As dusk settled across the horizon, a forest exhaled a breath of silver mist, and with it came a hush—a reverent stillness, as though the world itself paused in anticipation. Between the trees, a flicker of color stirred—first faint, then brilliant, until the darkness bloomed with a kaleidoscope of shifting lights. It was as if the stars had descended from the heavens to dance along the forest floor.
The carnival had arrived.
A grand archway loomed ahead, adorned in flowing ribbons and lanterns that shimmered like fireflies. Overhead, a sign swung lazily on invisible wind, its lettering twisting and curling as though alive: "Welcome to the Starfall Carnival: Wonders Beyond Imagination." The promise was a temptation, sweet and irresistible. Even the most skeptical souls found themselves drifting forward, drawn by a longing they didn't quite understand.
Beyond the arch, the fairground stretched out in impossible directions. Tents and attractions sprawled without order, woven together by winding paths that shifted when unobserved, as if the carnival had a mind of its own. Every step further in felt like a step deeper into a dream. A soft tune drifted through the air—haunting, wordless, and without a clear source. It threaded through the trees and stalls like mist, luring visitors onward.
The scent of sugar and spice filled the air—honey-dipped pastries, roasted fruit, and something just a little strange, a pine tree perhaps?
Laughter and music mingled with the flutter of unseen wings. Shadows flitted just out of sight—some shaped like animals, some like things from fairy tales, and some with no name at all.
A group of children dashed by, faces painted with wild, glittering patterns. They chased glowing insects through the twilight, their high-pitched giggles scattering like chimes. Trailing behind, an old man paused to watch, wonder lighting his wrinkled features. He didn't seem to notice the way his posture straightened, his steps growing lighter—as if the years were slipping off him like a cloak in the warmth of carnival air.
To the left, a carousel turned slowly, its mounts unlike any found in the waking world. Each steed was a creature of legend—a silver-furred lion with three tails, a scaled serpent coiled around a branch, a winged cow frozen mid-leap. As the ride spun, the creatures twitched to life, galloping and soaring in place, as though eager to break free.
Further in, a tall striped tent pulsed with an otherworldly glow. The sign above its entrance read simply: The Mirror Hall. Inside, glass panels stretched floor to ceiling, but none reflected reality. Instead, they offered glimpses into other lives—versions of oneself that might have been, or might yet be. Some mirrors whispered softly, secrets only the viewer could hear, their words fading like smoke before comprehension took hold.
At the heart of it all stood the Grand Pavilion, a massive structure stitched from silver thread and gossamer light. It flickered like a mirage, always seeming closer or farther than it truly was. Beneath its large canopy, performers danced through the air—acrobats leaping without fear, fire-dancers spinning arcs of flame that painted the sky. Harlequins juggled glowing orbs that burst into brief constellations before vanishing, their laughter echoing like distant bells.
But beneath all the enchantment, was a light base of unease. Some who visited the Starfall Carnival left feeling just a bit... diminished. A memory forgotten. A feeling gone. A word they could no longer recall. The Carnival did not deal in coins or tickets. Its price was subtler—memories, names, slivers of truth and time.
As the saying goes... ALL magic, has a price.
And Starfall took it's toll... one way or another.
Nevertheless, under the deepening violet sky, none of that mattered. Those that approached the carnival would never question why it was free, how it ran or how the magic worked. You could say it was deliberate in that design.
The crowd in the grand pavilion roared with applause as the last of the fire-breathers took their final bow, flames vanishing like falling stars. As the embers faded, the lights dimmed, and a hush fell across the tent. Then came the ringmaster—a towering figure in a crimson coat and tall top hat—stepping into the circle beneath a solitary beam of light. He raised a gloved hand, and the crowd fell silent.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, his voice echoing from a microphone audio system, "prepare yourselves for a performance unlike any other. A silent symphony. A dance of shadow and light. Please welcome… the Marvelous Meryl the Mime!"
A lone spotlight snapped on, illuminating a feminine figure standing motionless in the center of the ring.
Meryl was not what one expected of a circus performers usual colorful appearance. She was petite, almost fragile, she stood like a statue carved from porcelain with the curves of her hourglass body clearly defined. Her face, painted a pristine white with deep black accents at the corners of the eyes. Arched brows, wide eyes, and black lipstick on her lips. She seemed to glow under the spotlight almost like the lighter parts of her costume was ethereal.
Her black-and-white striped shirt and simple skirt was almost skin tight on her thin frame, and a soft black beret perched atop straight shoulder length hair. The hair was dyed half jet ebony and half pure ivory in keeping with her monochromatic theme. Her long legs too were dressed in white tights with black stripes. But it was her eyes that held the tent captive. Her iris's were also purely devoid of color. They glistened and sparkled from the the spotlight.
She didn't move. Not at first. Her stillness demanded attention. And then, slowly, she raised one delicate hand to brush away an invisible tear.
The crowd leaned in.
From that single motion bloomed an entire world.
A piano began plinking, it's notes dancing on ebony and ivory keys over the speaker system as the mime moved in time to it's melancholic song.
