ground.

He was stronger than a human, faster too, but not invincible. Not like this. Not against numbers. He pressed his lips together, thinking. Games, not blades. Chance, not force. Alechior’s lesson stirred faintly in his mind, half memory, half instinct. This was not a problem to be solved with strength. It was one to be played. Still, the how refused to come, and the sadness in his chest pulsed impatiently, urging him to hurry.

Then the air shifted.

It was subtle at first, a warmth brushing his skin, like sunlight through leaves that were not there. The forest around him seemed to lean inward, branches creaking. Between two trees, wood and vine curled together, an archway. No light spilled through it, yet it was unmistakable. The Carnival was near.

The familiar feeling washed over him in a wave. Laughter remembered. Music half-heard. That deep, impossible happiness that drowned out fear. Lionel let out a slow breath, shoulders loosening despite himself. He had not called for the gate, not consciously, but the game had already begun. A plan clicked into place. He would not fight them. He would invite them. A distraction, loud enough, tempting enough, to draw eyes and feet. A moment of curiosity, of greed, of mockery. All he needed was one step across that threshold.

Let the Carnival do the rest.

Even if it only took a few of them, it would be enough. Confusion would spread. Ropes could be cut. Children could run. Lionel’s fingers curled into the bark beneath him as he steadied himself. This was what he was meant for. He glanced once more at the captives, then at the slavers and finally at the archway, humming softly to itself behind him. A grin tugged at his lips. Time to make a game out of monsters.

Lionel rose from his hiding place and stepped into the open without haste, like a child who had wandered somewhere he should not be. He scooped a handful of stones from the ground and began to toss them lazily into the air, one after another, humming a tune that did not belong to the forest. The notes were wrong for the night, too bright, too playful. One of the stones vanished mid-arc, swallowed by nothing at all, only to drop back into his palm a heartbeat later. He smiled as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

A shout went up from the camp. Then another. Spears lifted. Clubs were hefted. Five of the slavers turned as one, eyes narrowing at the sight of a lone boy juggling rocks where no boy should be. Lionel let one stone slip, letting it bonk him squarely on the forehead. He staggered back dramatically and laughed, rubbing his head as though it truly hurt.

“See?” he called, voice carrying. “Not even sharp! You can try if you want.”

Curiosity beat caution. It always did. The first slaver stepped forward, then another, drawn by the sound, by the strangeness of it. Lionel backed away as they advanced, each step slow, leading them not away from the camp but sideways, toward the archway that now stood fully formed between the trees. Leaves rustled though there was no wind. The air shimmered faintly, warm and inviting.

“What kind of trick is this?” one of them barked, but there was laughter in his voice now, rough and eager. Lionel shrugged and tossed a stone through the archway. It vanished with a soft, musical chime, like a bell rung far away. The sound made the men pause, then grin. One of them stepped through without thinking, swatting at the air as though expecting resistance.

He laughed as he disappeared. The others followed, one by one, drawn in by mockery, by bravado, by the need to prove there was nothing to fear. Five slavers crossed the threshold, their shapes swallowed by twisting light and shadow, their voices fading into something louder, stranger, threaded with distant music. The archway pulsed.

Behind Lionel, the remaining five slavers cursed and spread out, circling the camp, searching the tree line for threats that were no longer there. Their attention was everywhere except where it mattered. Ropes lay forgotten. The captives breathed shallow and fast, eyes wide. Lionel slipped back into the shadows, heart hammering, the echo of laughter ringing faintly in his ears.

The game was in motion now, and the Carnival had taken its first move. Lionel moved low and fast, his steps light enough that the dry leaves barely made a sound beneath his feet. The slavers were distracted, their backs turned as they argued and shouted to one another, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The campfire cracked and popped, throwing long shadows across the ground. Lionel slipped between them.

He reached the first set of ropes and did not hesitate. His fingers closed around the twisted fibers and pulled. Where mortal hands, especially a child's, would have struggled, the cords parted with a soft, dull snap. The child nearest him gasped, a sharp intake of breath that Lionel stilled with a quick shake of his head and a finger to his lips. He smiled, small and reassuring.

One by one, the bindings fell away. The captives were stiff, cramped, shaking but they moved when Lionel urged them, silent as they could manage. He guided them toward the treeline, keeping his body between them and the camp, listening to the slavers’ footsteps as they drew closer, suspicion finally blooming into alarm. A shout rang out behind him.

A spear thudded into the dirt where he had stood a moment earlier. Lionel pushed the last freed slave forward, all but throwing them into the cover of the forest. “Run,” he whispered fiercely, the word sharp with command. “Run to the village. Do not stop. Do not look back.”

The forest swallowed them. Branches bent aside, shadows closing like a curtain. The moment the last figure vanished into the trees, Lionel turned, meeting the slavers’ furious stares with a grin that was far too calm for a boy in his position. Then he bolted, not toward the village but deeper into the forest, laughter trailing behind him like a challenge.

By the time the slavers reached the edge of the camp, there was nothing left but snapped ropes, fading footprints and the unsettling sense that something very important had just slipped through their fingers.

A few hours later, the village lights came into view, small fires and lamps glowing like scattered stars against the dark. The freed slaves stumbled toward them, half-running, half-falling, driven by fear and hope in equal measure. They did not look back, just as Lionel had told them, though more than once one of them nearly did, a sob catching in their throat before the village gates pulled them onward. Lionel followed at a distance, never close enough to be seen, never far enough to lose them.

He moved through the brush like a shadow stitched to their heels, eyes sharp, ears tuned for pursuit. Each time one of them faltered, he felt it, a tug in his chest and urged them forward with a soft whistle or the crack of a branch in the right direction. No slavers came. The forest stayed quiet.

When the villagers cried out and rushed to meet the returnees, Lionel stopped at the edge of the trees. He watched as hands grabbed shoulders, as names were shouted and answered, as tears flowed freely now that safety had a shape and a sound. The woman was there, he could feel her before he saw her, the hollow ache in her chest rushing outward in a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief.

The moment she found her husband and child, something settled inside Lionel. Not snapped, not closed but clicked into place, like the final note of a song resolving at last. The pull in his mind eased. The promise was kept.

Warmth spread through him, starting behind his ribs and blooming outward. It was not loud joy, not laughter or spectacle, but a deep, quiet happiness that soaked into his bones. The Carnival answered, approving, pleased. Somewhere unseen, the game marked itself complete.

Lionel smiled to himself from the treeline, turned away from the village lights, and vanished back into the dark, already listening for the next place where merriment was missing.

Summary

First post of the newly made Fae children introduces Lionel of the Juggling Turn. He appears in a village, loses a game, saves people from slavers.

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🎲 𝒜𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓇 🎺

They woke to music before sight, a low rhythm that felt like it was humming through their bones rather than their ears. When their eyes finally opened, it was to a place tucked away from the Carnival’s main stalls, a hidden hollow of lantern-light and fabric walls, like the inside of a tent made from nothing. The air was warm and sweet, scented with fruits and something else they could not name. For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Then one of the children gasped.

Hands came into view, longer than before, fingers elegant and light. Skin caught the lantern glow differently now, smoother, almost luminous. Another child laughed, startled, as they pushed themselves upright and felt the unfamiliar ease of their body, the way it obeyed without strain. Ears brushed shoulders where they had never reached before. They felt like potential itself grew inside them, like standing at the top of a hill with the wind urging them forward.

There was no fear. That was the strangest part. The memory of what they had been was still there, distant but intact, like a story they once told often and no longer needed to repeat. One of them flexed then spun in place, delight bubbling up into a bright laugh. Another touched their own face, tracing cheekbones that felt familiar and new all at once. They grinned at one another, recognizing themselves and something more.

Applause broke out from just beyond the lantern ring. “Lovely,” came a voice, warm as spiced wine and sharp as a coin flip midair. “Absolutely lovely timing too. You always wake up right when the music hits its best part.” From between two hanging banners stepped Alechior, dressed in layered color and movement, eyes alight with pride. “If you’d slept any longer, I’d have had to start charging admission.”

They turned toward them as one, instinctively, as though some part of them already knew this presence. Alechior went into an exaggerated bow, one hand pressed to their chest. “Welcome,” they said, smiling wide. “You chose joy when it wasn’t easy. You chose play when the world offered you very little else. That’s all it ever takes.” Their gaze softened. “Everything you feel right now? That’s yours. No enchantment. No trick.”

Alechior straightened and gestured broadly toward the unseen sprawl of the Carnival beyond the walls. Music swelled, distant laughter threading through it. “Out there is risk, wonder, terrible ideas, excellent games and mistakes you will make gloriously,” they said. “You are not perfect. You are not safe. But you are free to laugh, to wager, to lose and to try again.” Their grin turned playful once more. “Now then. Stretch. Get used to the ears. And when you’re ready, the Carnival is waiting.”

They clapped their hands once, sharply and the sound carried farther than it should have. The lanterns brightened in response, as if leaning in to listen. “Now,” they said, pacing slowly before the newly awakened Fae, “you’ve got the bodies, the smiles, the instincts. Very important things.” They stopped, turned on a heel and tilted their head. “But are you ready for the part that makes it interesting?”

They let the question hang, not pressing, not rushing. The Carnival itself seemed to hush a fraction, like a crowd waiting for the reveal of a trick. “Fun,” Alechior continued lightly, “is not just laughter. It’s tension. Stakes. That delicious moment where something might go terribly wrong and you choose to play anyway.” Their voice softened, coaxing rather than commanding. “What I offer you is not power to win. It is power to play.”

They stepped closer and each child felt the weight of attention settle on them in turn, not heavy, but precise. “This gift will let you invite the world to the table,” Alechior said. “To frame a moment as a game, to set rules that matter, to let chance breathe between choices. You won’t force anyone. You won’t drag them in.” A small, knowing smile. “But when someone agrees, truly agrees, the game will hold.”

Alechior spread their hands, palms up and something unseen stirred between them, like the pause before dice strike wood. “You will feel when it’s right. When joy, risk and consent line up just so. That is when the magic listens.” Their eyes flicked from face to face. “It will tire you if you push it. It will punish you if you cheat. And it will abandon you if you forget that fun is the point.”

They straightened, grin widening. “So,” Alechior said brightly, “are you ready for your gift?” The music swelled again, playful and daring. “Because once you have it, nothing is ever quite boring again. And trust me,” they added, with a conspiratorial wink, “the world is desperate to be less boring.”

Alechior inhaled, theatrically, and the Carnival answered. Lantern light bent inward, music thinned into a single sustained note and the air itself seemed to tighten, like a held breath before a cheer. Color deepened, shadows sharpened and from Alechior’s chest spilled a soft radiance, not blinding, but impossible to ignore. It was divine power, yes but steeped in laughter, soaked through with risk and delight, tuned precisely to this place.

