Here comes the Jester.
He speaks in riddles - always in riddles - and somehow, despite their madness, they remain your only explanation for what is unfolding around you. Though truth be told, you would welcome a clearer one. Understanding him is like grasping smoke; the harder you try, the more it slips through your fingers.
No one knows where he came from. No one knows who, or what he truly is. And as for how he knows so much… that question has no answer, only uneasy silence. He speaks of things he should not know, of places he has never been, yet somehow has.
He appears where he does not belong. In locked rooms. In forgotten corridors. In moments that should be yours alone. And always, always he is one step ahead, waiting, watching, smiling as though the world itself were a game already played.
Is he an ally… or a foe? The question lingers, unanswered, twisting in the back of your mind. Yet as long as his words guide you forward, as long as his riddles lead you out of danger or - deeper into it you find yourself with little choice but to follow. Or perhaps… to trust.
He laughs. He plays. He dances along the edge of absurdity, a harmless fool draped in color and mischief. But sometimes something else slips through. A pause too long. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. A fragment of tone that feels… wrong.
And in those fleeting moments, through the cracks of his mask, something far darker stirs.
Something that watches you back.