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Dismas and Sarmenti had met in a tavern fight. Usually he'd have wished for their meeting to have been under better circumstances, but it was poetic, in a way. The clamoring, brutal song of spilled ale and tables tossed asunder, of shouting and the drunken slurring of broken sentences, of radiating pain on the side of his face and blood from where his teeth had sunk into his cheek much too fast and much too viciously. He'd laughed, stumbling out of the way of the drunken highwayman, who was blindly striking at anything and anyone around him.
Eventually, Dismas had collapsed fully, falling flat on his face and hitting his head against a support beam, dazed enough for Sarmenti to spit out some kind of mockery—it's quite blurry, if he's being frank, because he wasn't the most sober either—and prod at him with his toes. The highwayman fumbled as he tried to grab his leg, only for the significantly less drunk jester to giggle and dance out of the way. And then he'd taken another hit to the kneck, making him stumble away and leaving him gasping with his laughter.
They'd been grabbed by the back of their clothes and tossed out, along with the other brawlers. Sarmenti had long since learned how to tumble without harming his lute, and he'd set himself to bumble his way back to his lodging before Dismas had grabbed his foot and tripped him. He kicked, not as hard as he should've, though the jester blames the fatigue, and then burst into more laughter. Somehow, he'd ended up at the inn, dragging a far too drunk to walk highwayman behind him and up the stairs before dropping him in the lounge rather unceremoniously. Sarmenti might've said something to someone else, a far too regal looking woman, before he tried to find his room. And it only struck him then that he hadn't any clue where his key had gone.
So he slept in the lounge, curled on a chair that was so comfortable that he contemplated stealing it, with the drunken highwayman snoring beside him. In the morning, they'd both been chastised by the holy woman, before Sarmenti decided he'd had enough of being told off and walked to the woods with leaded legs to relieve himself. Dismas met him at the door, a black eye on his face and his nose bruised to hell and back, and he blocked the way with his leg. "Thanks for these," The highwayman had pointed at his face with a tired and hungover fury in his eyes.
"Twas my pleasure!" Sarmenti replied, ignoring his own pounding headache and the bruises that had grown overnight on the side of his face. He stepped over Dismas' leg, only for him to raise it higher and for the jester to not be able to pull his knee high enough to get over (And he's flexible!). "What's this?"
He was expecting a beating, or a verbal beravement, or something, as a fragment of the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ slowly clawed its way from the back of his mind to the front. Sarmenti would've gladly accepted it, if anything else than to shut it up. What he wasn't expecting was for a handful of gold coins to be shoved into his hand.
"I didn't lose a bar fight to a twinkish clown."
When it reigistered, the clown couldn't help but nearly keel over in laughter. Dismas lowered his leg, and he veered to the side, falling onto the rugged entrance to the inn, still madly chortling as he ran out of breath. "I'm serious."
"I know!" He kept giggling, expending all of his air. Eventually, he stopped, and he sat up, chest heaving and his abdomen sore from it. "My most sincere apologies. I will accept this offering with glee." Sarmenti emphasized it as he pockets the gold, intending to move it the moment he gets to his lodging. "Might I ask your name, oh so valorous victor of a brutal brawl with a twinkish clown?"
"Don't have one," The highwayman said.
"Unfortunate," Sarmenti exaggeratedly lamented. "Mine is Jingles." That got a snort out of Dismas. "I suppose you should pick up a nickname, as most people do not appreciate hearing the word thief thrown around often when referring to a person."
Dismas waved his hand dismissively. "Yellow, then."
"...What?"
"You heard me just fine, unless I broke that ear of yours yesterday."
Sarmenti snapped his fingers next to his ear. "I'm afraid this works just fine, Yellow." It was an odd name, certainly, but no more odd than Jingles. He stood, brushed himself off despite not being dirty, and he wiggled his left hand in a wave. "I'll be off with my hush money now, Yellow. Wouldn't want anyone finding out that a clown inflicted those injuries."
He skittered up the stairs and to his room, only to have that moment of realization that he needed to find where his keys went. Despite there being none around to watch his performance, he slumped over, shoulders dropping in a slouch of defeat. Back down the stairs he went, ready to spend his day searching and hearing the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ pound in the back of his head—a key hit him on the forehead, bouncing against his mask. He scrambled as he caught it.
"You dropped that," The highwayman said with folded arms and a (arogant, obnoxious, pompous, oh how the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ calls—) cocky smile on his face.
"Why thank you!" Sarmenti grited his teeth and said, giving his widest smile despite it not being visible. He bowed theatrically, before he bounded back. He didn't even drop the mask when he entered his room, stashing his coins away before the jester settled into tuning his lute.
He really does wish that he and Dismas had met differently. He is quite fortunate that the highwayman hadn't seen his face when he was drunken and asleep, and even more so that none of the people in the lounge chose to remove his mask while he slept. He isn't lamenting, really. Sarmenti doesn't lament outwardly, and he tries to stifle it inwardly. He doesnt need to. Why care about the past when the future is right there?
