Eternity.

Detection did not worry Ergot, as it seemed that his minds of reason and insanity merged to protect himself. He wanted to be careful, but he feared no mortal man. No one wanted to hunt a bard. Even if they did, a death would be that of powerful, pride soaked lament that any man would be proud of. Neutrality was a gift, an honest gift. Past the cultured harvests into the very outskirts of town, looking and mapping out where he was, what he saw. Carefully Ergot kept his head down, not to avoid eyes but to avoid staring. It had been long, too long, since he went into town, looking for a bar or a family to entertain. The new rushes of fear and the desire for approval, to take in everything that was mankind and other kinds' pinnacle of grouping had to be the most enticing to Ergot.

When he found the perfect tavern, with the perfect edge, he didn't know what to do. The vibes and the aura that emanated was that of danger and the known fears, of shortcomings and his lust to be wanted and craved by fans and drunkards, regardless of race or sex. he couldn't turn away. He didn't even want to try. The coursing over, the rush of memories and familiarity pulled him roughly, and he walked towards it with purpose, not letting go of his enamor.

Upon entering the place, his arena, Ergot immediately, quickly, decidedly went for a corner. A small stool was near it, and he sat, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of barley and heavy liquor, smoke, and his own apprehension. He felt uplifted by the familiar surroundings. Hundreds of these he had gone to. Hundreds, thousands of people would forever remember him and his ghastly contortions. Ergot was, for the first time since the ball, somewhere where he felt he belonged. No bodies, no blood, no fear in dank woods that stole remnants of his soul. He studied the rest of the place, noting tables where he could jump up and steal the attention of countless men and women, sliding his graceful feet across the swept boards that were underneath. He could do this.

Ergot settled back, hunching over the stool, calmly popping his thumb in and out steadily, to a beat. His lute was cast aside on the floor, not even needing tuning or practice. He had the plans of a dire assassin, the killer of hearts and minds.

And when he saw her talking, working as a bar hand, he nearly fell out of the stool he had moments before sat upon as though it were a throne and he was a king. Ergot felt a swelling of his heart. He was not alone, and she was the beauty of a living legend.

The Garden of Life is Calling

They looked haggard and worn, walking in front of Ergot at a slow, tired pace. He felt the urge to touch them and soothe them, but he didn't. He just casually followed, intently thinking, keeping an eye on the group. There were an unknown number of them, faces unseen, cloaked and hooded. Flitting from the trees' shadows, they were at times too many to count, at other times, just one person with the ability to multiply. They were frightened. Their gait was defiant and cautious, and as Ergot continued to study them, he felt his body tensing in their auras. They may have been running from something. They had the feel of a cult, a shared idea. They had the feeling of beauty in their veins, and oppression shading them. In the aftermath of the night at the ball, it was understandable. Ergot didn't exactly know for certain, but there was a ripple effect that cascaded from the walls of the king's castle. It encircled the individuals of Darkworld far away and close. Factions grouped up, were created, and shattered. It was well seen and felt. Ergot was still close to his previous world. Perhaps just a matter of short walking distance from the kingdom's hallowed halls did the bard stand, and what was he doing? Probably following enemies of the men and women with their blood splattered everywhere. Most likely, they were the enemies of some dead body that he played to. Ergot shuddered at his own actions the night before. He sped up slightly, curious and full of endangering courage.

He didn't know what to do, and as they walked through the mid afternoon, the moonlight filtering through the trees, the crows crying in the distance. Ergot was still unfamiliar with the particular pharmakia. Thinking about it in deep thought hurt. After such a night, it was bothersome to continue to stand at times. Was it the drug that invaded him? Or was it the drinking, the dancing, the madness? He had no idea. A slight twinge of pain grasped from inside his temples. Had he not noticed the pain before? Ergot reached up with one finger, lightly brushing aside his hair and rubbing the throb from within. it did not cease, but he was eased by his own touch just the same.

