Mr. Jack

Everyone was being checked around Ergot, beaten with a guard's hands and checked and bothered with, chaos all around. Withdrawing himself, Ergot sat down, humming. The absence of voices had bothered him, but now was the time to practice. So taking out his lute, and stretching and popping his fingers, the joints, all the tendons and bones, until the pops and cracks had raced from his shoulders to his back to his knees and coming back to his elbows. His left leg twisted from under his right hip and Ergot sat in an odd cross-legged angle, leaning completely to the left, to his preferred hand. Gently taking out the lute, placing his hands on it as he would with a lovely. Hand on hip, hand on shoulder, rocking and rolling and dancing. Only Ergot didn't move. His fingers started racing. Sliding on one end of a string, not plucking, stroking and bending his fingers backwards and rocking back and forth gently, swinging his hair and face along to the beat, completely lost in a trance.

Then Ergot was singing. No obvious song, just muttering and then loudly shrieking and crying, softly went the strings and so went his fingers, matching every movement of his crimson lips. Continuing and continuing.

Then the stares came about and surrounded The Fungus, warping his mind and taking all thoughts from the music, and no voices were there to soothe and chase away the cold stares.

Ergot kicked himself for singing so loudly and attracting the eyes. Then he cursed for kicking himself, because it was painful. After all the minstrels nearby had been thoroughly checked and bothered, they were pointed to a large hall, which had to have been the ball room. Vast decorations and food, maids and servants running around making sure that every pastry, drink, everything was positively perfect. So many varieties of food and drink, liquor, and lovelies surrounded tables and it was so beautiful. Food wasn't the thing for Ergot, it was the lovelies. Tall and in sweet dresses of marmalade and contusions, all wrapping themselves around Ergot's eyes. Hugging the pupils tightly and whispering, never letting go.

A corner.

It was the perfect corner. It was clean and no spider webs, no dust, just a simple corner that wanted to envelop. Sliding over to it, his eyes on the lovelies, Ergot sat down yet again. Already exhausted, just by the practicing, but willing to continue and to fall into murkiness.

So he started.

Other music had been obtained, the popular and festive kind, but as soon as there was a pause from the instruments, Ergot swiftly took to his lute, checked the strings, and strummed his thumb across. Soft, diligently, as if every note swiftly slapped his face. A few eyes were on him. A lone bard in the corner of a large, beautiful ball room.

Ergot raised his eyes to the ceiling, looking for something to inspire. A spider walked along on the wall, close to the ceiling, and he began. To sing of spiders. Running softly through her hair, long beautiful hair. Branching out into so many songs, virginity, virgin tea, Earl Grey and the noblemen of the west and the warriors of the south, all fighting for the treasures of the east, the lands of the north, barren and cold like the Reich and the kings of our time, mercilessly murdering their foes. All of this rhyming and becoming so diverse and insane that it sent shivers throughout not only the bard, but through the crowd, where not only lovelies but nobles and men of great power. But one watched him most intensely.

The absence of voices suddenly was gone, and Ergot's mind was filled with crying. The dungeons were full again; he must tend to his whores. Looking up, Ergot met the eyes of orange. They stirred and aroused the murmurs within. And they were looking straight into him.

Silence. The fingers froze, no breath, just eyes reaching to each other. Ergot didn’t blink, and his eyes were darker than normal, intense, staring at bittersweet eyes that didn’t blink. Ergot shook his head, the voices were screaming in pain, and he couldn’t figure out how or why they’d do such things, disrupting the thoughts. The lovelies had moved on, they had listened to the music from the bands of musicians again. The bard in the corner had lost the interest and curiosity of the crowd. Ergot lowered his eyes and setting his lute to lean against the spotless wall, stood and looked at the lovely man before him. He was the host, the ruler of the kingdom that this ball was in. It was so obvious. A beautiful boy was on one end of him, and Ergot yearned to be on his other arm. But the voices shrieked, and the Fungus shook that particular thought from his mind. It disturbed him, causing the dungeons to yell out.

Suddenly smiling, Ergot grabbed his lute, and stood up. His cloak grew tight on his neck, so The Fungus swiftly untied it, leaving it to lie against the corner. Cracking his toes, stretching to the ceiling, he walked to the ruler. He had no idea on his name, what to do, but something told him that he was meant to be captivating, and he was. Both he and the sovereign stood before each other.

Extending one long arm to orange eyes, Ergot bowed before the man and the boy.

“I wish to congratulate you. Nice party.”