Making the replacement for the paint is easy. The motions are rhythmic, calming. He's always doing something. Needs to keep his hands busy. One of the many torments of the court was depriving him of his distractions—of his lute, in particular, though they deprived him of other pleasures too—and it made him itch with the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ thrumming deep within his skull, attempting to spill into his hands. He hadn't the dare to play the cursed song yet, hadn't built the resentment so thorough that it swallowed his caged heart whole, that drove him to carve the smiling eyes of his mask into a furrowed and angered expression.
...Maybe he cares about the past.
Sarmenti crushes a few chalky stones and some flower petals together using the mortar and pestle stored in the wagon for Boudica's war paint. He'd borrowed some of the binding material, mixing it in with the ingredients, and found it to do wonders. No smearing when he'd applied a tentative amount to his fingertips and rubbed them together, and so began the process of using the generous amount of paint he'd made to cover his skin. First is his hands, a little to his knuckles and palm, even though the gloves cover them. Then his scarred neck, before the jester hesitates at his jaw.
He scouts around himself, checking behind a few of the trees. Of course, Dismas, Boudica, and Junia know where he is, they wouldn't let him run off and possibly die on his own. Not that he's so far in the woods that he wouldn't be heard if he shouted loud enough anyway.
Slowly, tentatively, he pulls off his mantle and mask, placing them in his lap as he works. Sarmenti tries to ignore the sensation of his fingers passing over the jagged scar that runs from just above his lip to the dip of his cheek near his eye, then above, through his eyebrow and deep into his scalp, razed flesh from a whip strike unfeeling beneath his hands. He ignores the faux itching sensation that comes upon the teardrops that were branded into his cheeks, closing his eye as he applies it to his eyelid. He doesn't need to do this, but...It feels safer. More familiar. (Lets him hide his imperfections, lets him pretend that the court didn't leave its marks, lets him think that, if even for a moment, he is back on the streets he grew to love, busking for the gold so that he can afford to eat instead of rummaging through trash.) Sarmenti is far thinner than he once was, yet eats far more. He isn't any smarter than he was, but he's wiser. He knows the stench of royalty too well.
He doesn't ignore when the itching returns to the uncovered teardrop. Yet another aspect of his torment. Marking him so that even if he escaped, he'd be identified and returned. It was a consequence for his first attempt at it, before he realized death would be the only escape, whether it be his or the court's.
"Please, my Lord! Have mercy!" The Court Jester cried desperately, before he was shoved to the ground and his head was held still. He'd burned himself before plenty of times, accidents happen, but this felt nothing like it. The brand was pressed to his cheek, and over the court's sick laughter he could hear the rushing of blood in his ears, smell burning flesh, feel as his skin flaked and burned and blisters rose. He may have fallen unconscious (a few times).
A gleefully wicked voice called out over the sound of laughter and his song of torment, "There is a bright side: You won't have to paint those tears on anymore!" And it was approaching his other cheek, his blurred vision doing him no favors and sparing him nothing—
He has to stop scratching before he tears his skin open with his nail and it bleeds down his cheek.
Sarmenti drops his hands into his lap for a moment, long hair falling down his shoulders and face, before he sighs and gets back to work with a sad smile. Some of it gets into his hair at the roots, but he doesn't care. He can't muster up the will to care. It could always be worse, he could always have to wash blood out of his hair.
He hisses to himself as his fingers make contact with where the hag's wretched meat tenderizer had come down upon his head. Junia had fixed whatever cracks there may have been in his skull, though the bruise yet remained, and the crack in his mask stayed. And, certainly, whatever damage the hag had done to his fragile brain had been nothing in the face of his preexisting madness. He worries more for Dismas.
The blisters on his arms don't hurt, at least.
Sarmenti finishes putting on his makeup, settling to find a puddle or some body of water to see how he did, before he hears shuffling in the trees. He'd learned how to move without jingling his bells enough to be heard during his time in court, so he shoves his hair into his cap, pulling it on proper, and he puts his mask on as he stands, drawing his dirk. He adjusts the strap on his lute as he begins creeping through the brush, near silent aside from the occasional quiet jingle.
There's more shuffling.
The others would've called to him if they'd come to find him. He adjusts his hold, readying to stab if need be, as he steps further forward. He peeks around another tree, looking for where it came from, only to be met with nothing.
Light, at least give him a hulking shadow or something, he doesn't want to cat and mouse in the same hour as applying his makeup. In his irritation, Sarmenti intentionally flicks one of his bells, attempting to alert whatever it is of his location. He'd like to get this over with, if he may. Boudica might be furious if he doesn't return her mortar and pestle, but he doesn't want to lead a thing to his companions when he can likely deal with it himself. (Maybe he could get the others to stop giving him that pitiful, sad stare when they look at them. It's been downwards ever since Dismas decided to quite rudely display his shame, and then had the audacity to question him about it. He should be far more upset at the highwayman than he is, to be frank.)
The jester has barely a moment to react before a fencing blade (is that an épée? Of all places for a fencing weapon to be, the tangle is certainly not one he'd have anticipated) swipes in front of his face, just barely failing to hit any part of him as he jerks back. Blindly, acting upon instinct (he needs to survive he needs to survive The Court Jester Sarmenti hasn't lived this long just to be killed within a castle an overgrown forest) he lunges forward, dirk in hand and poised to stab. He dances out of the way of another swipe, and with a mad giggle and a gleeful jingling of his bells he nicks the arm of his opponent, who evades similarly to him. A fellow dancer!