Ergot was getting more courageous, but with sanity comes awareness. He didn't know of their weapons. He did not know their state of mind. To come up from behind after following them for so long was suicide. To touch them was his life's bane. So calmly, fluently, Ergot stayed behind, walking at a steady pace and staying quiet. Carefully he watched the ground, trying not to disturb the forest floor, trying not to draw attention. He was the dutiful shadow to them. He could have been their servant, their king, their one and lonely. He felt a bond forming between him and the unknown figures, trudging through the darkened forest. To meet them was his goal. Anything else was just a side effect and bonus and consequence. Bowing his head, Ergot wove around the trees and cast his eyes down, focusing on forces within.

He touches himself; the lizard king.

The flood of hungering, colorful thoughts gripped Ergot. He had full use of his mind. His beautiful, gorgeous, sightful mind was his. The pharmakia had done something. Something he never thought imaginable, something he never thought of period. Rubbing his eyes, Ergot struggled to sort out the innards of himself. Touching within, peeling off the roughened scabs and calluses of past deformity.

For ages, it had seemed as though he was hindered. A beauty, but hindered. He always admired himself, unchaste but in his vanity, it was beauty nonetheless. Ergot was poisoned. He knew it, his bones told him that he was forever damaged and no matter how he took pride in himself, he had the instillments of madness and ugliness. He would never take a man or woman for his own. Why touch them with his ugly darkness? Until now he had felt that way. Feeling himself, Ergot felt the normal and human yen that never before was within. It was as though all the emotion lost and damaged was assimilated, replacing and supplementing his old feelings. It was beautiful. Ergot didn't merely and wrongly feel beautiful. He was beautiful. The darkness took on a new face and light, enabling the man to do so much more.

Rising to his feet, stretching and yawning quite openly, Ergot cast his eyes down and tasted his own lips. he touched his cheek with one hand, his long fingers stroking his skin. Would someone care to touch him? Was Ergot his own? Why? That last one worded question touched him deeply. The expanse of the single word envoked profoundness inside of himself.

Ergot stopped breathing for a minute, listening to the sounds of the woods around him. It was to be nearing noon, and he heard noise. Not the nervous rabbit, not the cautious, tame shrew. Man. The quiet stumbling of a kind lost in time. Rising himself to full height, he peered through the briars and thorns that surrounded him and his aura, breathing once more. Slowly taking a step forward, then another, taking direction, he followed the sound, stepping softly on the dead underfoot. In his new clarity, Ergot sensed the foreboding that entrenched those ahead of him. Curious, he followed. Curious, Ergot set afoot, crossing paths and making himself adventure in the most casual and oblivious form. Ergot was following the blind, Caressing his own soul and hunger for deeper things, lightly fingering his lute and alertly studying the horizon ahead, he simply followed.

Tell your children not to hear my words

He was out in the forest. A home. It was a safe place that was in his heart.

Ergot rose from the ground, gazing at the pile of leaves that was his bed for hours. Hours of resting silently, barely breathing, a child's game of quiet presence made into a grown man's glory. He remembered little. After the music, such a long time of music and shining dark beauty, Ergot must have gotten tired. He must have left the ballroom. But how? He rubbed his temples, looking down at the wretched earth, kneeling before the foliage and touching them softly with his finger tips. They were sore, his rough calluses from playing the lute were twinging and dried blood accented his pale skin. Ergot thought for a moment, sucking each of his fingers and savoring the copper taste. Suddenly he was bombarded by imagery, the blood that had cascaded on the floor, the walls, and his feet. The twirls, the insane twirls that made him smile and faint. Flashes of moonlit trees spinning around him as he wandered, dazed and almost drunken in the rush of beauty of what he had done.

