She turns to you, face pale and ashen. Her mask is cracked, and blue tendrils are coming off her, slowly forming another person in the room. He has raven black hair with blue tips, the same color as the candles. His pale face is smooth like porcelein, and his eyes are a milky white. The boy wears a navy jacket with rips and tears in it, and smiles at you eerily, shuffling closer.
The doors slam behind you. You know who he is, from all of Jester's stories and tales about herself.
"Welcome, guests," Qwertyuiop smiles, showing pointy teeth. "Please, have a seat."
(Also, sorry if I can't update this often. Once a day, at the least.)
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Queen of Amber Gradients, yo
The reality is messier and richer, kids.
The reality is not a pretty picture, kids.
These are the tears of things, and our mortality cuts to the heart.
Ash = Sister