She lunges, her teeth bared, and Sarmenti hops away. He turns back on his heel as fast as he can and swipes his dirk up, cutting along her shoulder, before her elbow strikes him upon the side of the head and he falls to the ground with a muffled groan. He would've landed on his back if not for his lute, so he twists himself forward to fall with some semblance of grace. He tries to get up, but the duelist kicks him in the ribs, the familiar pain of fine point steel toed boots knocking the wind out of him once more, as he quickly slides his lute from his back and lets it loose to the side of his head.
Her eyes narrow as she looks down upon him, her boot pressing. He turns over willingly, well aware of how bad the bruises can get, and looks up to her with a smile behind his mask. Her weapon (it really is an épée!) jabs aggressively at his mask, her breathing steadying out to become near imperceptible. Sarmenti would be hard pressed to say that she isn't a reanimated corpse, if not for the clearness of her gaze.
"I thought I'd heard something," She says, her accent thick with the familiar south-western lilt. Her consonants come out as a rumble, and her vowels as stunted, though he'd have to hear her speak more in order to identify which kingdom. Perhaps has come from the same region as him, a neighboring kingdom possibly?
"I thought I had as well!" Sarmenti sends her a finger gun, before her boot presses against his chest again and he curles in on himself. Hint taken. She almost has the royal stink, but she's far too skilled at her trade to have been a noble in his lord's The Tyrant's kingdom. She beckons someone over, presumably her allies, in a tongue that's almost familiar to him. (What a shame, that he'd nearly forgotten his mother's language as he grew. He spoke what was accepted around him, and became fluent as quick as he could, so as to not give his audiences the wrong impression. It's only funny to be the immigrant who doesn't speak the local lingo so many times.)
Two sets of footsteps crunch the leaves and the foliage around him, and then Sarmenti finds himself looking upon two others. An older man, who's attire suggests occultish relations, and a young woman with a large cloak and backpack covering her. In her hand is a—
He doesn't scream, but he may as well have, as he recoils so sharply and crawls away, ignoring the boot in his side. It'd been bad enough in the sprawl, where the fanatics reveled in his burns, but he'd been able to block it out until the inn, until he and Dismas...He blocked it out for long enough that he could spend the next days alone, sorting himself out without having to perform. Terror, panic, shock and utter horror. Oh how the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ screams and beckons for him, left hand twitching as he tries to grab at his lute.
He needs to run, needs to leave—
The Court jester scrambles as quickly as he can to his feet, stumbling over the roots as he fixes his lute's strap and he runs as fast as he can ignoring the thorns and the roots in his feet and the sticks which stab through his stockings
Something grabs his leg, and he collapses.
A panicked, completely unintentional shout bubbles through his lips. He twists the best he can, seeing what caught him, and he finds that the roots themselves have tangled around his ankle and up his calf. He hacks at them with his sickle, but they simply regrow quicker than he can cut, and then he can't think, can't move, running on pure survival instincts.
(Ask any animal if it was worth it to gnaw a limb off for freedom.)
The m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ screams. It beckons him. Play me, play me and sever the rest of your fingers after you dispatch of the burning iron. Tis the only absolution ye shall find from my sweet song.
"Get back!" The jester shouts instead. The tempo of his heart is too violent, the world around him giving way to the oblivion of his own mind. It's impossible to breathe. He bares his dirk and strains against the roots, trying not to act so much like the caged animal he once was. "I said get back! Can you heathens not understand such a simple command?!"
"Must you have terrified him so?" The occultish man chides the women, fingers bent into an odd formation while his other hand hovers a skull with a melted candle on it. His accent is the low rumbling consonants, without any of the stilted vowels. He takes languid steps, his robe seeming to levitate above the foliage as needed, before his hand relaxes and the roots stop growing up his leg. The jester takes the chance, hacking away at them, until the man clears his throat.
"He must've been the one who attacked our carriage," The young woman spits. "I saw red out of the window slat scurry into the woods after the deed was done."
"As did I," The duelist replies.
The jester snaps out of it for a moment, lowering his dirk. "Your carriage?" He asks quietly, a mirthless giggle bubbling upon his lips. Before he really realizes it, he's laughing, part of the blade of his dirk pressing against his thigh as he hunches over and folds his arms. What a bandit he is, to destroy another traveling band's carriage! Oh, how he should compensate them with a favor—a song! Oh, and what a beautiful song he knows, shall he just—
"Cease," The man says, and suddenly everything in The Court Jester's chest goes silent. For a moment, he's panicked, before he begins in silent laughter again. A dream! A dream! Of course, why wouldn't it be a dream! A very long dream! Oh how brutally The Court must've beaten him this time! And oh how kind of his lord to allow him to rest away his injuries instead of being set back up to perform again and again! Truly, he should thank him. Perhaps a ballad of greatfu—
The duelist grabs his chin, forcing him to look up from his silent laughter. "I'm hard pressed to believe that he is entirely here with us." She murmurs.
(Light, where is Dismas?)