Ergot pushed himself up, noticing his lute partially covered in decaying forest floor. He gently revealed it, eyeing blood splatters and a single fingerprint in blackish red. Was it his? Or was it a spirit, who had to have somehow been behind a rape. Squinting his eyes shut, Ergot sought deliverance. Enlightenment. He had changed, and now he was in denial. He took a step back, studying himself. His hands weren't the only things hurt. His heart was, too. His pants had a few rips on the knees. Had he crawled? Had Ergot become a leather legged beast? He smiled at that thought, caressing where his knee bent, slowing taking in the pain that flared up. His elbows had dried blood droplets on him, rain that stained. he cleaned himself of his bloody betrayal, pausing to taste and wonder. No dreams, no imagination had run off and screamed into the night while he was down and out.

There were smells in the air. They were banes; Ergot could have told you how old the rose blooms put into the ironware pot was if they were making a love potion. He could murmur one incantation and it'd turn into a sick, alkaloid filled sludge.

The scent of rotten willow wafted through the air, and Ergot was cringing, startled and stumbling back. His eyes filled with tears, smelling the scent of pharmakia. That was occult. That was beyond even Ergot's reach. His tears fell onto his cheeks and he could have screamed, the acid pain was beyond his comprehension. Was he imagining the salt? Ergot stared from within, his new thoughts were envoking power. Sweet, sensory and logic filled madness. He touched his own cheek in wonder. He realized that he was in fumes. He ducked low, grabbing his lute and running from where the wind was blowing from. He continued, only pausing when he was in a twilit meadow. It had to have been close to morning. He looked into the sky from the clearing where he stood, feeling tinges of cold vapor that was free of danger and pain.

Ergot sucked in the air, sitting himself down and hiding his face within his arms. He had to get used to this. Something was an oddity, he was no longer his former self, and he needed to understand. He gazed at the sky until the sun struggled from the trees' outstretched limbs, breathing deeply in a hyper reality of thought.

They'll Rise.

Ergot let go, simply dropping the human doll he held so cherished in his grasp and in his arms.

Raising his eyes to the scene that revolved slowly with his torso, he stroked his hair with his arms covered in her blood, as the rest of his body was splattered with countless others. Another stand still and he smiled, pausing to enjoy the vapors of rapid decay, rigamortis, the smell of copper mines splayed for floor harvesting. He walked and twirled as his lute lay, and suddenly the urge, the carnal urge deployed in his mind. He ran to the lute in the corner, sliding in someone's bloody mary spilled below, skidding and falling. His hands were imprinted in congealment, and Ergot rose, pausing to smell what he got himself into. It was beauty spilled and entrenched within his fingerprints. It wouldn't have tasted good, like a ladybug in June, but he had the craving to clean these ghastly wounds. He didn't.

Ergot giddily jogged to the lute, a matter of feet away. Sliding again, bumping against someone's splayed hand, smacking his damp hands against the spotless walls of Larkin's castle and sarcophagus. Watching his imprints dry, he picked up the instrument of emotion that was his own and struck the strings lightly, listening to them echo. In the back ground, there were always yells and cries, but that was just the audience swooning. That was just their hunger and lust. Ergot couldn't do anything about it, it was part of the show. It was the beauty of chaos that lit his fire, that made him play harder and harder. Resolute, back bent slightly in a defensive gesture against the crowd, he pushed forward against invisible forces with one hand, protecting his gorgeous with the arm entangled around it.

Suddenly, Ergot's ears pricked up and he stood straight, in the center of the ball room with bodies strewn. His audience was laying down for sleep, and he had to nurture their dreams. So stretching and cracking the tissue and cartilage within his bony hands and fingers, he kneeled on one knee, taking a statuesque pose and making the notes scream and cry and lull his rotting crowd asleep. His children needed to lay down for the night, with sweet chords to let them imagine from within.

A sort of Zen was reached, and time took a joy ride. Ergot was entranced, and he listened to the effortless screams in the back ground, virtually inept at realizing that they were not for him. And even at that, it wouldn't matter. They could have been the screams of dying children, banshees, or fantasy creatures valiantly dying. Ergot still would have played, for anyone remotely hearing his lute was the fan he'd die for. And, as tonight showed, play for among the hurt, the dying, the mourning, and yes, the dead.

