MIRANDA ššØš®š§š š ššš : There is a ghost in the Circus.
It's hard to even detect, really. All that manifests are shifting shadows off the distance, the faint rustling of shapes beyond the clinical edge of the interior decoration. It wouldn't even have been something worth considering, worth pondering over, if only it weren't so consistent.
It's trailing Kinger. Or, has been trailing him. Maybe it's been trailing everyone, walking there in the far distance, in the darkness, treading along silently and vanishing back into where it came from the second anyone tries to get a closer look. It's hard to say. Hard to say it isn't just a bug, either, something clipping into the ground or some error of the shader being applied at the edge of the render distance. Hard to say it's anything at all, even if it keeps presenting the deep and unabiding sensation of being watched, being stalked.
Sometimes there's even a pink or blue smear, there in that far distance. It's hard to make anything out, against the glaring lights of the Circus.
But there's more than one reason to keep to the darkness. And more than one person who might seek it out.
There's a presence, in this dark room, a neck-ruffling feeling that occurs in the low, basal parts of the brain, the most basic parts for emulating the human mind. It's clear the second the door shuts, the moment it's just a little too late to rectify the mistake.
It's there. There's no light in this room, no point of clarity. Everything is the deep black of total darkness, the darkness of a cave, the darkness that lies to the brain and the eyes as they try to conjure shapes moving there, to make it make more sense, to illustrate the image of what should be there, even when it's plainly impossible that such information would ever be processed at all.
The shape doesn't need light. She prefers if it's not there, after all. Everything's too glaring here, too bright, hurts her eyes. She's an ambush predator, made for this kind of darkness, gifted other senses to navigate by. It's one of the things she has made sure was continued in this place, to prevent herself from being totally disoriented.
She waits in the silence, for a moment. She's next to the wall opposite where the door's brief illumination was cast, so it didn't catch her, didn't find her crown nor her scales nor her fins, didn't reflect off the tapetum lucidum in her eyes. Her body is low, near to the ground, standing there on all fours, though she didn't think her guest caught that. It might be the most obvious shape to summon from the mind, particularly the human mind, but there's a difference between guesswork and certainty.
The silence stretches so long, so eternal. So heavy, in the air and in time, slowing down to a molasses crawl that sinks into the stomach and threatens to pull everything else down with it.
Eventually, Miranda decides to break that silence.
From the darkness, from the total blackness, emerges a long and low churr. The sound is deep and perfect and musical, even as it itches at something deep within, even as it sounds of something old, primal, something only half-recalled but fully remembered within the structure of the body itself. It pushes outwards in waves, a swift rise and fall like a purr, but too deep to be that noise, too echoing, coming from the chest and not the throat and certainly not the mouth. It is beautiful, and wonderful, and deeply horrific, for no one, absolutely no one, has ever heard a sound like that and lived, not without a pane of glass in the way.
"Who are you?" she asks, hardly any different from the churr, because it doesn't seem as though something like her, like this, should be able to speak. It doesn't help that her voice first calls to mind the animalistic, beautiful and wonderful, and impossible and primordial, all in the same breath.
š²šššššĀ ššššĀ ššššššššĀ ,Ā inĀ manyĀ waysĀ itĀ feltĀ asĀ thoughĀ theĀ entireĀ Big-TopĀ wasĀ hostĀ toĀ theĀ supernaturalĀ justĀ notĀ inĀ theĀ traditionalĀ senseĀ .Ā PerhapsĀ itĀ leanedĀ moreĀ toĀ theĀ seraphicalĀ .Ā CurrentsĀ ofĀ floatingĀ eyesĀ uponĀ aĀ bedĀ ofĀ jaggedĀ edgesĀ downĀ beneathĀ theĀ tilesĀ .Ā TheyĀ calledĀ themĀ abstractionsĀ .Ā SomeĀ NPCsĀ tookĀ theĀ formĀ ofĀ ghostsĀ theyĀ wereĀ limitedĀ toĀ lingerĀ onlyĀ toĀ theĀ spaceĀ CaineĀ overseesĀ .
LimblessĀ heĀ slidesĀ againstĀ theĀ tilesĀ muchĀ likeĀ aĀ molluscĀ ,Ā heĀ alwaysĀ gotĀ theĀ senseĀ ofĀ beingĀ watchedĀ ,Ā thisĀ timeĀ wasĀ differentĀ .Ā ItĀ feltĀ closerĀ inĀ proximityĀ .Ā HisĀ eyesĀ flickerĀ fromĀ oneĀ pointĀ toĀ anotherĀ ,Ā curvingĀ hisĀ formĀ backĀ toĀ tryĀ &&Ā catchĀ culpritĀ ,Ā heĀ can'tĀ findĀ themĀ .Ā ForĀ theĀ momentĀ heĀ surmisesĀ itĀ wasĀ justĀ hisĀ shadowĀ .
AsĀ soonĀ asĀ heĀ slipsĀ intoĀ theĀ darknessĀ backstageĀ behindĀ theĀ grandĀ ,Ā redĀ velveteenĀ curtainsĀ .
NowĀ thisĀ spaceĀ wasĀ indisputablyĀ occupiedĀ byĀ anotherĀ presenceĀ ,Ā heĀ feltĀ itĀ asĀ eyesĀ adjustĀ toĀ theĀ sereneĀ macabreĀ .Ā TheĀ lowĀ droneĀ ofĀ somethingĀ makesĀ itselfĀ knownĀ .Ā HisĀ handsĀ clenchĀ &&Ā releaseĀ inĀ anticipationĀ .Ā RefrainingĀ fromĀ holdingĀ hisĀ breathĀ &&Ā emittingĀ lightĀ .Ā HisĀ clearerĀ mindĀ reasonsĀ heĀ shouldĀ avoidĀ itĀ .Ā IfĀ thereĀ wasĀ anĀ abstractionĀ inĀ hereĀ [Ā GodĀ forbidĀ itĀ ,Ā heĀ didn'tĀ wantĀ toĀ loseĀ anotherĀ ,Ā notĀ againĀ ]Ā itĀ wouldĀ becomeĀ agitatedĀ byĀ theĀ glowĀ .
AĀ voiceĀ soonĀ breathesĀ throughĀ theĀ spaceĀ .Ā NoĀ .Ā NotĀ anĀ abstractionĀ lestĀ onĀ couldĀ learnĀ toĀ vocallyĀ expressĀ againĀ ...Ā anyoneĀ whoĀ abstractedĀ hereĀ wouldĀ haveĀ recognizedĀ him.
āøŗĀ ā.Ā Ā āĀ Ā KingerĀ .Ā AtĀ leastĀ that'sĀ theĀ nameĀ IĀ choseĀ uponĀ entryĀ .Ā Ā Ā āĀ Ā PauseĀ .Ā HeĀ listensĀ .Ā āĀ Ā What'sĀ yourĀ nameĀ @royalreef ?Ā Ā Ā āĀ āøŗĀ Ā ą½ą½²ą½ą¾Ā Ā ā