The Court Jester hadn't a clue where this new noblewoman had come, but he supposes he should entertain her the same as he always does. It's the least he can do for their delightful patronage! (Brace for the beating close your eyes and cover your head if you get the chance don't let them break your hands or your lute, and laugh, laugh madly, cackle as they hurt you because maybe if you truly convince them that you've lost your mind and have gone mad that they will stop trying to make you scream because it's what they want after all and you won't give them the satisfaction of hearing you scream any longer.)
The young woman snaps her fingers, brows furrowed. "Can't see his eyes." She reaches for his mask.
Sarmenti snaps out of it, if only just for a moment. Don't touch his mask, or him, or his lute, or anything for that matter. He's quick as he swings his dirk upwards, getting a good cut across her forearm before the duelist stops him by grabbing his wrist. He swings his sickle, slicing her face on the cheek before she stops that too. "I think he is but a madman." She murmurs, saying the word in a different language. That is his mother's tongue. He stops struggling, staring straight through her. "Ungag him."
The man does as he's told, relinquishing whatever spell he'd used on Sarmenti's body, and he takes a moment to just breathe and hear himself breath. He looks down, slumping over. "I've nothing to offer you."
"Did you or did you not sabotage our carriage?" The young woman with the brand asks. She's too careless. He breathes the fear back down. It's not right of him to melt under the pressure of a captive audience, perhaps he should play a tune, lay a groundwork—
Don't, the rational part of his brain murmurs, just audible above the call of the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒. "I wouldn't know," He replies slowly. "I'm quite the carriage saboteur, I'll have you know, so I'd have to see—" The woman points the brand once more. "I did not." Sarmenti corrects. "Whatever brigand may have done so is not associated with me."
"Al," The young woman starts, before the occultist takes over for the duelist's grip on his chin, his unearthly gaze imbedding itself deep into the minstral's mind and joining the wicked m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒'s siren song of whimsical destruction and turmoil. His brows furrow, grip laxing for a moment, before Sarmenti feels as though he needs to vomit. The man pulls away, and he gasps, twisting his body to avert his face from them as he pulls his mask ajar just enough to retch.
"He..." 'Al' pauses, taking a breath. "He didn't do it."
The duelist looks at him with her brow furrowed. "But..?"
He takes a moment, before he dismisses it. "It is nothing. Simply the mind of a maddened man, distorted and cacophanous." He looks like he is about to say more, before there is a familiar battle cry—
The three dive just out of the way as Boudica's spear stabs into the ground next to the jester, her feet following quickly as she runs. A gunshot rings out, and a flashing powder grenade is thrown in response, blinding Sarmenti. (Cover your head cover your head cover your head for they are not fearful of striking you there anymore, not now that you're disfigured and the whipping to your chest setting an example of where you need to be hit now for your back has lost much of its sensation—)
Familiar boots stumble over him and he hears Dismas grunt as he hits the ground. It's impossible to see, but Sarmenti reaches for the highwayman anyway, his hand making contact with his pant leg. He hears a gun being cocked, and terror shoots through him once more. "It's me!" He calls, not bothering to hide the frantic nature of his voice. "Tis I, Dismas."
Dismas' hands are on him at once, feeling and feeling. Sarmenti fixes his mask as the smoke clears, setting his dirk to sawing through the roots which trap him so. Red gloves end up on the sides of his head. Dismas stares at him with his brow furrowed in concern.
"Jingles! Are you hurt?" He spits, voice venomous even if he doesn't mean to be. Just the highwayman he knows and loves.
"No," Sarmenti replies stiffly. He really wishes he could answer yes in that moment, as the fragile walls he'd built in the relative peace that's been the tangle tumbled down upon him and nearly crushed him. But Dismas is already standing, getting to assist Boudica, and the jester shouldn't halt him any longer. He continues to saw at the roots, tight and thick around his ankle.
Junia is upon him quickly, but just as she begins her prayers, the occultist's voice rings out. "HALT."
It's an eldritch thrum, reverberating from everywhere and nowhere at once. It does as it's intended to, and each of the six other people in the woods freeze. "This is a misunderstading!" He calls. "Do not strike us and we shall not strike you!"
"You have attempted to harm my companion!" Boudica barks in response. The duelist is pinned between her polearm and a tree, the barbarian's grip on her sword arm tight enough to prevent her from escaping.
"We mistook him for a brigand," The duelist replies, her voice calm, flat. Her gaze is unreadable to Sarmenti, and likely even worse for the hellion. "And no harm has come to him."
Dismas lowers his gun away from the young woman. It wasn't cocked. "Then the fuck was that?" He motions to the roots holding his leg still. "You're on top of him, trap him, have weapons, and you expect us to not assume that you were tryin to hurt him?" The cloaked woman bares her burning rod, and he raises his gun again, thumbing the cocking mechanism.
"They didn't hurt me," Sarmenti blurts. He anchors himself with his lute, ignoring the creeping rage within his throat as Junia inspects him. (It creeps through him like poison, and the taste of tainted wine befalls his lips. The lowly fool, the one too scared to carry out a plot against the king yet the most righteous in doing so, bows his head and does as he's commanded. He's sickened. How he longs to pass the goblet back. To say all is well. But he will certainly be executed if he does so, and The Court Jester hasn't survived for so long to have his neck in the trajectory of the executioner's blade.)