Ghostly mates

He waited for the scene to evolve, as it didn't fade, but simply malformed as he stood along with the rest looking for some interesting things to happen, finding them with his roving eyes and his crisp and clean ears of sunshine. He paid no attention to the death, his mind registered it, the surrounding actions from everyone around him.

But Ergot did not care.

And as the head fell, and the blood poured, cascading over a floor that had been scrubbed -so hard- by the servants, he winced. All the work that had become nothing. No, don't bother with the death and the violence, deal with the troublesome lives of the servants under Larkin's rule. Ergot sensed the need to twitch. From his right hand, index finger. And so he twitched, looking like a mad man who found his way into the flour, his skin was white and translucent, but he didn't know why. His blood was depriving his skin of rose tinges. No one paid him any mind, he made himself invisible to the layout of the play, this play, with the bad acting and emotion control behind laughing faces. He heard the sounds of steel against flesh and stone, against bone, cracks of fire and all was lost. Inhuman screams from the Netherworld in this very ball room, pops and yelling and he was splattered with someone else’s life.

Alas.

He was murmuring to himself again.

He rolled his eyes, one sided dice.

They rolled their way across the floor, searching and bumping, rolling across the thickening blood, smearing dark rich red paths of sweet iron tasting juice. And they finally met the crumpled form of a girl. It was the one the Shrike was dancing with, she looked so fragile and small.

Ergot winced at his own narrative, and then his eyes rolled back to her.
He tilted his head back, cocking it quizzically to the side, then let his face bow down to his chest, wondering a moment.
And before, he fully knew, what he was doing.

Ergot had walked as fast as he could to the fainted girl,
and he reached and kneeled to her, taking her body and cradling it next to his own, seizing her in her form of unconsciousness.
The life size rag doll that wasn't conscious or talkative at all.
Ergot stroked her face mindlessly,
tears fresh as a daisy on her face. He wiped them away before the saltiness burned her face.
No one noted the bard, as he yet again sat in the midst of attention groping moments.
His lute sighed as it was left alone,
a toy instrument temporarily replaced by the pretty doll.

You do not belong.

He sat up as he heard the clatter. The rattling of footsteps on tables captured his attention, and Ergot stood up. The gasps, the yelling, the turmoil about the ball was typical. He had seen this countless times before, and it never affected him or captured his attention.

But the rattling from boots.

Clinking against the table, they caught his attention, whirled it around and refused to let go. So Ergot looked up to meet the same eyes he had seen high up. That seemed like an eternity ago, and he almost didn't recognize them.

He heard the tales. The Larkin being a corrupted ruler. He heard the accusations, along with everyone else in the crowded ball room.

They didn't mean a great deal. He had heard them all before, always some meager fool looking for something and accusing the political leader. Ergot sighed, nodded his head at his own deep thoughts. This wasn't it. This was different. No one was brave enough to announce such things to the leader, to a crowd, with such bold, undying accusations that tore apart whatever reputation and trust Larkin had. The things were sickening, and at the ‘molesting’ Ergot cringed inwardly, just at the thought. Of course, his mood changed in an instant, unlike the rest in the room, found himself snickering, oblivious to the anger flowing between individuals and disgust, hate, fear. Larkin was fucked.

Then his paranoid thoughts crept in, poisoning the few thoughts of philosophy and pondering he had possessed for a few short moments.

Ergot looked around with studying eyes, looking around for dangers and escapes. The same eyes were watching him, but he couldn't figure it out. He saw the crimson girl; he saw sorrowful violet, and other colors. Standard humanoid colors of eyes, but they twisted themselves and were things of beauty. Sculptures of color. No exits, guards and danger and weapons. Ergot wished he had something other than liquor; needed to fade out into an entirely new scene.

He waited for the scene to evolve as he stood along with the rest looking for some interesting things to happen.

Gutter ballet.