They lifted one hand and the ground beneath the children responded. The boards hummed faintly, the banners stirred without wind and distant games flared brighter for a heartbeat, as if every wager ever made was being remembered at once. Alechior did not force the power outward. They drew it in first, pulling from the endless revel of the Carnival, from every cheer, every gasp, every coinless bet and foolish dare. The realm fed its god gladly.

“Pay attention,” Alechior said, voice layered, as though spoken by many throats at once. “This is not mine alone.” They pressed their palm forward and the gathered power flowed like a living thing, branching, dividing cleanly as it reached the waiting Fae. It did not strike. It settled. Sank in. Chose them as much as they accepted it.

The children gasped as the connection snapped into place. They felt the Carnival not just around them but within them even more deeply than before. A constant pull, a familiar warmth, like knowing where home is without looking. They could sense games being played far away, feel tension rise and fall, taste the difference between honest chance and a stacked hand. For a breathless moment, they understood what it meant to belong to something vast and joyful.

Light bled through their skin, soft gold, outlining ears, fingers, smiles too wide to hide. It was not permanent, not meant to be. A flare, a declaration. The glow pulsed once, twice and laughter bubbled up among them, startled and bright, as the power settled deeper, quieter, becoming instinct rather than spectacle.

Far from them, a thin ribbon of that same power slipped free, playful and precise. It wound through the Carnival’s paths and found Kaelinor at Sarhush's table, like a familiar tune finding the right ear. He felt it as a sudden warmth behind the eyes, a deepened clarity, the sense that the rules he loved had just gained another layer. Not strength, exactly. Permission.

As the light faded, Alechior exhaled, satisfied. The Carnival relaxed with them, music resuming its full, unruly chorus. “There,” they said, grin returning, divine weight easing back into mischief. “Your first gift. Don’t waste it.” Their eyes sparkled as they looked over the newly made Fae. Alechior stepped closer, the last traces of glow still clinging to the children like fading sparks. Their voice lowered, not in threat, but in intimacy, the tone of someone sharing a secret worth keeping. “Now comes the part where you earn it,” they said.

They gestured outward, and for a moment the sounds of the Carnival quietened, as if listening in. “You will go into the world,” Alechior continued, “and you will offer games. Not tricks. Not traps. Games. If they laugh, if they lean in, if they stay even when the odds turn against them, then you tell them about this place. You tell them there is somewhere that understands that joy and risk are the same language.”

Alechior’s smile sharpened, just a touch. “If they only want a single wager, a harmless contest, that is yours to give. If they hunger for something greater, for contracts that can bend years, luck, memory, or fate itself, then you send them onward. The Game Masters will know what to do. Not everyone deserves that table.”

“You are not merely messengers,” they said. “You may make contracts yourselves, small and fair, bound by play and consent, wherever you go. A game of chance, a test of nerve, a wager of time or trinkets, these are yours to offer. Treat each bargain as part of the Carnival’s breath, never forced, never hidden, and never without a real choice. Through you, the game walks the world.”

They straightened, hands folding behind their back. “You are not judges. You are not enforcers. You are hosts. Watch how they play. Watch how they lose. Watch whether they curse the game or thank it. That will tell you everything you need to know.”

Their gaze swept across the children one last time, warm and expectant. “Spread the word. Let the world remember how to play. And do not worry,” Alechior added lightly, “the Carnival is very good at keeping track of its own.”

With a sharp clap, the space around them folded and split. Gates bloomed open all at once, archways of light and fabric and shifting symbol, each leading somewhere different in Ashuru. Forest paths, riverbanks, dusty crossroads, half-built towns. The children looked to one another, waved with bright, unsteady smiles, and stepped through, laughter trailing behind them as the gates closed one by one.

Summary & Actions

As the first natural Fae are "born" Alechior appears and offers them a gift. A gift of Magic. The Magic of Fae Contracts. Then they send the newly made fae out into the world with a mission.

Actions

-3 Conviction - Surreal - To offer the Fae, magic. Game magic, Fae magic, Contractual Magic!

Click me for Fae Magic

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

❚█══Villagxor══█❚

&

🎲 𝒜𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓇 🎺

Gamblerdise had grown in Alechior's absence. What began as a loose gathering around chance and challenge had bloomed into something restless and crowded, a place that would soon be called town. Paths were trampled into the earth by constant footfall, tents and huts were sprouting like grass, fires burned day and night. The air was thick with voices, arguments, laughter and the sounds of games being tested again and again. Chance had drawn people here and now it struggled to hold them all.

Traders arrived weekly, bearing what their backs and beasts could manage. Furs, hides, meat, baskets of grain, carved bones, polished stone, strange fruits wrapped in leaves. Nothing passed from hand to hand without some form of contest. Barter ruled everything but barter alone was never enough. A game decided whose grain was worth more, whose tools were sharper, whose goods were taken now and whose would wait. Skill mattered. Nerve mattered more.

Those who wished to stay came with fewer goods and stronger intent. They staked claims to ground by wager. A stretch of packed earth, a spot near water, a place close to the fires, all won or lost through agreed rules and witnessed outcomes. Disputes over shelters, storage pits or shared space were settled the same way. The loser accepted it or left. The winner built again.

The curious were everywhere. They wandered around watching judgments rendered by throws, races, balances and stranger tests that barely resembled games at all. Some laughed and called it foolishness. Some watched quietly, learning. Most lost something small, a bundle of goods, a promise of future trade, a night’s labor owed and walked away wiser. Fairness here was never gentle but it was always clear and agreed upon.

There was no permanence yet, only momentum. New games appeared as quickly as old ones faded, spoken into being by someone bold enough to propose them and a crowd willing to try. Some were simple tests of strength or patience. Others made sense only to the one who invented them, yet still drew participants. If rules were stated and all agreed, then the game would be played.

Gamblerdise did not claim order, only honesty. Outcomes were binding. Excuses were worthless. In the press of bodies and the churn of wagers, something like structure began to form.. This was not a town, not yet but it was becoming a place where lives bent around risk and where the future itself felt like a game waiting to be played.

And yet problems arose daily. The main one being the buy or sell of goods. Bartering had begun to break at the edges. What once felt fluid and intuitive now stalled conversations and soured moods. One hunter offered a whole animal and was told it was worth less than a basket of fruit by one trader, more than three by another. The same goods changed value depending on who stood across the fire, who was watching and which game had been played most recently. Arguments lingered longer. Wagers ended without satisfaction. Chance could decide a winner but it could not explain why the stakes felt wrong.

The questions multiplied faster than answers. Was one beast equal to two baskets of roots or three or none at all? Did age matter? Size? Hunger? A tool traded today might secure shelter, yet fail to earn a meal tomorrow. Games still decided outcomes but the worth of what was risked had become unstable, slippery as a wet fish. Even fair rules could not stop the sense that something was missing.

This uncertainty crept into every exchange. People hesitated before agreeing to stakes. Some demanded more elaborate games, hoping complexity would replace clarity. Others refused to play at all, clinging to what they had and watching the crowds with suspicion. Gamblerdise thrived on risk but risk without measure began to feel less like play and more like chaos.

At the heart of the settlement, the temple rose around the Anchor. It was no solemn place of silence. Laughter echoed along its platforms, music drifted upward and games were played even on its steps. It was here that Villagxor stood, apart from the noise.

He prayed, hoping Alechior would answer. Alechior had been absent or at least unreachable, lost in the vastness of the Carnival beyond this growing place. Villagxor spoke of disputes, of stalled trades, of games that ended cleanly but solved nothing. He asked who decided worth and whether chance alone could carry that burden.

“What do we do,” he asked the Anchor, voice carrying upward, “when the game is fai, but the stakes are not? Please answer me.” He did not demand an answer, only guidance. Gamblerdise was changing and Villagxor feared that without something new, the joy of risk would be drowned beneath confusion and violence would soon follow. The prayer lingered in the air, waiting for Alechior to notice.

A hallway bent behind him, boards creaking into place as if remembering themselves late. From it stepped Alechior and behind them a door lingered half-open to somewhere louder, brighter. Music spilled through in a half-remembered rhythm, the smell of roasted food and sharp alcohol rolling out in a warm wave. With a lazy step forward, Alechior let the door swing shut on its own and as it closed the sound vanished, the scent gone and the passage behind them unraveled into nothing.

They looked entirely unbothered by the prayer, by the waiting, by the long silence that had preceded their arrival. Alechior stretched, glanced at the Anchor as though checking an old friend was still floating where it should be then smiled at Villagxor. “If I vanish,” they said lightly, “assume I am busy making a mess elsewhere. If I do not return immediately, assume the mess was impressive.” There was no apology in it, only cheer, as if absence were a favor.

Villagxor’s concerns barely slowed them. Alechior waved a hand at the idea of being left unguided, laughter ringing through the motion. “Guidance is overrated,” they said. “It makes people look at the signpost instead of the road. Besides, you did not stop playing while I was gone. That tells me everything worked well enough.” Their eyes gleamed as they finally focused on him properly. “Now,” they added, “you are upset about worth. That is much more interesting.”

They turned the question back with ease, like a coin flicked across knuckles. “What is anything worth,” Alechior asked, “when its value changes by hunger, fear, pride, or a bad night’s sleep? You tried bartering. It did what it always does. It argued.” They paced slowly around the Anchor, fingers brushing the air near it without touching. “Games decide outcomes but stakes need memory. They need to be remembered tomorrow, not renegotiated every sunrise.”

Alechior stopped and grinned. “So you bend the rules. Politely.” They explained it simply. Goods would still exist, still be wagered, still be desired but they would no longer be the measure. Instead, worth would be written in Fortunite, a recorded favor of chance itself. Win a game, earn Fortunite. Lose, spend it. Not a thing you hold but a thing you are owed. The temple would remember it, the Anchor would witness it, and trusted keepers would tally it openly for all to see.

“It is banking,” Alechior finished, pleased, “but honest about what backs it. Not animals, not fruit, not promises but probability and participation.” They shrugged, already turning away. “People will still argue. That is fine. But they will argue about how to earn Fortunite, not what a goat feels like today.” With a final glance and a grin, Alechior added, “If that fails, we'll make a new game out of fixing it.” and laughed as if the outcome were already decided.

Villagxor frowned, as though the words had landed but refused to line up. Banking. Fortunite. Memory that was not memory. He looked from the Anchor to Alechior and back again, brow furrowing deeper. “I do not understand,” he admitted at last, voice echoing through the temple. “You speak of worth without things, of winning without holding. How does one trade what cannot be carried? How does a tally feed a family?”

Alechior blinked at him, once. Then twice. The smile crept back, wider this time, edged with mischief rather than patience. “Ah,” they said, almost fondly. “Right. You need the short path.” They brought their hands together in a sharp clap, the sound snapping through the air like a starting signal at a race.