"Tis poisoned, m'lord," He says just loud enough for him to hear.
He breathes in and continues slicing the roots to bits, pulling his leg free. Everyone has calmed. Attention's on him, don't fail to perform, clown. "Twas simply a misunderstanding! We had both chosen violence, irrationally, and it lead to a simple scuffle. It is nothing to be concerned about!" He pauses, then points a finger, exaggerating his annoyance with a hand on his hip and a lean forward. "Though it is quite rude to stalk a clown while he is applying his makeup!"
"Clown?" The duelist asks, the word mangled in her throat. Right. That's an eastern word.
" Entertainer ." He responds in his first tongue. She almost seems confused, not at the word but the clairity in which he'd said it. It's not often that people in the east speak the western languages. Though, given that he is from the west, he supposes that his accent must have dwindled enough to be misidentified.
Boudica lowers her spear some and laxes her grip upon the duelist's arm just enough. "Is he telling the truth, my kjære?"
Junia looks at Sarmenti tentatively.
He motions with his elbow ever so slightly.
"Yes," Junia replies. "Sarmenti is not committing the sin of lying."
Dismas lowers his gun fully. "Well then. Suppose we have no reason to escallate."
The cloaked woman's eyes narrow. Al places a hand on her shoulder and murmurs something, and she sighs. "Fine! I was wrong." She grits her teeth. "I apologise."
"Very well then!" Sarmenti bows mockingly. "We shall be on our way, as soon as I find my way back to retrieve my utensils. I cannot thank you enough for them, beloved Boudica!" He puts an extra flair in his step as he scampers away and into the brush, out of sight and out of earshot. He cares not what his companions do to his assailants, he needs a moment to breathe.
The tainted wine is spilled on him as the goblet strikes his head. The Court Jester intensifies his swaying as he stumbles around in a dazed state. He may vomit, or he may fall, but he will keep it to himself until he is out of the main hall and in his chambers at the end of the servants' wing. He'd rather fall atop the prickly hay of his bed than on the king's gorgeous carpet once more.
Sarmenti's head hurts. He runs his hands beneath his mask and rubs his eyes, making his way until he finds the mortar and pestle. He collects them, adjusting his scythe's hold and lute's strap as he stands once more, severed finger itching. He trips over a root in his carelesness, and he ends up leaning against a tree, chest heaving and his head pounding. The wretched m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ rings in his ears and overwhelms everything.
Play until you drop. Until THEY drop. Until there is nothing left of those who tormented you. The world has wronged you. You Should Fix That.
He grabs his dirk, poising it upon his hand, between his ring finger and his severed finger. He breathes, closing his eyes. "Silence yourself. Or I will destroy this vessel."
The m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ screams joyously into his ear. It cares not. So long as there is some form of bloodshed, it will be pleased.
Don't give it what it wants. You aren't an object for their pleasures. No matter how many of them assumed you were.
Sarmenti hadn't noticed the presance behind him until there was a hand on his shoulder. He jerks and swings, instinct, and cares not for the nick at the base of his finger over the blood of his assailant. He easily slices through his forearm, sharpened blade and perfected technique of violence digging a wound through the layers of muscle and fat. Al steps back with an eldritch thrum, his eyes going dark for but a moment before he flicks his gaze upwards.
"That hurt," He says, simply. Sarmenti giggles.
"Why thank you!"
Al looks at him, his brows furrowing, and the jester doesn't blame him. He's looking at a madman. It would make sense to be concerned. The occultist's hand comes to his wound, and it glows green as his flesh mends itself beneath his hold. It stops bleeding, before he pulls back his palm and a new cut has opened, not as deep. "Unlucky," He mutters to himself, before he looks back to Sarmenti.
"What was that?" He asks, putting a joyous lilt into his tone. "Occultish magicks? Why, have you come to study me?" The jester giggles once more, putting a hand up to cover where his mouth would be through his mask. "What honor! I hope that you had enjoyed what you found within my feeble mind! Was it the cacophany of the sweet song of death that struck you, or was it the simple rambling madness, or may—"
"The song," The occultist says, stopping him before he can list all of the things that he can think of that would be found in his damaged brain.
"Tis simply a tune I learned," He replies. That's not the truth. He knows it isn't the truth.
Al knows it too. He scoffs, his bearded face wrinkling. "You'd lie to a man who has read your mind?" His eyes change colors, and suddenly the truth is compelled out of him. He doesn't even know he's speaking. The graveyard. Ah, yes, the graveyard. Where the old Sarmenti had shattered into a million pieces of broken jester that were then haphazardly reconstructed. Except...
He was already broken when he'd heard the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒. In fact, he hadn't heard it. He wrote it.
He's known this. He's always known this.
...Perhaps he still has a long journey on the road to redemption yet.
Sarmenti gains his voice back. "I was desperate. A caged animal. I made no deal, stole no power. It was me. I had gotten myself into that mess, and I would get myself out." He steps away from the man. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something to retrieve. I'm afriad one of my companions allowed me to borrow an object of hers—" The occultist offers the mortar and pestle out to him with his clean hand, and he takes it with a moment's hesitation. Just accept the peace, you lousy entertainer. It really was a misunderstanding. "Thank you."