When he settled into a new corner, Ergot looked around. No one met eyes with him. It seemed as though the large crowd that had previously swooned with him and breathed with him had forgotten to swoon. They had forgotten to breathe. He winced as the colors swirled faster and faster as the party attendants got drunker and drunker. And he had no liquor to drink. Ergot licked his lips, tasting the sweet flavor of himself, and he stood up.

His lute was filthy... And so was his mind. Alcohol and some calmness were in order.

Standing up and cracking a toe in and out of place, Ergot watched the crowd twirling in and out of focus of their own accord. They walked, they walked so oddly, as though they has something to prove by stepping 6 inches towards another, 8 inches back, dancing to the band that didn't seem to be harmonized or organized, in any way ‘ized as Ergot was with his lone instrument and his cracked, deranged inner voices and his soft futile outer. They played the popular music, not the music Ergot played. Ergot played the melodies he made up. What he made up... Nothing like what is expected.

Ergot shook the narrative out of his mind, and mimed the walk that entranced the rest of the ball room. Sliding as though one were stealthily on ice, looking for a glass. A servant hustled by, and Ergot seemed invisible. The voices screamed as Ergot suddenly lashed outward from himself, and grabbing one arm whirled the servant lightly. The servant had not expected that at all, and though he didn't gasp. His mind sent out an alert so all his limbs were tense and not in any way casual. Ergot eerily smiled, his voices guiding him to lifting his arm and silkily grabbing a dark maroon filled glass with just his finger's tips. Then lifting it gently but tightly, he touched the servant's elbow lightly and flicked his wrist, sending the young man away.

Ergot stared at himself. His boots were in need of a good cleaning... Then raising his eyes into the eyes of a stranger, the reflection of his own self in the rich liquid he had obtained. He smelled it, rich flavors invading his nose and raising hell throughout his sinuses to his nerves.

Then he drank.

Just a small drink. Not a great deal. Ergot swilled the liquid in his mouth, his tongue screaming as the voices smiled and their lips parted. They all got their deserved sip.

Setting the glass down, looking up to the windows. Seeing eyes, but not noticing like Ergot had done, should, would have done just seconds ago.

The fungus sat himself back down, and dipping two fingers into the drink, wiped his lute. Streaking it with soft red lines and markings.

All was clean again.

Custard Dreams

As he strummed and murmured, wiping his eyes every so often… The lovelies wore heavy perfume and the sounds and smells, formed images that were starting to blur in his mind, as Ergot concentrated on the music. Who cared about the musicians, the Bard was so much more interesting and lovely, alone in the corner. So sexy and longing and loving. Abruptly a rush of wind came nearby and Ergot suddenly was supporting a woman, oh sweet mercy, a lovely.

Ergot had a predicament. His lute was safe, able to maneuver it away in time, he was surrounded by beasts of individuals, a dangerous ruler, and a young, striking woman was strung out on his lap. He wasn’t very sure what to do. The people had begun to bother him, as they always do just when he’s having a good time. A strong smell of liquor filled the air, and Ergot set his eyes on such a lovely in his arms. Setting aside his lute, taking care to keeping it safe and sound, Ergot checked her eyes and smelled the reeking alcohol. The female was obviously gone. Ergot leaned his head over her, listening and not making a single movement. Several moments passed, Ergot’s shadowed eyes widening with every second passing by.

She wasn’t breathing.

Ergot screamed. The sound of the clattering lute didn’t shake him from screaming and screaming. He needed some acid, oh divinity, he touched a dead person. The lovely was dead and fainted and she was near and on him. Wincing and shaking, he grabbed his lute and hugged it tightly, sliding away.

A few people began to stare.

No tears fell from his dark opaque eyes. He was just terrified. Horrified. She was warm but cooling, and more eyes set themselves on the curled warlock and the dead woman. Sweet mercy. Ergot covered his face with one elongated hand, and looked around for some help. More odd eyes, not the normal lovelies, different eyes. Against all the screaming voices, and the shrieks were unbearable, oh yes, wincing and humming.