For a breath, nothing happened. Then Villagxor’s eyes went wide. The world did not change around him, but something rearranged itself behind his eyes. Concepts slid into place fully formed. Storage of value, detached from goods. Exchange made consistent through agreed symbols. The idea of a neutral record keeper. Trust built not on belief but on transparency and repetition.

He staggered a half-step, steadying himself against the stone as images flooded in. Discs stamped from common Fortunite, simple at first, marked by weight and sign rather than beauty. Not valuable because of what they were made of but because everyone agreed they stood for Fortunite earned. He saw how games fed into it, how winnings became tallies, tallies became tokens and tokens became the language of trade. He saw disputes ending before they began, because numbers remembered better than people.

Villagxor took in a breath, long and sharp, as the last of it settled. “I… see it,” he said slowly, awe creeping into his tone. “The counting. The holding. The passing of worth without passing the thing itself.” He looked at his hands as if expecting to find a coin already resting there. “It is…terrifying and clean.”

Alechior watched him with obvious satisfaction, rocking back on their heels. “There we go,” they said cheerfully. “No ledgers yet, no fancy marks. Just memory, symbols and agreed nonsense. You'll refine it later.”

With that, they clasped their hands behind their head and started toward the edge of the temple. “Congratulations,” Alechior added over their shoulder. “You now understand banking and coinage at the exact same time humanity needs it,” they laughed. “All at once, far too late and with no way to unlearn it.”

They walked out of the temple together, the open air greeting them with the low murmur of Gamblerdise growing louder by the step. Behind them, the Anchor hovered in hummed quietly but Villagxor’s attention had already leapt ahead. He gestured broadly, pointing to shaded structures, half-built halls and open clearings. “There,” he said with confidence, “places where Fortunite could be held in mass. Not hidden, not hoarded but watched. Central. Seen by all.”

His steps quickened as the ideas kept coming, hands moving as if arranging invisible pieces on a board. He pointed again, this time toward clusters of craftsmen and traders arguing over bundles of goods. “Coins could be shaped nearby. Simple forms, consistent weight. Marked only enough to be known, not enough to invite worship.” There was no hesitation now, only momentum. “If they see them made, they will trust them. If they trust them, they will use them.”

Alechior listened, smiling, eyes bright with quiet amusement as they followed a step behind. “Careful,” they said lightly, “you’re starting to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing.” They glanced over the bustling town-to-be, already shifting under the weight of new rules. “Just remember, Villagxor. Once the game starts, it never really stops."

Summary/Actions

Gamblerdise is growing out of control and bartering doesn't really work anymore. Villagxor asks his forever eternal jester-god for guidance after they've been absent for quite some time and lo' and behold! Alechior makes their way there. Half by mistake-half because they actually listened to prayers given to them.

They teach Villagxor about coinage and banking.

-1 Conviction - Hazy - To teach Villagxor how to work the Fortunite into coins, how to weight them, to make some smaller pieces, others bigger etc.
-1 Conviction - Hazy - To teach Villagxor how banking works.

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

Death The Dark Side Of The Carnival Mercy

They entered the Carnival together, three by choice rather than chance, drawn by different hungers but bound by the same curiosity. One sought escape from a jilted lover , another from grief, the third from boredom. At first, the lights and laughter took them like everyone else. Music pressed into their bones, colors felt brighter and the games promised answers shaped like prizes. They laughed easily, too easily and for a time they forgot why they had come at all.

It was the third who noticed something was wrong. Not wrong like danger, but wrong like repetition. The same jokes circled back. The same dealer smiled the same way, every time. They spoke it aloud, half joking and the other two felt it click into place. Once named, the enchantment loosened. It did not break, but it thinned, enough for them to see the Carnival as it truly was, beautiful, hungry and patient.

Breaking free together took effort. They argued, tested each other, grounded themselves in shared memories the Carnival could not rewrite without resistance. It helped that they trusted one another. When one slipped, another pulled them back. They stopped chasing joy blindly and started choosing it, carefully. The lights dulled a bit around them. The games became games again, no longer commandments.

Then they began the quests for exit. The Carnival offered them with pleasure, each path fair and possible. Win this game without smiling. Cross this path without lying. Give up something you love willingly. They tried, together, each time. And each time, they failed. Not catastrophically, but just enough. A laugh escaped at the wrong moment. A truth bent out of kindness. A cherished thing was clutched a second too long.

At first, they treated it like bad luck. Then like a puzzle. They refined their approach, planned, rehearsed. They encouraged one another, calmed frustration, swore they were getting closer. The Carnival seemed pleased by this, if anything. New quests appeared, more elaborate, more personal. The exits stayed just out of reach, always visible, always denied.

Time became slippery. Days felt like hours, hours like weeks. They watched others pass through the Carnival and leave, changed or broken or blessed, while they remained. The enchantment no longer held their minds, but something else did. Investment. Pride. The quiet fear that if they stopped trying now, all the effort would mean nothing. They told each other it was fine. They were still together. That had to count for something.

The strain did not break all at once. It crept in slowly, through the way jokes stopped landing and encouragement began to sound rehearsed. One of them, the one who had come to escape the jilted lover, started keeping score. Every failure became someone’s fault. Every almost-success turned into proof that the others were holding him back. His laughter thinned into something sharp, and when he smiled, it no longer reached his eyes.

Arguments followed. Small at first, then louder. He accused them of enjoying the Carnival too much, of secretly wanting to stay. The others pushed back, tired, reminding him that they were all trapped together, that trust was the only reason they had come this far. That word, trust, seemed to snap something in him. He laughed once, bitter and hollow and said it was easy to preach patience when you still believed there was a door.

It happened fast. Too fast. In the middle of another exchange, his hands were suddenly on the throat of the one who had first noticed the enchantment. There was no warning, no buildup, just a flash of rage and a sickening crack. The body went limp immediately, eyes still open, surprise frozen.

The Carnival intervened.

The moment the neck snapped, the laughter died. Lights spluttered as if starved of air, colours bleeding out of the world until only bruised reds and amber remained. Music warped, slowing into something distorted and wrong, notes dragging like chains. The paths beneath their feet narrowed, curving inward. The corpse vanished between blinks. Violence had been offered and the Carnival answered in kind.

The air thickened as the space rejected them. Walls rose where there had been open stalls, fabric tents transformed into metal corridors. The smell of sugar and smoke curdled into rust and old sweat. Neither of them was touched, yet both felt unmistakable pressure, a guiding force nudging, herding, insisting. This was no punishment spoken aloud. It was simply where they belonged now.

They were pushed onward. Every path behind them sealed shut, lights snapping off one by one until forward was the only direction left. The man who had killed stumbled, rage long gone, replaced by dread. The other followed, grief burning hot enough to keep him moving. Somewhere far away, cheerful bells rang, mocking in their distance.

The corridor opened into a chamber shaped like an arena, though no seats awaited an audience. Chains hung from the ceiling, swaying despite the still air. In the center stood a contraption of wood and metal, part game table, part execution device, its purpose unclear in the way that made it worse. Masks emerged from the shadows, figures neither fully present nor absent, their voices layered and cheerful in the wrong way.

“Welcome,” they chimed together. “You have broken the rules. Now you will play properly.”

The game revealed itself slowly. Two levers on opposite sides of the room. A timer, already ticking. Each lever eased the suffering of the one who pulled it while increasing the danger for the other. Loss was implied everywhere. The masks tilted their heads in unison, delighted. “Survive,” they added lightly. “And you may yet return to the bright paths. Fail and you will learn why we discourage violence.”

The lights flared once, harsh and blinding, then dimmed again as the timer’s ticking grew louder.

One of the masked figures stepped forward, tapping the side of the contraption with a gloved finger. “We are not cruel,” it said and the others nodded in agreement. “We are fair.” The ticking slowed, just enough to be heard clearly and glowing script etched itself into the air between the two levers. The rules were plain. Each round would last one minute. Pulling a lever would grant the puller safety for that round, dulling pain, sealing wounds, steadying breath, while transferring the danger to the other. If neither lever was pulled, both would suffer equally. If both were pulled at once, the protections would cancel out and the machine would escalate.

The second rule followed. The game would continue until one of three conditions was met. One, a player conceded, in which case they would be removed from the game, alive but broken, ready for the next one and the other allowed to return to the brighter Carnival. Two, a player died, ending the game immediately. Or three, they both survived ten rounds without killing each other, at which point the Carnival would deem the lesson learned and release them. The masks clapped softly. “See?” one chimed. “Clear rules. Equal chances. What you do with them is entirely up to you.”

The minutes crawled by. Each round left its mark, not just on flesh but on resolve and it was the killer who broke first. His hands shook as the levers reset, the glow pulsing patiently. He laughed once, sharp and empty, then slumped forward. “I’m done,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I don’t want to win. I don’t want to play anymore.” The words rang louder than any scream could have, and the machine fell silent in response.

The masks turned toward him as one. There was no judgment in their posture, no anger, no satisfaction, only acknowledgment. “Concession accepted,” they said together, cheerful as hosts announcing a change in schedule. The restraints released him and he collapsed to the floor, gasping as the room’s cruelty peeled away from him like a bad dream. His wounds sealed enough to keep him alive, pain dulled but not erased, a reminder rather than a mercy.

The other man barely had time to react. The lights shifted, brightening around him alone, the oppressive walls drawing back as if embarrassed to have existed at all. A warm breeze swept through, carrying music, laughter, the familiar hum of harmless games and impossible prizes. He staggered as the floor beneath his feet, blood fading from his hands like it had never been there.

Behind him, the darker space closed in on the one who had conceded. The masks guided him gently, almost kindly, toward a narrowing passage where the lights were low and the air heavy with consequence. He was alive. He would remain so. But the Carnival would remember him, and he would remember the Carnival, every time he closed his eyes. That is, until the enchantment would be reapplied on his mind and the memories would disappear. Forever.

The killer was not dragged, nor thrown. He was escorted, politely, into a chamber that looked merciful at first glance. Clean lines. Clear light. A single mechanism at the center, simple enough to understand with one look. The rules were spoken softly, kindly, twice. Nothing hidden. Nothing rigged. It was possible to win. Entirely possible. The Masks would even show him how, demonstrating the motions with cheerful precision, like a tutor invested in a student’s success.

Then the game began, and the truth revealed itself. Each step forward demanded a choice that peeled something away from him, pride, certainty, self-justification. The pain was exact, not random. Every consequence tied directly to who he had been. The mechanism waited patiently between actions, allowing rest, allowing thought, allowing regret to bloom fully before asking for the next sacrifice.