She shaped stories from the air, sculpting emotion into space with only the motion of her body. An invisible box formed around her, walls unseen yet utterly present, closing in. She pressed against them, desperation blooming on her painted face. The crowd held their breath with her, lungs burning, until—at last—she escaped. And when she did, the exhale was collective and music reflected the struggle.
Scene after scene unfolded like petals: a wanderer in a desert, her hands shielding eyes from an imagined sun; an artist painting a sunset only she could see; a child lost in the dark, clutching at nothing. Her movements were poetry, every gesture a line in a verse composed in silence. But this was no simple performance. There was something strange, something real about it all.
As she danced, the world around her seemed to shift. The illusion sharpened until it nearly touched reality. For just a heartbeat, the crowd saw it—the sand of the desert, the weight of the paintbrush, the trembling child. It was more than theater. It was magic. And yet, no spell was cast. No words spoken. Only movement. Only the Piano. Only her.
The final act.
Meryl stood in an empty space of her own creation, surrounded by nothing. Alone. She reached out with a trembling hand, as if to grasp something lost. Her lips parted, and the air seemed to hold its breath—but she said nothing. Instead, she smiled. A soft, bittersweet curve of the mouth. And then, the piano stops. And with a slow, graceful bow, she vanished with a large puff of smoke.
For a long moment, the tent was still.
Then the applause came, sudden and thunderous, but by the time it broke, she was already gone—swallowed by shadow, her exit as silent as her performance.
Beyond the ring, in the dim space behind the velvet curtains, Meryl stood alone. The echo of the crowd washed over her like a distant tide. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the slow, steady thrum of her heart.
She sighed a breath of relief that the performance was over. She had only one thing on her mind.
She wanted a Cigarette.
She stretched as she walked back to the staff tent. Her demeanor, her aura, had completely changed. Her face soured into a slight frown. She strutted with her heeled black ankle high boots klacking on the gravel path. Thinking about nothing further but smoking her death sticks.
The staff of the carnival knew her too well. She passed a couple of beastfolk whilst walking the gravel path under the light of paper Lanterns floating in the sky.
They both had a thin veil of fur on their skin and both head the heads of different animals, one of a deer and one of a wolf. They nodded and voiced their approval towards her despite knowing she wouldn't return a gesture at this time.
They would sigh and whisper behind her back.
"Bitch."
"I know right? You would think she would at least smile after a show like that? They loved her."
"Never happy. She should be grateful that they even gave her a job after trying to rob from the place."
Meryl needed that cigarette now.
She was practically power walking after hearing those whispers behind her back. Her mood escalated further into mild irritation.
"Oh, stars, it's her. Looking so plain as usual, like why is she always just in dull colors? Is she supposed to stand out with that get up? It's awful! If she is supposed to a 'quin at least have some color to look at. Can't even pass off as a clown!"
She heard another set of voices whispering from inside a nearby tent. She couldn't see their eyes in the dark entrance but she felt their gaze.
"She is called a Mime, apparently, it's a new thing down south from the city. Too boring for me. They don't say anything. I think- oh crap you think she heard us? I think that was a bit too loud."
"Well if they can't say shit about it... who cares! Hahaha."
Meryl's walk turned into a sprint and her expression darkened further.
Cigarette. Now.
Finally, she raced through the entrance of a pink-and-purple, mostly empty 40-foot bell tent. A sign was hammered into the ground next to it: "Staff Only."
Below the lettering sat a symbol—circle with a cross underneath.
She grabbed a Pompski and Tobias–branded box of twenty and a silver lighter from a dark bag that was smeared with what looked like toothpaste and flour. It sat next to a bedroll stained with spilled ink. She paused for a moment at the sight before sighing and walking away. The defacement of her belongings was nothing new, at least they were getting creative with it this time. There was no visible reaction to it from Meryl, not to what anyone could see at least. Her neighbor, sat cross legged with her raven hair tied up and trying to wipe off the last smudges of makeup from her forehead without smirking at the ironic prank. Her dark emerald green eyes following Meryl as she took off again.
Meryl sat outside, panting. She must've ran farther than she'd meant to—far enough to find a glade tucked behind the forest edge of the carnival. Finally, she could breathe. A break from it all. A moment's peace from the crowd's adoration and the staff's contempt.
She lit a cigarette between her pale fingers. Drew in a breath from the white stick...And coughed. Violently. The sound cracked the vow of silence she kept during shows—sharp and jarring against the quiet night.
She squinted at the cigarette, confused. The filter was gone.
She opened the box.Every single one had been neatly cut at the end.
Inside the lid, in jagged, angry handwriting read:
"Quit or die faster, Bitch. You stink of smoke."
Her vision blurred. Tears welled and broke through, streaking through carefully applied makeup—black and white running together in slow collapse. Another breakdown this week. That made three.
Her hand shook as she squeezed the packet. Hard. Then threw it with a scream, tobacco scattering like confetti over the forest floor.
She cradled her knees, head buried, sobs breaking free under the weight of silence finally shattered. Above her, the moon dipped behind a bank of clouds, and the sky darkened further—an ocean of ink swallowing the stars whole.