Ergot looked up, squinting slightly and meeting a pair of violet, lavender eyes…Purple, sweet color of Aconitum. Ergot laughed at his own self, he was going to quote lyrics in a few moments. A few lovelies screamed, one of them had checked the female who has lain across his lap. Ergot slid over to the warm, cooling body and wrapped his arms about it, taking the hat off of the young woman’s lovely head and wearing it as his own, smiling warmly at his new attire. Then he gasped at the elvish ears poking from lovely hair. Startled, he quickly threw the hat from his head and coiled away, wiping his hands clean and wishing for some water and some wine to swallow. Immediately springing from his spot, Ergot grabbed his lute, wrapped himself in his cape, standing, in an urgent search for a new corner that didn’t have dead women lurking in it.

Thin lines.

Of course Ergot saw the anger in the man's eyes. He didn't know who he was, nothing was read or seen or heard and he was shooed off to play more music. Of course. Ergot sat in his corner and cursed at himself, so disappointed. The voices had gone silent. Still there, but silent and unwavering waiting for a mistake and it injured, oh did it injure.

The waltzing people around Ergot sickened him, and no energy was there to swoon some lovelies. Grabbing his head, Ergot bowed and sighed at himself, hunched and in pain. A terrible headache had begun, not 2 minutes from being the centre of attention. Why, why was this occurring at such an important time. He needed to know the ruler, the lovely boy. As a pink haired female walked around, Ergot looked up, rubbing his temples. Odd people were around. The voices sat up, in a circle, murmuring about all these things that stood out like sore thumbs. A few voices reached out to touch him, lovely Ergot, yes; we know the pain, but no. Pushed away and yelled at as his mind snapped back into this ball room.

Another pause in the music.

A few eyes.

Ergot grabbed the lute and strummed roughly. Just playing randomly to soothe. Continuing as the night wore on.

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.”

Time for some sugar.

The minstrels were a rowdy bunch.

Portabellas, they aren't rowdy.

A new nickname was in order.

They liked ale. And as Ergot followed them, he was offered more liquor than he could stand in one sitting. Of course, he drank what he was offered, who knew if they got insulted? Besides, maybe some alcohol could soothe his nerves... Oh, hahah, what a joke.

Did they like women. They were all male, and every one of these singers whistled and jeered at servants and females walking past. A woman who must have been 80 years old was cheered at. She bowed and turned red in the face, bowing, flashed her baggy assets.

That induced a wince. Ergot soon got rather jealous. Not of the 80 year old woman, but they were going to steal his lovelies! No, no, not the lovelies. He cringed, hanging towards the back of the group, who were slowly stumbling to the main yard. Which was just an expanse, filled to the brim with various entertainers. A few, however, stood at the stairs leading up to the palace, and Ergot decided to stand with them.

There was a great deal of preparations going on. Obviously, this was a big thing. There were people who stood around, shouting orders from various doors and windows. There was a cook shouting flour, someone for flowers, yet another for plates, and below them servants ran to what must have been a market, and half an hour later, they world return, run through a random door, and a few minutes later, would be outside standing around waiting for yet another order.

A hush rippled through the crowds, and even some of the more drunken minstrels shushed, looking at a tight group of three guards. One of them was holding a scroll, the other two were just there to push some Agaricus around. Looking around, there were several trios of guards, all looking the same, one scroll boy and two henchmen. Abusing the Fungi. Ergot just sat down, dug into his pocket. Smelled into a bag of who-knows-what, and then laid his head back, waiting for his turn to be abused.

After an hour, Ergot was kicked in the spleen, and he sat up, staring at a trio. Shoved, pulled up, patted. Oh, no, they were looking through his herbs... A guard grabbed one sachet, snorted it. Gave an awful face and handed the sachet back to Ergot. Snickering, the bard showed his lute, didn't say a word, but twisted his elbow around and popped it out of boredom. Finally the guards gave him a go ahead, but not before taking Ergot's bag of herbs. The scroll-boy checked something on his list, and off they went to the next person.