By the end, shaking and bloodied, he understood the cruelty of it. This was not punishment. This was education. He could still win, even now, even like this. The exit stood open, visible, attainable. All it required was one final decision, honest and unbearable. The Carnival watched in silence, lights steady, rules fulfilled. Whatever happened next would be fair.

Summary

A trio makes it into the Carnival out of their own will. One of them is a murderer. One is dead. One wishes he was. One of them is regretting ever coming to the Carnival.

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🎭 𝒦𝒶𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒯𝓊𝓇𝓃 🎭

The Carnival unfolded anew before him, familiar yet different in everyway that mattered. Where once there had been color and noise, now there was harmony beneath the chaos. Lights did not merely glow, they were breathing, becoming bigger or smaller in time with laughter. He realized, amused, that the Carnival was not loud at all. It was precise. Everything at the right time. Everything optimized.

Faces drew his attention next. Mortals moved through the stalls and games with the same eager abandon as before, yet now he saw the truth layered beneath them. Joy clung to some like a second skin, radiant and steady. Others flickered, laughing too hard, clinging too tightly to dice and cups, their merriment thinning at the edges. He could feel it, a gentle pressure in his chest, the absence where joy should be. Not judgment. Recognition.

The stalls themselves had grown beautiful in ways he could never have named before. Wood told stories of forests long gone even if it never came from a real forest. Food steamed with memory, tasting better in anticipation than it ever could on the tongue. Even the cups, passed endlessly from hand to hand, carried a warmth that was not just drink but invitation.

He became aware of himself then. His body felt lighter, stronger, as if the Carnival itself welcomed his presence. Movement came easily. Balance was instinct. When people looked at him, their shoulders loosened, their expressions softened. Trust bloomed without effort. It startled him at first, that influence, until he understood it was not control but resonance. He belonged here and the Carnival answered in kind.

Above it all, he sensed the Court of the Joybound. Small now, with only one member but soon to grow. Yet is was not a place, not a throne but a shared current of intent. Joybound, not by chains but by choice. This was not an ending, nor a trap but a threshold. As he stood amid the endless revel, seeing it fully for the first time, he knew with certainty that the Carnival was no longer something he merely attended. It was something he would tend.

It was time for the Fae to join the world. Like a feeling more than a thought. He had seen enough, learned enough and the Carnival would keep turning whether he watched it or not. He closed his eyes and reached inward, not for a game or a sound but for the memory of where he had entered. The place answered immediately. Somewhere nearby, unseen others, a door waited to be asked for.

“Alright,” he murmured, mostly to himself. The air folded. Wood appeared where none had been before, a simple door standing upright between two stalls. He placed a hand against it and felt the Carnival resist, gently, like a friend reluctant to say goodbye. Then it yielded. When he stepped through, the noise, the lights, the endless laughter disappeared as if they were never there. A sudden silence.

He emerged into a forest.

Pine and damp earth filled his lungs, straight as he appeared. Moonlight filtered through branches that had grown unchecked in his absence. The clearing was the same one, he was sure of it but older. Moss had crept over stones he remembered as bare. A fallen log lay where there had once been none. Months, at least. Maybe more. The world had kept moving while he played.

His body followed a moment later.

Hunger slammed into him, suddenly and strong. His stomach tightened, legs went weak for just a moment. Thirst followed then fatigue, all dulled slightly, as if cushioned by something stronger beneath the strain. His Fae nature held the worst of it at bay, not denying it, but refusing to let it overwhelm him. Still, he laughed under his breath. Mortality wasted no time making itself known.

He looked down at himself. Ur-human, exactly as he had been when he first vanished. Calloused hands. Old scars. A body that would ache if he slept on stone and bleed if he was careless. Yet the Carnival had not let go completely. He could feel it, distant but constant, like music heard through water. The door would come if he called. It always would. He'd also feel the strength behind his form. The power from within.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself and started walking. There would be food somewhere. People. Roads. Stories waiting to be nudged toward joy. And when the world grew too heavy or too quiet, he knew precisely where to go. The Carnival had taught him that much, time was flexible, joy was chosen and no door was ever truly gone.

He felt it before he heard it. An ache, cutting through the forest like a wrong note. Sadness, raw and panicked, the kind that had not yet settled into grief. He turned toward it instantly. Between the trees, shapes resolved into a small clearing, children huddled together, screaming hoarse. Two bodies lay still near them, adults, torn and unmoving. Wolves circled, ribs showing, eyes bright with hunger.

He moved.

Not with a flash or a blur, nothing that would look impossible at first glance, but faster than a man should be able to run through roots and brush without slowing. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground. By the time the wolves noticed him, he was already between them and the children, breath steady, eyes clear. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply stood there and the forest seemed to lean in.

The first wolf lunged, jaws wide, certain of its numbers. He met it head-on.

He stepped inside the bite, one hand slamming up under its jaw, the other gripping the scruff of its neck. The strength surprised even him. He twisted, using the wolf’s own momentum and felt bone give. The animal hit the ground and did not rise. The others snarled, circling wider now, recalculating.

Two came together, one from each side. He ducked low, rolled beneath snapping teeth and came up behind one, arm locking around its throat. It thrashed, claws raking his back, pain flared. He welcomed it. He drove the wolf into a tree, once, twice, until the struggle went out of it. He released the body and turned just in time to catch the third mid-leap, shoulder-hitting it out of the air.

They were not mindless. The last two hesitated now, ears flat, fear bleeding into their hunger. One broke and ran. The other stayed, eyes fixed on him alone. It charged with a desperate snarl. He sidestepped, grabbed its foreleg and pulled. The wolf went down, and he followed it to the ground, knee pinning its ribs as his hands closed around its neck.

The struggle was brief, violent and final.

He rose slowly, chest heaving once before settling. Around him, the clearing was quiet save for the children’s sobbing breaths. The last wolf lay still at his feet.

The moment it was over, the strength bled out of him all at once. He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the dirt, breath coming fast. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not loud at first, just a sound that escaped him, half disbelief, half release. “Oh,” he said to no one in particular, shaking his head, “that went much better than it could have.” The laughter calmed him, grounded him and he pushed himself back to his feet.

He turned toward the children slowly, palms open, voice soft. “Hey. Hey now.” His eyes flicked to the bodies on the ground, the grief radiating off them like cold ice. He swallowed, then smiled anyway, gently. “Good news first,” he said, crouching down to their level. “The wolves are gone. Very gone. They will not be coming back, I promise.”

One of the smaller children stared at him through tears. “Are…are you a hunter or fighter?” she asked, voice trembling. He blinked, then snorted softly. “Oh no,” he said immediately. “They wear armor and have a weapon usually or at least look like they know what they’re doing. I tripped over a root on the way here.” He tapped his shin for emphasis. “Very competent fighter that root. Nearly won.”

A hiccuping laugh escaped one of the older boys despite himself. The man seized on it instantly. “See, that one gets it,” he said, pointing at the boy with mock seriousness. “Laughing at the situation is the first step to not letting it eat you alive. Trust me. I’m very experienced at bad situations.”

The children shuffled closer, still crying but no longer frozen. He reached out carefully, resting a hand on the ground between them rather than touching them outright. “You’re safe,” he said, quieter now, truer. “I can feel how scared you are. That means it’s already getting better. Fear only screams when it knows it’s losing.” He smiled again, warm and unwavering. “And sadness,” he added, tapping his chest, “gets lighter when it’s shared.”

After a few more shaky breaths, one of the children nodded. Another wiped their face with a dirty sleeve. The man straightened slightly and clapped his hands once, cheerfully. “Right,” he said. “Step one, breathing. Step two, we sit together for a bit. Step three, we eat something.” He winked. “And step four, later, when this hurts less, we tell the story and make it sound much better than it actually was.”

They didn’t laugh loudly. Not yet. But they stayed close and the crying softened into sniffles. For now, that was enough.

They ate quietly at first. The man showed them how to cut away the worst of it, how to roast what they could over a small fire. It was not pleasant work, but it was calming. Fat crackled, meat cooked, bellies filled. Hunger dulled, then eased. Color crept back into their faces. The man watched them as much as the fire, relief humming through him.

When the last of the food was gone and the fire had burned low, he leaned back on his hands and looked at them properly. Really looked. “Alright,” he said lightly, as if proposing a game. “I’ve got a question for you. And you don’t have to answer fast.” He tilted his head, smile gentle. “Would you like to go somewhere… different?”

The children exchanged glances, wary but curious. “Different how?” one asked. The man chuckled softly. “Different like this,” he said. “A place where you’ll always have fun. Where you can play, and laugh and learn things just because you want to. Where no one tells you that joy is a waste of time.” His eyes softened. “A place where you get to choose what comes next. Always.”

Another child frowned, then asked quietly, “No wolves?” He laughed, genuine. “No wolves,” he promised. “And if something ever tries to bite, it’ll be part of the game. You’ll know the rules.” He leaned forward. “You don’t have to go. You can say no. But if you say yes…” He spread his hands. “I’ll walk with you.”

They didn’t answer right away. Then one nodded. Then another. Finally, the smallest one stepped closer and said, “Yes.” That was enough. The man stood, brushing dirt from his knees and felt it immediately. A pull. A familiar tension in the air, like laughter held just before it bursts.

“Ah,” he murmured, turning slightly. “There you are.” A shape shimmered between two old trees nearby, not quite a door, not quite not. An arch of bent branches and hanging light, the space beneath it deeper than it should have been. Warm. Inviting. Alive with distant sound, dice on stone, music.

He gestured for the children to follow and led them toward it at an easy pace, never rushing them. The air grew sweeter with every step, lighter, until even the forest seemed to exhale. One by one, the children passed beneath the arch, eyes wide, fear loosening its grip as something brighter took hold.

The last child hesitated, hand half-raised. “Wait,” they said. “You never told us.” The man turned back, eyebrows lifting. “Told you what?” The child swallowed. “Your name.”

He smiled, softer than before. “Right,” he said. “That does matter, doesn’t it?” He placed a hand over his heart and gave a small, theatrical bow. “You can call me Kaelior of the Laughing Turn.” His grin widened. “And I promise, you’re about to have a very fun time.”

Then he stepped through with them and the arch folded closed behind them like it had never been there at all.

Summary

A man enjoys the Carnival before going outside to see the world and get more people to come. He meets children and they're attacked by wolves! He takes care of the wolves and leads the children to the Carnival. He then reveals his name. Kaelinor Of the Laughing Turn

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🎲 𝒜𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓇 🎺

Alechior drifted through the Carnival like a breeze, welcome and unnoticed all at once. Laughter bent around them, music warped as it always did, speeding up where excitement spiked and slowing where exhaustion crept in. Games bloomed and collapsed in moments. Dice rolled across tables slick with spilled drinks and promises. To Alechior, it was comfortable, domestic. This was their domain in its most honest state, excess without apology, joy sharpened until it could cut.