"You are welcome," Al responds. "My companions and I have agreed to compensate you by lending our supplies. Our stagecoach is still damaged to unusability, but we shall repair it in the morning, as the sky begins to grow too dark for us to do so now." He begins to walk, and Sarmenti follows, his bells jingling in comparison to the man's near silent steps. His robe is still just hovering over the dense foliage. "We have rations and firewood to lend."
"Whatever would we do without it, in such a dire strait? For we surely have no way to replenish it!" The jester smiles, and he sees the occultist's lips curl upwards slightly. Though, his expression droops, as he wipes the blood from his dirk onto some moss he rips from the ground. Al clearly followed him to gather information on the m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒, as sick as it made him feel to imagine why. He is no eldritch monster to be studied, no object to be observed, no foolish musician (though that is to be debated yet.) He was declared mad before he created the horrible thing.
A man with little knowledge about the otherworldly magics accidentally creating a murderous m̵̠̅̄͆ḛ̸̠̳̇ḽ̵̇o̴̢̭̰͝ḏ̵̺̔ỳ̷̠̓̒ with his rage. That's all Sarmenti was at the time, and that he still remains.
The Court Jester can't do anything but laugh anymore. He's really lost his mind, hasn't he? Someone must've kicked his head too hard earlier, for he's never had this happen, never lost the ability to cease his laughter. What started as quiet giggles grew to sonorous cackles, his chest heaving from the effort of it all. The Tyrant asked him to play a tune, seeking more ridicule, more entertainment, and he shall not disappoint! Blood will be spilled upon the crimson carpet, the wine stains will have finally disappeared without The Court Jester needing to be struck hard enough to bleed! Truly, he should applaud the court for the joy they are going to bring him.
Slice! Slice! Slice! Oh what a gorey and beautiful show it is! The Tyrant's hand falls to the ground with his goblet, spilling across the carpet, and there is too much shock to do anything as he grabs his lute and begins to play. He never ceases to laugh, as the doors slam shut, the windows grow dark as they are splattered and painted with blood, as those who have tormented him for so long experience their overdue retribution. The testament to his suffering is chaotic, violent, it's haunting. Í̷̬t̵̞͗'̴̱̅s̶͕̑ ̴̮̈́ṕ̵͈e̷̬͛r̵̡͗f̶̜̓e̷̬̋c̴̹͝t̸̻̚.
"Tell your companion to put that molten rod away," Sarmenti spits harsher than he'd meant to. Al turns to him with an eyebrow raised. "You've seen my mind. Tell her to put it away, and I will allow you to set your camp with us."
The occultist doesn't stop walking, nodding sharply. "I shall. We will be grateful that you have allowed us to remain around you after what happened."
"Pah! Water under a bridge." He waves his hand and surges foward. Now that he is standing to the side of the man, he realizes that he is taller, by...A fair amount. Sarmenti supposes it must be something to do with his strange nature. "Though, if they attempt to harm any of us, we shall not have the same mercy as earler."
Blood, blood all around.
He drops to his knees. Or was he always there? The Court Jester can't tell. His fingers are raw, skin peeled back farther than he's ever damaged them before, fingernails threatening to break in half. His throat tastes of blood. His nose is bleeding. His chest aches raw. He has not the strength to stand, yet he forces himself anyway.
The Tyrant lays on the ground beside his throne, crown thrown askew. He'd been saved for last. The orchestrator of his torment, the monster who'd done this to him, who'd never allowed him to escape and to flourish. He hasn't any idea how long he's spent in this castle, in these walls, trapped as he overlooks the land below, the town he'd passed through on his journey after the summon.
He takes the knife he'd imbedded into the man's back and holds it in his shaking, raw hands. The song screams for more. It needs more. A finale. He stabs The Tyrant over and over, until his face is unrecognizeable, until there is nothing but a broken pile of flesh and bones beneath him. For everything. Poison testing, accuracy training, games of darts, the wines spilt upon his head, the burns inflicted upon his body, the tattoos he'd carved to set examples, the whippings The Court Jester had endured to ensure the other servants wouldn't suffer as he, the humiliations, the ridicule, the broken bones. For the nights where he was forced to sleep with the rotten hog of a human, where he was expected to at least pretend that he enjoyed it, where he had to beg for more through his barely held back sobs.
Ạ̷̤̾ ̴͕̀f̴͖͎͈̊͒̚i̸̙̪̔̂̽ņ̴̉͠ȁ̸͕̊̕ḷ̴̤̮͌͋͝e̶͎̓̓͛,̸̧͓͚̆ ̷̹͔͐̈C̷̞̾̃͜o̸̝̽͑̂u̷̟͍͌ṟ̵͆͛̍ṱ̴̛͖͎̅̑ ̶̩͚̙̉̌̀J̵͕̈́̈́̀ẹ̷̲̇̕͜s̵̙̭̾̅t̷̲͚̂̎e̶̫̠̮̓r̷̝̼̓.̷̩̓͝͝
A finale he could give.