The Ripper!

Singing was a fun thing to do.
Unless, of course, you were among a few... Hundred.
Ergot twirled around, standing on one leg, his cape on backwards, and looked at the crowd behind him. Light began to fill up the sky, and the group of musicians... Entertainers, and all kinds of people (loose term here) were wandering around. Just, all of a sudden, so many people. Nervous, Ergot decided to go into the gates. There were people within the walls, too, but they weren't so formidable. He hoped, anyway.
Cracking his body out of the zig zag he was in, he hopped on that one foot to a guard at what must have been the front gates. Wrung steel was glinting slightly, and a dangerous looking, armor clad man stood there. Maybe he was asleep. Ergot snickered, and hopping over, he poked at the visor of the guard.
The guard growled, and startled, the warlock fell over and careened into a neighboring wall, covered in mold brethren. This brought out a laugh or two, and Ergot stood up, going back to using both of his legs. He pouted slightly, bared his teeth, then grinned and fell over again.
A few less laughs this time.
A few more eyes.
Leaning against the wall, Ergot motioned at the gates. The guard was a fickle bastard. He just looked at the Fungus... Like fungus. Ergot rolled his eyes.
"May I gain entrance to the kingdom for the ball?"
Sweet mercy, a complete sentence not riddled with the usual insanity. Shocking himself, Ergot found himself gazing at the ground. He then looked up hopefully at a response from his obvious oppressor.
But no. The guard shook his head, he even smiled. His teeth were rotten, and his breath was putrid. Ergot was tempted to hand the guy some mint... Or even better, some nightshade. Ergot pointed at his lute. Pointed rather... Pointedly, and sighed. But nothing came out of that. He bowed his head and backed off into the crowd of entertai-
Hoisted by two mimes.
They smiled at him, lifting him up. They were wearing stilts, and were later named (affectionately) Amanita and Crimini. Two mushrooms that were so sweet.
They walked on past the guard (staring at their heavily made up faces), and pushing the gates open, swung Ergot right into a crowd of jesters ahead of them. Falling, caught again, by a red and black decked jester, who was later named Agaricus. It was a fungi kind of day. Hoisted repeatedly and tripping, soon Ergot found himself at the foot of a stairway. Standing up, he followed a large band of minstrels (Portabellas) into the main entrance.

Come join the path of glory.

Ergot sighed so heavily. He kept making mistakes. He kept falling over, twisting, turning directions, popping his eyes out at roots for no reason. Something wasn't correct in the Universe, and it disturbed the voices. The voices, ah, yes, they were there among the trees. They bid him farewell, one by one. The disturbed voices wouldn't be willing to go near the walls. They were going to abandon him.
Memories flashed through Ergot and made him spasm in pain. Ah, yes, we know this, don't we, the pain, remembering the ice and eyes. He then laughed at his horribly bad pun. Alas. Rhymes and puns, the life of a bard encouraged the daftness; it encouraged the mind, horribly deformed, scarred and white. No blood and warmth circul-
Finally he was alone. No voices were left, no demonic forces, no angels, no deities except for what lay ahead. Whatever the hell that was. Ergot sprung and spun to the walls. Guards nearby. Staring at him. He wasn't a goblin, no no. He was just cold, bitter, and a bard. Looking to sing a tune. Or two.
They believed the stuttered story the he told them. No names questioned. These guards were not in the mood to listen to any more muttering and 3rd person accounts, told in a raspy, squeaked voice. Just another mood, though. Of course.
"Are you here for the ball?"
"Ball? Party? Masquerade? Marmalade... yes, of course. Balls, a bard needs to be at the ball and make the lovelies swoon. They do swoon, right? Just up… Fall over, kabam, slam into the floor.”
The guards laughed. Oh, god, did they laugh. That one laugh that says “You scare me, but you’re a joke to me.” Ergot then muttered, tried starting a sentence... Then stopped.
Stuttering wasn't a sign of nervous tendencies, it was merely the cold. Wet, cold, no moonlight. Black, pitch black, in all senses of the word. Warping the mind, and the voices... No company, they broke the chains and ran away. They were locked in his dungeon, why abandon... Oh, right. The walls. They didn't like something; Ergot was going to be at a ball! Who cares, there'd be some voices there to cheer him on. With liquor and lovelies being frightened and ale, oh gods, yes, the ale and the food. And the lovelies.
He hopped from the guards, cracked his neck to the right, his back to the left. Which made it look as though he was a zig zag. And Ergot then headed for the gates.