They lingered near one of the newer entrances, a stretch of road that had once been a merchant route in Ashuru. Mortals stepped through in ones and twos, feetwraps still dusty, packs still heavy, eyes wide with that first flush of wonder. Alechior watched them the way a seasoned gambler watches fresh players take their seats, already knowing who would play cautiously, who would chase the rush and who would never leave the table at all.

The arrivals laughed easily. They did not notice how the sky never quite shifted, how the music had no clear source, how hunger and thirst dulled just enough to stop being urgent. They greeted jesters and performers as if they were fellow travelers, mistaking warmth for coincidence. None of them sensed the soft closing of doors behind them, the subtle severing of roads that no longer led anywhere real.

Alechior felt no urgency to interfere. This was how it always began, curiosity first then delight. The Carnival did not seize people, it welcomed them. Mortals walked deeper of their own accord, drawn by color, sound and the promise of stakes that felt small at first. A drink here. Some food there. A game that surely could be won the next time.

They smiled as another group crossed the threshold, grinning, still thinking themselves visitors rather than forever guests. Somewhere behind them, unseen and unmarked, Ashuru disappeared like a half-remembered dream. Alechior watched it happen again and again and again, already knowing which of these souls would dance until they forgot their own names, and which would break long before the music ever stopped.

Alechior wandered toward the inner ring where the game keepers clustered, tall figures bent over tables and wheels that never truly stopped spinning. These were the ones who had bowed before, who knew exactly who walked among them. Alechior greeted them easily, leaning against a counter, fingers tapping in time with a tune only they seemed to hear. “Busy night,” they said.

One of the keepers glanced up, eyes already drifting back to the tumbling dice. “Probability is favorable,” they replied flatly. Another muttered something about odds stabilizing after the third loss. Alechior waited, hoping for a spark, a joke, anything that smelled like joy. It never came. The keepers spoke fluently, endlessly even but only about margins, wagers, escalation curves. Fun was not discussed. It was assumed, calculated, reduced.

They tried again, drifting from table to table, nudging conversations toward stories, toward the mortals themselves. Who was winning big. Who was laughing the hardest. Who was about to break. The keepers answered but only in figures and outcomes. This one would last twelve more cycles. That one would peak soon. None of them cared what the players felt in the moment, only how long they stayed at the table.

Alechior finally laughed, softly and a little disappointed. These ones understood gambling perfectly, but merriment had slipped past them entirely. They tended the games like machines tending other machines, precise and tireless, but hollow. With a shrug, Alechior turned away, already bored, already searching the Carnival for something messier, louder, and far more alive.

Alechior drifted on, laughter and music sliding off them as they wove through the Carnival’s endless lanes. They tried again and again, pausing at tables, leaning in close to whispered boasts and slurred confessions. The mortals had stories, plenty of them, sharp little fragments of lives half-remembered, but every tale dissolved back into dice and cards before it could breathe. Eyes flicked down to hands, to wheels, to cups. No one stayed present long enough to be interesting.

They lingered near a group locked in a furious game, listening to a man recount a lost home, a river that no longer existed. It almost caught Alechior’s attention. Almost. Then the man laughed too loudly at a bad roll and forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. Alechior sighed. Too far gone. The Carnival had them now, sanding their edges smooth, rounding them into perfect players.

Further in, the faces grew softer, blurrier. Joy without sharpness. Despair without teeth. Alechior felt a rare flicker of irritation. This was meant to be fun, not stagnant. Not this endless loop of motion without meaning. “Really?” they muttered to no one in particular. “This is what it’s come to?”

That was when they noticed one of them. Not new, not fresh, but not yet hollow either. A mortal who had been playing for a long while, long enough to learn the rhythm, to survive the losses, to smile like they belonged. Their thread, though, stretched thin. Alechior could see it, fraying somewhere far away in Ashuru. A body still breathing, but not for long.

Alechior grinned, sudden and bright. There it was. Something with tension. With stakes. They slipped through the crowd and reached out, fingers closing around the mortal’s shoulder with easy certainty. “You,” they said lightly, already pulling them free of the table. The Carnival kept spinning behind them, oblivious, as Alechior turned away with their prize, mind racing ahead to what came next.

Wish a snapp of their fingers. The sound cut clean through the music, sharp and final. For a heartbeat, the Carnival stuttered around them, colors dulling, laughter stopping, the invisible pressure peeling away from the mortal’s mind like a veil being removed. The man blinked hard, swayed then steadied himself. His eyes cleared. Not frightened. Not confused. Just suddenly present.

Alechior watched closely, ready for panic, grief, the usual desperate scramble for meaning. It never came. The man looked around slowly, took in the lights, the games, the endless motion and laughed. Not the hollow laugh of the enchanted, but warm and genuine. “Still love it,” he said after a moment, almost surprised at himself. “Figures. Thought maybe it was cheating me into it.” He shrugged. “Guess not.”

They talked. Really talked. About nights that never seemed long enough, about music that made the chest ache in a good way, about the simple joy of losing and winning meaning in the same breath. He spoke of the Carnival like a place that understood him, like it gave permission to stop carrying the world for a while. Alechior listened, head tilted, smile thoughtful. This one was not trapped. He had chosen the feeling, even without the push.

“That’s rare,” Alechior said lightly. “Most need the nudge. You don’t.” They circled him once, considering. “Tell me. Would you want others to feel it like this? Properly. Not dragged in blind. Not stolen by accident.” Their eyes gleamed. “Willingly.”

The man hesitated then nodded, enthusiasm creeping back in. “Yeah!” he said. “Why wouldn’t I? People forget how to enjoy things. They forget how to let go. If I could help with that, I would.” He smiled wider. “Feels like a waste not to.”

Alechior laughed, delighted. “Oh, I like you.” They leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the trick. You bring them. You show them the doors, the laughter, the games. You teach them how to stay themselves while they play.” Their voice softened, dangerous and kind at once. “And when the time comes, you help me make them like you will be. A new form. ”

Alechior held their hand out, palm open, casual as an invitation to dance. “Come on then,” they said lightly. “Let’s make it official.” The man looked at the offered hand, then up at Alechior’s face. No fear. Just anticipation. He took it.

The moment their hands met, the Carnival leaned in. Sound dulled, lights bent closer, the air thickened like breath held too long. Power flowed, shared. The man gasped once as it moved through him, warmth first then something else, brighter, like laughter caught in the chest.

His body began to change. Subtle at first. His spine straightened, posture correcting itself with authority. He grew taller, not towering but clearly more than he had been. Strength settled into his frame without bulk, the kind that promised endurance rather than brute force. His ears elongated gracefully, tapering to elegant points, unmistakably otherworldly, unmistakably Alechior’s work.

His face followed. Lines of exhaustion smoothed away, scars faded as if they had never been, skin clearing until it caught the Carnival’s light like polished stone. Beauty found him, not perfection but the kind that made people look twice and trust without knowing why. When his eyes opened again, they gleamed with reflected light and something deeper, older.

An aura unfurled around him. It pressed outward like a pleasant warmth, a presence that eased shoulders and loosened hearts. Trust came easier near him, smiles too. Beneath it all, a new sense stirred. He could feel it now, the absence of joy, the hollowness where merriment should have been. Sadness stood out to him like a bruise. There wasn't any in the Carnival but when a doorway to Ashuru opened, it called to him.

Alechior watched with satisfaction. “Ah. There it is,” they murmured. “Now, a rule.” Their tone playful but firm. “You cannot lie. Not ever.” They tapped his chest lightly. “But misdirection, wit, jokes that dodge the truth, those are fair game.” A grin. “You’ll manage.”

Understanding settled into him, knowledge without pain. He knew he could choose others now, not everyone, only those who truly loved the games, the laughter, the endless night. Those who played because they wanted to, not because the Carnival whispered too sweetly. From them, he could make more like himself. That was how they would grow, not by birth, but by recognition.

Alechior released his hand at last. “When you leave here,” they said, gently, “you’ll wear whatever shape you arrived in. Mortal, mundane, forgettable.” A shrug. “But you’ll live longer than you should. And when death finally catches you, as it always does, you’ll come back.” Their eyes glittered. “Right here. To run the games. To spread joy. Real joy.”

The Carnival surged back into full motion around them, laughter rising, dice clattering, music swelling. The new Fae stood among it all, changed and yet himself. Alechior stepped back into the crowd, satisfied. The party had just learned how to invite people properly.

Summary

Alechior notices that the Game Masters of the Carnival are boring and only care about gambling but not joy, about merriment. After a few failed attempts of chatting with them, Alechior finds a mortal that wasn't for too long in the Carnival but gone from Ashuru for a while already. Someone who hasn't yet fully succumbed. Upon briefly dispelling the enhancement on them, the man still loved the Carnival. Still wanted to play. Still wanted to enjoy themselves. 'Thus, Alechior gets an idea and transforms him into a new race and gives him the ability to make others that are in the same conditions. like him.

Actions

Modification of an existing species - Out of Domain (?) - -2 Conviction - To Create modify the ur-human race into the first Fae.

Blessing - Lucid - In Domain - Merriment Aura (already applied earlier on the trading caravan)
Blessing - Ludid - In Domain - Loss of Merriment Sense - The Fae have the ability to sense the lack of happiness in people as a discomfort in themselves.

The Fae of Alechior, Joybound Court

The Fae are not born, they are chosen. They originate from mortals who enter the Carnival and prove without coercion, that they love merriment, games, chance and shared joy even when the enchantment is lifted, by their own means or not. When such a mortal is deemed worthy, a Fae may invite them into transformation. This process is voluntary, immediate, and irreversible in nature, binding the individual’s soul permanently to the Carnival.

In their true form, the Fae of the Joybound Court are always male and clearly otherworldly yet approachable. They are taller than most mortals, with elongated, elegant ears and features refined into beauty, scars and blemishes fade unless they wish to keep them as marks of character. Their movements are light and confident. An ambient aura surrounds them, encouraging trust, openness, and ease in those nearby. They look like the best version of who they once were, not perfect, but compelling.

Fae possess heightened physical capabilities compared to mortals. They are stronger, faster and more enduring. Their longevity exceeds that of normal mortals, yet they are not immortal. Upon death outside the Carnival, their souls return to the Carnival, where they reconstitute as full Game Masters, eternal stewards of the realm’s games.

Fae can sense the absence of merriment, detecting sadness, despair or emotional emptiness in others as discomfort. They radiate an unconscious influence that makes others more willing to listen, trust and engage. They cannot lie under any circumstances, a binding rule, though they may misdirect, joke, speak in riddles, often turning honesty into performance.