Sarmenti has himself mostly composed when he and Al break the trees to the Old Road, the only thing he has left to fix being the listless gaze in his eyes that likely permeats whenever his mind slips back. Though, granted that he isn't exactly showing them off, it's easier to act normal if every part of him is in on it. True to the occultist's word, the women are at the fire with Dismas and Junia, helping boil the stew for tonight. Boudica, meanwhile, is sharpening her spear, heavy whetstone in her hands as she finely rakes it across, grinding the blade. Her leather strop sits next to her, though the container is unopened.
The jester sets the mortar and pestle next to her. She doesn't look up from her work, but a smile wrinkles her sharp features as he settles down next to the highwayman. Dismas looks away from the cooking pot, breaking off from listening to the conversation between the other three, and it's clear that he's passing Sarmenti a smile beneath his kerchief. He passes what he has to Al, who seats himself next to the duelist, and he shuffles away from them, the other following him.
"You took awhile."
"Did I now?" Sarmenti bites. "What took you so long to find me?"
The highwayman doesn't look surprised. He folds his arms and looks to the forest. "More of those undead creatures threw us off. We got lucky we went in the right direction when we started movin again." Ah. That explains it. The jester leans against him ever so slightly, asking, and of course Dismas lets him in. (He wishes he could let him in, view the wreck of a clown. But when he imagines it, there is nothing but distain and unadulterated disgust on Dismas' face, and he is to be thrown away like he's used to.)
"It's okay," Sarmenti returns.
"None of that flowery 'Tis well' shit?"
The jester giggles. "Well, my deepest apologies for overextending your gratitude, my deepest and dearest companion! I shall remind myself to intensify the verbosity and eloquence of my speech around you, will that suffice?" Dismas flicks the forehead of his mask, and his shoulders shake in a silent laugh. "Well?"
"I think I liked it better when you talked simply," He replies with levity in his voice. He allows Sarmenti to lean into him further, one of his arms sliding around his back carefully. Normally, he'd glare and recoil, but as of late the touch has become more comfortable. He no longer perceives it as a threat. Perhaps he's made greater progress towards his own redemption than he'd like to believe. "Plenty easier to understand."
"Ah, ah, nay my friend. For you have requested this."
Dismas scoffs. The duelist and the young woman have stopped arguing about how to cut carrots after Junia shows them how she does it, while Al has set up his own small pot and batch of the stew. To be honest, Sarmenti should care substantially more about being openly...He's not sure what to call it. Attracted to men? Open to the idea of a relation with a man? Oh, Light, he's heard the word before, it just slipped his tongue—
"Kinda wanna kiss you," Dismas says, snapping Sarmenti from his word search.
"Junia will have our necks," Sarmenti replies. "Wait until they've fallen asleep, else she will scream of how terrible and virtue lacking we are, to do so in the sanctity of the Light." He waves his hand dismissively with a giggle. "The hypocrit she is."
"What was that word that you used to describe her and Boudica?" The highwayman thinks. "Ina...Innamortal? Ina—"
"Inamorata," Sarmenti finishes for him.
"That. I'm shocked she hasn't caught on."
"Ah, well, she's too righteous for that. 'Women belong with men' and all." Ironic, that that belief is held so high into society, up to the pompous royalty, which is simultaneously above it and upholding it at once. (Hands crawling on his skin. Up his back. But when he pictures it now, looking up, it's Dismas, his loving gaze breaking through the shell he's put on even during intimate acts, instead of The Tyrant. The look which makes him move his hips and ask for more with genuine earnesty, the ones that make him feel safe enough within his own skin.)
"The offer is still open, by the way," Sarmenti murmurs into Dismas' neck.
"Which one?"
"You can kiss me in other places," He shrugs.
The highwayman flicks him once more. "Shut up, that's fuckin nasty."
"It is not!"
"Do you know what comes out of there?"
"Quit fighting, girls," The young woman calls. "Dinner's up."
Al's stew is an odd shade, a tad purple, and it isn't the firelight deceiving him. Each of them eat with varying degrees of civility, though Sarmenti simply sits with his bowl and waits for the go ahead to hide while he eats. As trusting as he is of his companions, old habits die hard. The young woman and Dismas go at it with the same level of ravenous gusto, Junia sends a prayer and Al mutters something in an inhuman tongue, and the duelist takes her time, eating with eloquence.
...Maybe she is from further west. He doesn't remember all that well, but Sarmenti is sure that duelists were higher members of society in at least one of the kingdoms he traveled through. Of course, being the street rat he always was, there were larger things which concerned him.
"Why are you not eating?" The duelist asks, clearly noticing his stare.
"I wait." He answers. He pretends to look at his painted nails. "Starvation is in style, after all."
That gets a few chuckles, but Dismas still elbows him. He sighs, standing with his bowl and finding a secluded place to eat, which happens to be leaning against the back of their stagecoach. The stew is...Surprisingly excellent, in comparison to what he's used to eating for meals outside of inns. It almost matches the table scraps he'd eaten in the wake of his concert, though perhaps slices of roasted pork and vegitables boiled in fat tasted better with a hint of bloody revenge. Conventionally, Sarmenti would have been concerned for the difference in flavor, but he knows poison when he tastes it. It isn't savory. It's sweet, or bitter, or tastes of nuts.
