As the month of Glacius drew nearer, the frigid, cold air performed its usual dance along the streets of Halatia. Despite the cold, the children ran to the townsquare, much to their parents' dismay and worried shouting, with it nipping at their ears and noses. After all, no possibility of hypothermia was enough to dissuade them from visiting the infamous jester. At least, not when he had just gone back from his year-long trip around Ecegonia.
"Agh, it's that red fool again. These children really ought to make better use of their time rather than listening to the spewings of a crazed jester," an old vendor scoffed.
"They are interesting though, his songs," the young man sitting across the stand remarked as he took a sip of the hot plum tea. "They almost have a certain truth to them."
The old vendor, appalled, laughed at the young man's remark. "You young folk sure do have a lot of energy thinking about things like that," the older man chuckled. "It's just a circus fool and his ramblings. I tell you, these people, its common for them to write their songs drunk."
The young man looks at him, about to say something before he was cut off by the jester's song.
Hear the cries of a tired woman
For she has been betrayed by the masked fool
Hear the cries of a tired woman
For the world has been fooled by the masked fool
Hear the cries of a tired woman
For her savior has been killed by the masked fool
Hear the cries of a tired woman
For the world has been fooled by the masked fool
He looks down at his tea and bites his lip.
"I guess so." He tosses a coin to the vendor. "But then again, there is no one more truthful than a drunkard."
With nothing else to say, the vendor watches as the man walks into the darkness of the night.
— end of prologue —