Outside the Carnival, Fae appear in whatever form they possessed upon entering it, mortal or otherwise, their true nature hidden unless revealed by divine means. Over time, memories of the Carnival fade from those who leave it, but a Fae never forgets. They exist as recruiters, hosts and custodians of the endless celebration, ensuring that the Carnival continues not merely as a trap but as a place for those who truly choose joy, risk and play above all else.

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🎲 𝒜𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓇 🎺

Beyond Gamblerdise proper, past the last tents and huts, the valley stopped pretending it followed any consistent version of reality. Paths rewrote themselves. Gravity occasionally took suggestions.

Fire flared blue, froze mid-flicker into ice, then melted back into flame. A tossed pebble might arc cleanly through the air, vanish halfway, then reappear moments later already on the ground somewhere else.

Alechior sat in a shallow dip in the land where the ground refused to stay level for long. The rock at their back breathed slowly, warming and cooling in no useful rhythm. They did not mind. In their hands, a small collection of objects danced between states. A carved bone became a leaf, the leaf hardened into stone, the stone briefly sparked like flint before settling again. Alechior tossed them one by one, guessing outcomes.

Nearby, a tree folded in on itself, collapsed into a rolling fireball, splashed into water when it struck the ground, then stood upright again as bark and branches, apparently unchanged but slightly offended. Alechior laughed softly at that one. They had guessed water, just not the sequence.

A gust of wind arrived late, knocked over nothing important, then left as if it had remembered another appointment. This was the game. Predicting the next impossibility, knowing full well that the valley enjoyed subverting confidence.

Alechior pointed once, casually. A spark jumped, turned into frost. Close enough. Then something clicked. Alechior’s hand stopped, the shifting objects in their palm quieting for the first time in a while.

All this motion, all this unruly transformation and yet it remained background. Spectacle without a focal point. Their smile widened, thoughtful now. Alechior looked out across the warping landscape and was struck by a great idea.

Alechior rose into the air, feet leaving the ground as if gravity had finally grown tired of pretending. The air around them tightened, bent inward. Light gathered first slowly, then as a flowing river. Gold bled into the space around their body, brightening, thickening until the valley seemed to dim in comparison.

Their form blurred beneath the radiance. Limbs, features, even shadow dissolved into a compact brilliance, a miniature sun suspended where a god had been moments before. Heat rolled outward in waves, not burning but rewriting, coaxing reality to loosen its grip. The paths stopped shifting. Even the valley seemed to have paused to watch.

The light intensified, collapsing inward with restraint. For a heartbeat, the glow reached a painful purity, gold edged with white, humming with contained divinity. Then, without flair or drama, it vanished. No explosion. No echo. Alechior simply ceased to be, leaving behind air that rushed in too late to matter.

Elsewhere, existence accepted their return as if it had been planned all along. The light reformed first, compact, then unfolded into shape. Gold receded, divine pressure relaxing, until Alechior stood once more, whole , feet touching ground that felt familiar yet normal, far too normal for the valley.

At a glance, nothing seemed to have changed. The air behaved. The land held its shape. Alechior remained where they had arrived, in a place that mirrored the one they had left, identical enough to invite confidence, different enough to make it a lie.

Alechior turned slowly, hands clasped behind their back, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion. “Well,” they said to no one in particular, “look at that. The valley behaves for once. I knew it had it in it.” The ground stayed put. The air did not shimmer. Gravity, pulled in the correct direction. Alechior smiled, satisfied, the kind of smile that usually preceded consequences.

Reality took that as a cue.

The shift was not announced. It did not ripple or crack. It simply happened, like realizing mid-thought that the room had furniture a second ago and now it had more opinions. Shapes resolved themselves where nothing had been. Huts rose as if they had always been there, wood and canvas and rope, clustered close together like carnival stalls.. Crude and hand built, but lovingly so. Each structure leaned at a slightly different angle, as if perspective itself had been negotiated rather than enforced.

Between them, games bloomed. Dice tables appeared first, rough cubes clattering softly as if just rolled. Cards followed, not quite paper, not quite bark, their symbols shifting when no one stared too hard. Boards with carved tracks and knucklebone markers settled into place, already mid match, already waiting for players who had not yet arrived. Alechior’s grin widened. “Ah,” they murmured, “there you are.”

The air thickened with smell. Roasted roots, spiced meats, sugared fruits skewered on sticks that steamed gently in the cool. Bread split open fresh, still sighing. Food stretched as far as the eye cared to look, piled high on tables that had opinions about abundance. No hands served it. No fires cooked it. It was simply there, generous and unapologetic.

Wooden cups followed, because of course they did. Dozens, then hundreds, then enough to offend moderation itself. They thumped down onto tables already damp with anticipation. Dark ales, cloudy brews, sharp spirits, fruit soaked concoctions that glowed faintly like bad decisions. The smell of alcohol layered over everything, sweet, sour, biting, familiar. Somewhere, something laughed, though Alechior could not yet tell what had laughed or why.

Alechior stood in the middle of it all, the not valley that looked very much like one, watching the carnival finish assembling itself around them. Time felt loose here, not broken, just casual. The kind of place where a moment might linger if it was enjoying itself. They clasped their hands once, delighted. “Oh,” they said softly, reverently. “This is going to be fun.”

People began to arrive without arriving. One moment a space between two stalls was empty, the next it was occupied by a laughing figure already mid step, already reaching for a cup. Most of them were from Gamblerdise. Alechior knew that instantly. The height, the swagger, the way their hands hovered near dice even when none were present. Yet something was off. Faces were familiar but softened, sharpened, rearranged just enough to make certainty stumble. If you stared long enough, recognition clicked, delayed but undeniable, like a card finally turning face up. At least, for a god, for most mortals they’d be unmistakable from their counterparts.

They were all smiling. Not wide, crazy grins. Not empty either. Just a touch too much enthusiasm pulling at the corners of their mouths, as if joy were expected of them and they were happy to comply. Laughter came easy. Conversation flowed. No one asked where they were or how they had arrived. They greeted one another like old friends who had never left, slapping backs, trading insults, already mid story.

Games filled instantly. Dice rolled across tables by hands that had not touched them before this moment. Cards slapped down with practiced confidence. Wagers were made loudly, proudly, sometimes with markers, sometimes with favors, sometimes with jobs. Cups were lifted and drained and refilled. Drinks were praised, cursed, compared. Someone won big and acted like they always did. Someone lost and laughed as if that too was tradition.

It all felt practiced. Not rehearsed but assumed. As if this gathering had happened countless times before and everyone present had simply remembered their part. The crowd moved with purpose that pretended to be chaos. No one lingered too long. No one stood apart. Even arguments felt friendly, ritualized, safe. The carnival hummed with comfort.

Only the ones running the stalls broke the illusion. The game masters watched with clear eyes. Their smiles came and went naturally, not fixed in place. They blinked normally. They adjusted rules when needed, corrected mistakes, collected winnings with steady hands. They felt heavier somehow, anchored. More real. While the revelers played as if they had always belonged here, the game masters behaved like they knew exactly where they were, and why.

Alechior stepped forward, letting their footsteps carry them through the aisles between stalls. Dice tumbled across tables, wooden cups clinked together and laughter could be heard around them but no one paused. The carnival goers continued their games, shouting, betting and cheering as if Alechior didn’t exist. It was strange, unsettling even, to move among figures so familiar yet entirely untethered from awareness.

Then something shifted. One of the stallkeepers, a young man, stopped mid-motion. His eyes lifted, clear and sharp, and he inclined his head. A simple precise bow. Another game master, a woman with rough hands from rolling dice, followed suit. Slowly, stall by stall, they all bent toward Alechior, bowing as if the entire carnival existed to greet them.

The effect was immediate. Alechior’s gaze swept across the playing crowd again. The revelers did not move. They did not notice or maybe couldn’t. Laughter continued. Dice were thrown. Cups refilled. Smiles did not falter. Not one acknowledged them walking through their midst. It was as if they were specters of memory, projected from minds rather than flesh, their movements rehearsed yet empty of awareness.

Alechior tilted their head, a faint, amused smile breaking across their face. “Well,” they murmured, “it seems I am only known to those who truly see.” They waved a hand, letting bright sparks of light flare across the air, but still the crowd carried on, oblivious. Even a thrown die rolled past their fingers without hesitation, untouched by awe or fear.

The game masters, by contrast, remained perfectly poised. They straightened as Alechior passed, hands folded or resting lightly on tables, heads low but not submissive. Their bowing was neither forced nor fearful, it was acknowledgment. Recognition. Understanding of a presence beyond the carnival, beyond the illusion, that the revelers could not comprehend. It was as if only those aware of the rules, of the structure of this place, could perceive its true master.

Alechior’s laughter was loud but soft and it carried through the carnival like a ripple that went unnoticed by most. “Fascinating,” they said, voice light, “to think that here, some remember the rules and some only play the game. Perhaps that is the nature of all things.” And with that, they continued walking, moving deeper into the stalls.

They let themselves drift, laughter coming easy as they rolled dice they did not need to touch and wagered nothing they could lose. They watched hands move, cups empty and fill, cards slap against wood, all of it humming with a rhythm that felt right. Too right. The carnival breathed, alive in a way the valley never quite managed, contained chaos.. For a time, Alechior forgot to count moments, forgot to guess outcomes. They simply played.

Then they looked up. Really looked. Faces smiled, games ran, noise swelled, yet something was missing. The joy echoed instead of answering back. No surprise. No new hands learning the rules badly. No outsiders misunderstanding everything and loving it anyway. Alechior’s smile softened. “This is selfish,” they murmured. “And I am many things, but not that.”

They stepped back, planted their feet on ground that shifted politely into place and brought their hands together in a single, sharp clap. The sound did not echo. It multiplied. It folded in on itself and raced outward, faster than wind, quieter than thought. Across Ashuru, something unseen clicked into alignment.

Doorways appeared where paths were well-used. At the bend of a forest trail. At the edge of a cave’s entrace. In the arch of a hut’s door. On lonely roads where travelers counted steps to stay sane. They did not look like doors at all to mortal eyes, just empty thresholds, a trick of light, a sense that one more step could be taken sideways instead of forward.

There were many. Too many to count. Some tall, some narrow, some wide enough for carts, others meant for a child. They shimmered faintly, only when no one stared directly at them, only when chance aligned just right. Missable. Optional. Perfect.

Alechior exhaled, satisfied and turned back toward the carnival. “Now,” they said lightly, as laughter and dice rolled on, “let’s see who knows how to take a hint.”

Summary

Alechior, as always, is playing a guessing game with the valley as they often do when they need to think and lo’ and behold! An idea is formed and put into action. A realm of their own is made. The Carnival now exists everywhere and nowhere.