Ạ̷̤̾ ̴͕̀f̴͖͎͈̊͒̚i̸̙̪̔̂̽ņ̴̉͠ȁ̸͕̊̕ḷ̴̤̮͌͋͝e̶͎̓̓͛, it had screamed for him. The music grew agonizing to his exhausted mind and his faltering body. The Court Jester could hardly think outside of simple actions. Make it stop. Worse than The Court. He stumbles over a mutilated lord and falls to the ground, knees too weak to support him any longer.
Ạ̷̤̾ ̴͕̀f̴͖͎͈̊͒̚i̸̙̪̔̂̽ņ̴̉͠ȁ̸͕̊̕ḷ̴̤̮͌͋͝e̶͎̓̓͛!
He grabs the knife.
He'll give it a fucking finale.
And he hacks off his playing little finger. The song screeches and makes his head pound further, as he drives the knife in and across, scraping his bones, cutting tissue, destroying the appendage needed for so many ballads. He cuts too low, then too high, before he severs it at the second knuckle. He sloughs off what remains attached, leaving a chunk of his bone exposed to the open air. It's agony, but it's freedom. Freedom from himself. He tears away at part of the fabric of a dress, wrapping his hand tightly in loopsand knots.
Sarmenti blinks when he hears footsteps. Not Dismas, not Boudica or Junia, and certainly not Al. He fixes his mask as the duelist turns the corner and joins him behind the stagecoach. He steps to the side to give her room.
"Am I intruding?" She asks.
"No," Sarmenti replies. "I was finished anyway. Have you come here to attempt to get a peek at my mysterious face?"
She lights a pipe.
Oh.
"Bonnie despises it when we smoke around her," She explains. Bonnie must be the cloaked woman. "It is ironic."
"I don't particularly enjoy the stench of pipe either," The jester responds.
"She sets things on fire and watches them burn with fascination. There is no care for smoke outside of a pipe." Well that settles that. Sarmenti places his bowl against the rim of the stagecoach, folding his arms as he looks upon the road they've already traveled. The duelist, though, only lets the silence reign for so long. "Where are you from?"
"The west," He replies. "Is it not clear from my accent, or have I mimicked the eastern accents too well? I had thought it'd be a giveaway when I supplimented you with words."
She scoffs. "Chatterbox."
He rolls his eyes. "I assume you're from somewhere further west?"
"Yes," She takes a drag, before she blows the smoke out eloquently. "I had wondered. Your voice seemed familiar."
Oh? How intriguing. Sarmenti must've performed around her at some point in his teenage years, before he'd left the west. "Color me surprised! I suppose my performance was grand, then, to have left such an impact upon your mind?"
"It was painful to listen to."
"Close enough."
They go silent once more, and in the distance he can hear talking around the campfire, Boudica's rauceous laughter audible from afar as she recounts a battle. "What's your name?" Sarmenti asks in his first tongue, the words like lead on his lips. It's been a very long time since he's spoken it, forgive him for forgetting anything important such as grammar or vocabulary.
"Sahar," She says. That's a very western name, alright. "Yours?"
He is tempted to say Jingles, but it'd be rude to not be honest when she has likely not lied to him. "Sarmenti."
Sahar nods sharply. "It is well met, Sarmenti." And, oh, how lovely it is to hear his name in his accent and not be ridiculted. He'd been mocked in The Court for his name, and so he took up a variety of monkiers, Jingles being one of them. Aristocrats are not fond of accents or exotic names, as he'd learned.
"Well met, Sahar." He replies. The sun finally dips below the horizen, and it is dark enough that only firelights can make sense of things. He waves her a goodbye, grabbing his bowl and depositing it with everyone else's before he begins setting up his bedroll. Dismas takes first watch.
When they're certain everyone has fallen asleep, Sarmenti and Dismas do the song and dance of the question of his mask once more. It's simple, and if the highwayman really wanted to he could disregard what the jester wants entirely, he's used to it. It wouldn't exactly be a dealbreaker, but it's quite close. But Dismas doesn't do such a thing, he simply asks, wordlessly, his hand hovering over the string which keeps the mask on.
How he wishes to let him in, but Sarmenti will not subject him to seeing such a broken and wretched thing as himself. So he shakes his head and wordlessly pulls up the highwayman's kerchief to his eyes, tying it. And then his scarred lips are upon his, bridled passion and affection evident as his tongue demands entry past his teeth. He really isn't helpless, but the jester shivers like he is anyways. Not a bad feeling. Maybe he enjoys being helpless for a brigand.
Dismas gently pushes him down, onto his bedroll, the blindfold staying secure through the kiss, and he shivers further. Hands on his sides, carefully pulling his jerkin from his belt and sliding his (bare, he realizes with a thrill) hand up his chest. If not for the others sleeping around them, he'd almost be tempted to tell the highwayman to take him then and there, oil be damned. But then his fingers find his sensitive spots, and he moans lowly into the kiss, submitting fully.
Yes, Sarmenti definitely enjoys being helpless for a brigand.