#dirk 01

“Welcome to Big Dipper's flower festival, my friend! Tell me, are you a fan of magic? I, the great Troupe Master Grimm, am here to entertain all today!”

The Troupe Master whips out a deck, because apparently he’s not taking no for an answer. He smiles his usual sketchy smile, fanning the cards out as the petals flutter past him in the wind.

Can't say as I argue with you. This stuff isn't even the weirdest shit I've ever come across, and I'm still leery of it. Of course, I am more interested in whether I am essentially psychologically immune to this as well. So personal debate rages on as to whether I'm going to try it or not.

Fascinating, another individual of science. 

Well, you know how it is, take chaotic self-sacrificial decisions in moderation.

He’s wandered into the Golden Ward now, his pace deliberate and slow so as to take everything in. It’s overwhelming, but he’s sure to get calibrated to his surroundings eventually, so to speak. 

Droog pauses for a moment to peer into a shop window, his cigarette held delicately in clawed hands when something magenta catches his eye passing in the reflection of the glass. He turns his head, eyes narrowing into a squint. A Prince of Heart? 

He begins to put the pieces together in his mind. Is this just another part of the game? He’s not sure why he would’ve been pulled into a completed session, and something deep within him says that he shouldn’t interact directly. He hasn’t thought like a Skaia piece in a long time, and he doesn’t care for it. So he casts aside his programming and calls out, “This your doing, Prince?”