The Carnival

The Carnival is a planar pocket created by Alechior, existing just outside Ashuru yet threaded through it. Entry is never obvious. Those who cross into it arrive in a space that mirrors the place they entered from, a road becomes a midway, a door opens onto stalls and tables, a forest path widens into lantern-lit games. Time inside the Carnival moves out of sync with reality. One minute within the realm equals one hour outside of it, a distortion subtle enough to be ignored until it is far too late.

Upon entry, mortals and gods* alike are gradually overtaken by an enchantment. The desire to play, to laugh, to drink, to wager, to enjoy, overwhelms all other priorities. Worries fade first, then obligations then identity. After a few hours, most visitors no longer wish to leave at all and in days, they forget a world outside of the Carnival ever existed in the first place. The Carnival offers endless novelty without consequence, joy without memory of pain and the illusion of rest without true peace.

The realm itself is circular and self-contained. Travelers who walk far enough in any one direction simply arrive back where they began, unaware that they ever crossed an edge. Space loops seamlessly, reinforcing the sense that there is nowhere else worth going. Food never runs out, games never repeat exactly the same way twice and the crowd feels familiar without ever quite being real.

Death within the Carnival carries its own mercy. When a mortal body perishes, whether from age, excess or violence, the soul does not pass on. Instead, it remains bound to the realm, continuing to play forever, untiring, smiling, and unaware of what was lost. These souls become part of the background of the Carnival, indistinguishable from the rest to all but the keenest observers.

Escape is possible but never easy. First, a visitor must break the enchantment on their mind. This can occur only in the first day within the realm, when one consciously rejects the games or when they stand close to death. Once free of the compulsion, the realm responds by presenting a personal task, unique to the individual. This may take the form of a singular game, a challenge or a confrontation that reflects who they are and what binds them. Only upon completing this task does an exit appear, visible solely to that individual. Groups do not share exits, and no one can follow another out.

Those who succeed in leaving do not escape cleanly. Memories of the Carnival disappear quickly once outside. Names, rules, faces and paths dissolve into vague impressions. What remains is only the feeling of having been somewhere joyful, somewhere intoxicating, somewhere impossibly fun. A half-remembered place that tugs at the mind, tempting travelers to wander just a little closer the next time chance opens a door.

The Carnival enforces its rules gently, but absolutely. A challenge issued within the realm is never a demand, yet refusing one carries weight. Those who decline too often begin to notice subtle changes. Music dulls around them. Laughter sounds distant, as if heard through water. The paths they walk curve back on themselves, stalls repeat, faces blur. The realm does not punish refusal, it simply withdraws its generosity, pressing the truth that the Carnival exists to be engaged with, not merely observed.

Violence, however, is another matter entirely. The Carnival does not tolerate it in its raw form. Blades cannot be raised in anger, fists refuse to close and murderous thoughts slide off the mind before they can take shape. Even gods find their destructive impulses softened here, redirected into harmless bravado or competitive posturing. Harm may only occur if it is framed as part of a game, a wager or a mutually understood contest with rules and stakes. Outside of that structure, violence simply fails to exist.

Those who carry violence too close to the surface do not escape the Carnival’s notice. But instead of being expelled, they are guided elsewhere without realizing it. The lights dim. The music slows and deepens. They pass through an arch they do not remember choosing and find themselves in a darker stretch of the Carnival, where the games are quieter, the smiles sharper and the stakes high. Here, wagers are heavier. Loss has costly consequences.

In these shadowed games, death is not forbidden. It is the ultimate wager, offered only to those who would have brought violence into a place that refused it. Games here test not reflex or luck alone, but resolve, fear, and the willingness to accept finality. Victory grants nothing more than survival. Defeat means the soul remains, bound to the Carnival forever, playing on as part of the spectacle.

Yet even this place is not cruel for cruelty’s sake. The darker Carnival exists as a release valve, a way for the realm to remain what it is without breaking. It does not seek blood, only balance. Those who leave it alive often do so changed, their appetite for violence dulled, redirected, or transformed into something safer. The Carnival remembers them, and should they ever return, the games it offers will be very different indeed.

*Gods are not exempt from the Carnival’s pull. Upon entry, even divine minds feel the compulsion settle in.. For a brief moment they may laugh too easily, linger too long at a table, or play a game without considering why. However, the enchantment does not bind them as it does mortals. To gods, it is less a chain and more a persuasive suggestion, a pleasant fog that clears quickly once noticed. Their awareness returns on its own, usually within moments afterwards.

**Any being who enters the Carnival will perceive its residents as familiar. Faces resemble people they have met before, passed in a crowd, shared a drink with once, argued with years ago or almost remembered in a dream. The resemblance is never exact enough to name but always close enough to feel known. Attempting to place a face always fails, names slip away, memories blur and certainty dissolves into a vague sense of recognition.

This effect is not an illusion that can be dispelled through sight or reason alone. Even when the mind recognizes the inconsistency, the emotional response remains intact. Trust comes easier. Suspicion dulls. The visitor feels as though they are among acquaintances rather than strangers, which further reinforces the compulsion to stay, to play and to belong.

For those trapped long enough, the faces slowly shift over time, aligning more closely with people the visitor once loved, envied, feared or lost. This change is subtle, often unnoticed until leaving the Carnival becomes harder than staying. Once outside the realm, memories of these faces collapse into nothing, leaving only the unsettling certainty that they almost recognized someone important and can no longer remember who.

Actions

-3 Surreal Action - To Create a Pocket Realm

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🎲 𝒜𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓇 🎺

Alechior drifted above the clearing where the teaching was taking place, reclining in the air as if it were a perfectly shaped chair only they could see. One leg was crossed over the other, hands folded behind their head, golden light muted just enough not to distract. Below them, Villagxor moved among the children, patiently, turning rules into play and mistakes into laughter. Alechior watched with satisfaction.

The game had reached one of its louder moments. Children argued over outcomes, clapped when someone succeeded, groaned when chance turned against them. Pebbles were used as markers, dice clattered, sticks scratched lines into the dirt. It was controlled chaos, familiar chaos. Alechior smiled, content to let it unfold without interference.

Then a rock flew.

It was an accident, mostly. A child flung it too hard, aiming for a pile of stones and instead striking a hollow piece of wood propped near the edge of the clearing. The sound rang out. A few heads turned. Before anyone could comment, another child copied the motion, another rock, another strike. The sound repeated, close enough to the first to be unmistakable. Not random. Familiar.

A third child, closer to the wood, frowned thoughtfully. They picked up a smaller stone, stepped forward, and instead of throwing it, tapped it against the surface. Once. Twice. Then again, slower. The sound changed, less sharp, more in tune. They adjusted their grip, struck again. A pattern began to form, not rhythmically but intentional.

The clearing quieted without instruction. Dice stopped rolling. Arguments dissolved mid-sentence. Even Alechior shifted slightly in the air, interest growing. Villagxor noticed the silence and followed it to its source. He approached slowly, not wanting to break whatever thing was forming and knelt beside the child. He did not speak. He simply watched, eyes narrowed with focus.

The child kept going. Tap, pause, tap-tap, pause. Others leaned closer. Someone else picked up a stone, hesitated, then joined in with a different rhythm against the ground. It was messy and imperfect. It was not a lesson, not yet. Above them, Alechior grinned with a knowing expression. Luck had not guided a throw this time. It had waited, patiently, for someone to listen.

The child finally stopped tapping, stone still raised, eyes fixed on the wood as if it had spoken back. They looked up at Villagxor, face locked in honest confusion. “Why does it sound like that?” they asked, gesturing between the rock and the driftwood. “Why is it… nice?” The word felt inadequate even to them and they grimaced slightly, as if searching for a better one.

Villagxor opened his mouth then closed it again. He looked at the wood, at the stones, at the small crowd of children who had gone very still. “Because,” he started then hesitated. His hand lifted, palm up then slowly fell. “Because it…fits?” he tried, clearly unconvinced by his own answer. “I know what it does,” he admitted, quieter now. “I don’t know why it does it.”

A shadow passed over the clearing. Alechior dropped from the air and landed beside them with exaggerated grace, arms spread as if stepping onto a stage. “Ah,” they said, looking between the child, the wood, and Villagxor’s frown. “One of my favorite questions. Poorly timed for you, wonderfully timed for me.” They crouched, tapping the wood once with a finger. The sound answered obediently.

“That,” Alechior continued, tone light but focused, “is music. Or rather, the beginning of it. Music is what happens when noise decides to behave.” A few children snorted at that. Alechior smiled. “It is sound that agrees with itself. Patterns that repeat just enough for the mind to go, yes, I recognize you and just different enough not to get bored by it.”

They picked up the stone the child had been using and tapped twice then paused. “Your body likes it because it is good at guessing,” Alechior said, a little more serious now. “When a sound follows rules, even small ones, your body and breath start to follow along. You feel clever without trying. Safe without knowing why. That is not an accident. That is chance learning how to dance.”

Alechior straightened and looked around at the gathered children. “Music is not in the wood or the stone,” they added. “It is in the choice to hit one with the other again. And again. And maybe differently next time.” Their eyes flicked briefly to Villagxor. “Which is why no one ever really teaches it first. It gets discovered.”

They looked back to the child who had started it all and grinned. “So yes, it sounds nice because you made it so. Congratulations,” they said lightly. “You have just invented a problem for every parent, priest and Changeling from now on. Someone will always be tapping on something.”

The clearing stayed quiet for a heartbeat too long. The children looked at one another, then back at the wood, then at Villagxor. Confusion lingered in their faces, not resistance but overload. Villagxor rubbed his chin slowly. “I understand the words,” he said at last, honest as ever. “Patterns. Repetition. Feeling clever. But if I had to explain it again, I would fail.” A few children nodded vigorously, relieved someone important had admitted it first.

Alechior watched this with open amusement. “Yes, well,” they said, rolling one shoulder, “this is usually the part where I let you struggle for a decade or two. Builds character.” They paused then smiled wider. “But I’m feeling generous. And impatient.” They raised one hand, fingers poised like a gambler about to flick a coin.

The snap echoed sharper than it should have, a clean, bright sound that cut through Gamblerdise. The air seemed to hum for half a breath afterward, like something had clicked neatly into place.

The children blinked. One frowned, then tapped the wood again, slower this time. Another joined in, spacing their strikes without being told. Someone else began clapping softly, instinctively filling the gaps. They did not know the meaning of words like rhythm or tempo, not consciously but they felt them now. They knew which sounds fought each other and which belonged together. They knew how to stop before it became noise again.

Villagxor stiffened slightly, then let out a quiet laugh of disbelief. “Oh,” he said. “That is…unfair.” He flexed his fingers, already aware of patterns he had never named before. Timing. Repetition. How sound could lead motion, how motion could lead feeling. Not mastery, not art, but foundation. Enough to teach without fumbling.