And then there was silence.

The Moons were too bright for Ergot.
He was never an albino, no, of course not. But daylight always seemed to disagree with him. Bright red marks criss-crossed the skin of Ergot when he was in the light of the Moons. They disappeared as soon as he retreated to darkness, but while they lasted, pai-
"Hey look ya'll, it's a flock of turtles!"
God damn farmer-children and their fascinations. Interrupting crazy people while they think in third person narrative. That has to be one hell of an annoying thing when one is half asleep... Children using the wrong term for a group of turtles. What a group of turtles are called, if you know, you're worse than Ergot. And Ergot is bad. Oh, well, back to the paleness.
Ergot's paleness was getting better. He used to be close to pure white when a child, he remembers hiding in holes for comfort in summer. He had a few bite marks from scaring an animal in the midst of looking for relief from light. When Ergot awoke to find himself in sunlight, he winced and scuttled into shade. Wheezing slightly, he rubbed his arms, rocking back and forth, distributing the pain to everywhere else.
In a few minutes it faded.
Sitting up, Ergot sighed and looked around. The sun had retired to another set of dark blue clouds, he was safe for now. Storms, yet again, coming across his path. It might have been high noon, but the perception of time wasn't quite on the dot. Cracking his neck sideways, he popped his digits, stood, grabbed his lute (slightly warped but otherwise in good condition), his bottle of ale. Checked to see if he had some silver in his pocket, which he did, cold and wet, but oh well.
Starting to walk again, dodging the moon and its evil light as necessary, which was time-consuming and a fun thing to do. Ergot had a good time with this. Given, he was soon hungry and tired from hopping and shrieking "Ah, no, the light, I'm melting into a puddle of sap!" along other crazy sentences, and as a result, he stopped and just walked onward. Still dodging the light, but a bit less exuberant over the entire thing.
Looming ahead was a shadow. The light flickered through the dense canopy, and walls.
Deep, stone, granite walls.
Ergot clapped his hands in glee. The prospect of silver and a place to bed down oversaw the throbbing conscience rising to warn.

Heaven Denies

Too much noise from the storms.
They were overhead, thundering and ranting as though they were complaining at Ergot for being near them, in their lovely presence.
Straightening his back, cracking his neck sideways. He wrapped himself in his cape, put his hood over his eyes, and walked, transfixed, like a monk. He hunched over his lute to protect it from the drenching rain that had started coming down. Kept sipping his ale, shivering until he was close to frozen, and his ale was half empty.
Sweet light filtered through the trees.
Ergot looked up.
"Ah, no, a town, let me guess. Wonder if they have a decent spot for sleeping bards to lie."
Then he started laughing.
"Maybe this is where the Queen of the Reich lives. The Queen of the Reich, yeah, she's calling for you."
Ergot cracked an imaginary whip,
"Whhh-csssh.
"Your soul's in the way, it belongs to the Queen of the Reich!"
Tears filled his eyes at the thought. Laughter echoed through the rapidly thinning forest. The rain stopped, and a wind started blowing, cold and very humid, mist encircling the crazy
But Ergot didn't care. He grabbed his lute and started playing random strings and plucks, over and over, faster and faster, dizzying and so beautiful while entangling his fingers in the insanity of his own actions. Exhaustion soon tore at him, but who would care... Finally he fell to the wet forest floor and dropped into unconsciousness.