Alechior clasped their hands behind their head, satisfied. “Nothing fancy,” they said lightly. “No epics, no spell-songs, no dramatic careers yet. Just the rules that make noise stop being rude.” They glanced around at the children, already experimenting. “Think of it as giving luck a beat to walk on. What you do with it,” they added, smiling, “is the gamble.”

Actions/Summary

A happy accident happens and music becomes a thing!

Lucid Action - In Domain - No Cost: Knowledge of Music and what it means.

Lucid Action - In Domain - No Cost: Knowledge of the most basic musical instruments (drums, sticks struck together, stone clappers, rattles made from seed pods etc.)

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

❚█══Villagxor══█❚

Gamblerdise had never been quiet but this was a different kind of noise. Laughter, shouting, arguments and games. Children filled the open spaces between tents and huts, more than there had been a month ago, more than the valley had ever planned for. Refugees’ children ran alongside those born in Gamblerdise, barefoot or half-shod, carrying the habits of places that no longer existed.

Among them moved the Changelings, impossible to miss and ordinary at the same time. One boy with moss-green skin darted through a cluster of runners, while a girl with slit pupils like a lizard’s watched from the shade, sharp-eyed. Two siblings with skin like layered stone sat together near a low wall, fingers tracing patterns in the dust. No one stared for long. Difference was background noise here.

Teaching happened in fragments. Parents showed what they knew, when they had time and patience for it. A Game Master taught counting with pebbles. A farmer showed how to judge soil by smell. A refugee mother practiced knots and bindings with her daughter, while nearby a father tried, unsuccessfully, to explain how to calculate odds. Knowledge flowed unevenly and it became problem.

Some children learned quickly, not because they were smarter but because their parents had more to give. Others learned almost nothing beyond how to stay out of the way. Skills clustered in families instead of spreading, small islands of competence forming without intention. No one had caused this. No one had noticed it clearly either.

The valley held them all regardless. Chance encounters taught more than lessons did, and games blurred into arguments, into dares, into improvised contests. Dice clattered on stone, sticks became markers, rules changed mid-play and no one minded much.

Villagxor did not see it coming. A small wooden marker bounced off his leg, followed by a shouted apology and a child scrambling to retrieve it before the game could collapse into argument. He waved them off, but his gaze lingered as they scattered again, reforming their loose circle with new rules shouted over one another. Only then did he really look around.

There were children everywhere. Not dozens, more than that. They spilled between huts, clustered near work areas, filled the shaded edges of Gamblerdise and the open center alike, close to the temple and the Anchor. Some played elaborate games with clear structure, others improvised chaos with enthusiasm and noise. Villagxor felt a tightness settle in his chest, not fear, not anger, but scale. Gamblerdise had grown and this was the proof of it.

He watched longer. Patterns emerged once he stopped seeing them as a crowd. Certain children dominated games because they knew how numbers worked. Others lingered at the edges, unsure when to speak or act. A few always won, not by luck but by understanding rules better than the rest, rules that changed often but never randomly. Knowledge was shaping outcomes here.

Villagxor’s hands clasped behind his back. This was not neglect of their parents. It was the natural result of teaching being private, accidental. In a place where chance ruled daily life, understanding chance had become an advantage, passed down like a family tool. He exhaled slowly. Left alone, this would turn into something ugly. Something…sad.

His eyes drifted back to the games. Dice, markers, chants, dares, contests of guessing and risk. They were already learning, just not together. A thought took shape, simple at first, but with room to grow. If games were everywhere in Gamblerdise, woven into how people spoke, bartered and lived then perhaps teaching did not need to fight that. Perhaps it could ride it.

Villagxor clapped his hands once, sharply, then again louder. It took a moment, then another but curiosity won. Children slowed, arguments paused, dice stopped mid-roll. One by one, then in clumps, they gathered around him until nearly forty stood, sat or crouched in a loose circle. Refugees, Changelings, small and tall, confident and wary. Villagxor waited until the noise settled before speaking.

“Alright,” he said. “You play games all day. Today, I’m stealing you for one.” A few grins appeared. A boy with green skin leaned forward eagerly. Villagxor crouched and picked up a handful of pebbles from the ground, setting them in a small pile between them. “This one is new. I just made it up, so if it breaks, that’s on me.”

He explained slowly. The game had no board. No winner at first. Each round, a child would step forward and take a pebble, then answer a question chosen not by Villagxor, but by the group. Counting, patterns, knots, guessing weight, recalling a rule from another game, even judging when to walk away. If they answered well, the pebble stayed. If not, it returned to the pile. The goal was not to hoard pebbles, but to move them all out of the center.

Confusion followed. A girl frowned and asked how anyone could win if everyone shared the goal. A boy argued it sounded unfair. Villagxor smiled and nodded. “Good,” he said. “That means you’re thinking. The point is not beating each other. It’s learning what you know and what you don’t, before chance tests you harder.” He tapped the pile. “The pebbles don’t care who you are. They only care what you do.”

They tried it. At first, chaos. Questions too hard, questions too easy, arguments over fairness. Villagxor let it happen for a moment, then stepped in. He corrected gently. He asked why a guess failed, why a choice worked. When a child froze, he broke the task into smaller steps, letting others help explain instead of answering for them. Slowly, the noise changed. Less shouting, more listening.

As rounds passed, patterns emerged again but different ones. Children who struggled with numbers excelled at memory. Those who stumbled over rules were quick to sense when risk was wrong. A child with stone-like skin quietly solved problems others overthought. Villagxor pointed these moments out, not as praise, but as information. “See that,” he said. “That’s knowledge too.”

When someone failed, he did not scold. He asked them to explain what they tried to do. When someone succeeded easily, he asked them to explain it back to the group. Understanding became part of the game itself. The pebbles moved faster now, the center thinning, because they were learning how to think together.

By the end, the pile was gone. The children noticed first. A quiet spread, then smiles, then a cheer. Villagxor stood, brushing dust from his knees. “That,” he said, looking around the circle, “is how you make chance fair. You don’t control it. You prepare for it. Tomorrow, we’ll play again. And the day after. Different rules. Different game.”

Summary

Villagxor notices that there are loads of children in Gamblerdise and the skill level /understanding of the world between them is quite limited. 'Thus, he comes up with a plan. A school of sorts!

Forgotten Sands: A Divine Journey into the Unknown

🧭 The Trade Caravan 🧭

Four suns ago, Gamblerdise vanished behind uneven stone and restless wind, swallowed by the valley’s bends and the will that guarded it. The caravan did not look back after the second sun passed. There were no roads to follow, just direction, memory and the agreement of ten people walking the same way. The land opened into burned plains, dark soil cracked and glassed in places, as if fire had once argued with the earth and neither had fully won. It wasn’t all bad, as some places already had plants growing on them.

At the head walked Game Master Eht’Redart. She stood taller than the rest, light skinned, her posture straight, with the kind of confidence that did not demand attention but inevitably drew it. Her changeling nature showed only in the subtle way her features resisted fixation, never quite the same twice if you looked too long, a minor change yet an omen of what’s to come. She carried herself like someone used to managing variables, people, chance, time, and letting none of them believe they were in charge.

The others followed in loose formation, not a line, not a cluster. There was Toven with the food sacks, meticulous to the point of obsession. Lira carried Fortunite shards wrapped and rewrapped so often the cloth had softened like old leather, doing it as many times as possible, a way to manage the obsessiveness to make something from the Fortunite. Brecht and Ossa traded jokes to keep nerves from creeping back in.

Eht’Redart set the pace. Not fast, not slow. She counted how many suns passed in her head without effort, tracked water by weight rather than hope, adjusted course when the ground subtly told her to. When the plains stretched too wide and empty, she spoke. When silence was safer, she kept it. The caravan trusted her, the way people trust someone who never pretends certainty but always plans for uncertainty.

Each of them bore the faint yellow circle upon their forehead, dulled slightly now by dust and sweat but not gone. It did not glow. It did not protect them from the land’s scars or the heat of the open plains. At the front of it all, Eht’Redart walked on, eyes forward, already playing a game whose rules she did not know, but fully intended to survive.

By the 7th Sun, the land broke its monotony with water. A wide river cut across the plains, dark and slow, its surface reflecting the sky. It was not raging, not gentle either. Deep enough that packs would soak, wide enough that going around it meant losing at least a few full suns, maybe more if the ground worsened. The caravan stopped without needing to be told. Obstacles were expected. Panic was not.

No one argued immediately. That alone marked them as people of Gamblerdise. They gathered near the riverbank, set their sacks down, drank, watched the water and resupplied their water. Decisions were not rushed. They were weighed, toyed with, tested. Luck was respected, but never blindly trusted. Someone, Brecht maybe, muttered that the water looked honest enough. Ossa countered that honest things were often the most dangerous. A few chuckles followed, easing the tension.

Eht’Redart listened, hands clasped behind her back. She turned and raised two fingers. “We play,” she said simply. No explanation was needed. From one of the packs, Lira retrieved a small leather and spread it on a flat stone. Toven produced a set of bone dice, worn smooth, edges softened by use. They were not sacred, but they were respected. Games in Gamblerdise were not about winning. They were about revealing what people already feared or hoped.

The rules were agreed upon quickly. Two paths, two outcomes. The river meant speed and risk. The long way meant safety and loss of time. Each person would roll once, stating which path they favored before the dice left their hand. No persuasion after the fact. No changing sides. The dice would not decide for them, but they would show where their collective instinct leaned. It was a way to make indecision visible.

They rolled one by one. Some laughed at their own poor throws. Others stared a moment too long at the results before stepping back. Patterns emerged, not in numbers alone but in reactions. Those who favored the river tended to roll boldly, careless of low odds. Those who favored the long way hesitated, fingers lingering on the dice as if hoping they might absorb certainty through touch. Eht’Redart watched all of it, eyes sharp, expression neutral.

When the last die settled, no tally was announced. It was not necessary. The mood had shifted, that was the real result. The group stood quieter now, more aligned. Eht’Redart finally spoke. “We cross,” she said. No cheers, no groans. Just nods. The game had done its job. It had not chosen for them. It reminded them who they were.

Before moving, they took a moment. Packs were adjusted, Fortunite wrapped tighter, knots checked twice. A few people touched the yellow mark on their forehead without realizing it. Crossing the river was a risk, but it was a chosen one. In Gamblerdise, that mattered. You could forgive bad luck. You did not forgive refusing to play.

They stepped into the water together, as people who understood that chance was a language. One you listened to, argued with, occasionally laughed at and then answered with action.

Summary

We meet a few of the people of the trade caravan, as they walk in an unknown direction. Days pass and they reach a river. Indecision strikes as they don’t know if they should go around or cross the river. A game made it clear.

A small-ish post showcasing the culture of Gamblerdise.