Chapter Text
— ACT 1 – ENTER STAGE RIGHT —
Withers, for a moment, lamented that he had never been the deity in charge of party planning, though he surmised that would have been a role retired from far sooner than his charge over the dead. Still, he had pulled more than a few strings, reminding many associates of old debts and even calling in the favour with Milil, along with the promise that the bardic deity might find new admirers at the gathering.
The summons had been sent to each of the adventurers who had overcome the impossible and defeated the Grand Design of the three petulant deities who had split his old portfolio between them. Now he had but one task remaining, to give a second chance to one last casualty of the insolent three’s Chosen.
Life and death…they were oft akin to two sides of the same coin, and Withers was the gilded edge. Perhaps he could have chosen to reclaim his former name, but that dragged far too much baggage along with it, and questions he would prefer not to give answer to. Instead, he threw the coin into the air, watching it spin and turn lazily in slow motion as he asked the question of the soul on the other side – life? Or death?
—
The shroud of darkness moved like oil, like a living thing, or perhaps a heavy sludge that slowly sloughed away from a newly formed body. One that was thankfully lacking the agony that its wearer last remembered, shaking the memory from a mind that was all too happy to forget it as soon as humanly possible.
Human. Norris Greenie was human again, standing on his own two feet, on slightly soft ground that felt like…grass, definitely outside. He blinked the last of the bleariness from his eyes, taking stock of his surroundings, of his body, of the situation he had landed in when answering the call.
It shouldn’t have been possible – his soul was given over to a vengeful god, one who knew naught but malice, whose own progeny had—
“Think not of where thou hast been, but of where thou art.” The deep and slightly rasping voice brought him back to his senses, gazing now into bright blue eyes that peered at him with an air of…kindness?
Norris tried to remember, just the last thing he had known before coming here. Not his death, nor the afterlife, but the offer. “It was you, then?”
“Twas indeed,” the lich – for that was what he most resembled – replied, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I am most grateful that thou accepted mine offer, vague though it was.”
“Well, when one is offered a choice between endless agonies and the slightly lesser pain of dying on the stage instead,” Norris smiled, “it was an opportunity, wasn’t it? Few summon a clown without a circus, even if he is dead.”
“Dead thou art no more,” the lich gestured to the clearing where a high stage had been set up with a rather fanciful bard tuning his lute atop it, and a second stage much lower down that looked far more to his liking. “I’m afraid that no circus is here, neither tent nor fool to accompany thee.”
“As long as you give me an audience—,” he paused, considering how to address his rescuer. “I don’t believe I have your name.”
“Thou may know me as Withers,” the reply made the moniker sound more like a stage name than a true one, but that was hardly a surprise to a man that most knew as Dribbles the Clown. “Wouldst thou prefer to be addressed by thy occupation, or thy name?”
Norris cast a quick glance around, seeking a mirror or at least something with… He picked up a silver tray, checking his face in the warped reflection. “Norris Greenie, at your service, at least until we find my makeup. How long do I have to rehearse?”
—
Withers found him to be amusing – not in the usual way one might laugh at a clown’s performance, but a warmer and quieter feeling from observing how swiftly Norris seemed to adjust to his new situation. He held out some hope that the memory of what had been beyond the grave was no longer lingering in the poor man’s consciousness, though if it was there was nary a sign of it at all.
Although, Withers supposed, perhaps it took far more to shake the foundations of a man who had spent decades with the interplanar Circus of Last Days.
Norris instead seemed content to dig through the small chest of supplies that had been summoned, seeking what he needed for the stage. A few props of course, crude shapes for jests that would no doubt bring some merriment to the audience later, a mirror, some jars marked as for hair, and a full set of face paints.
Being a former god masquerading in the form of an ancient lich gave little reason for Withers to consider his appearance, particularly regarding any form of alteration such as the designs that Norris carefully painted across his features. Thick greasepaint turned his skin a pure white, though the slight grey of his stubble still showed through along his jaw. Comically arched brows formed an expression of perpetual surprise in vivid blue, the same tone pulled in coloured streaks of wax through otherwise natural coloured hair, interspersed with a fiery red.
Completing the look was more of the blue paint giving a wide grin and darkened eyes that almost made him look more corpse-like. A little more blue rubbed in circles upon his skin made for an odd kind of blush, though a natural pink still coloured the cheekbones above with the blood that ran beneath.
Embarrassment seemed so out of place on one with such exuberant confidence, that Withers was almost taken aback by the concept. Almost.
“Thy skills with the brush art impressive,” he nodded appreciatively, watching as Norris – or rather, Dribbles now, cleaned and stored the brushes in a ritual of quiet reverence.
“An artist respects his tools as much as the canvas, and his audience as much as the stage,” Dribbles stood and bowed with a flourish, offering a hand to help Withers to his feet.
“Most chivalrous, thou wouldst make a fine knight.”
“And you, Withers, might make a good comedian with a joke like that,” Dribbles laughed, painted smile wider than ever. “Perhaps in the next life I shall raise the sword and don my shining armour, to rescue a dragon and slay a prince!”
It was almost impossible, even for one as composed as Withers, not to find oneself tickled by the outlandish gestures as the clown struck several poses in quick succession, adding eccentricities to every motion. “I dare say thou art born to be a performer, in this life or thy next.”
“Then bring me the audience, good sir, that I might dine upon their applause.”
—
The entire time he had applied his Stage Face, Norris could feel Withers watching intently – a cool gaze from sharp eyes and a sharper mind. Every time the lich spoke, it was like hearing death itself pulling the words from beyond the grave, yet… He expected such a thing to carry an ice with it, but there was a warmth to Withers, a kindness in the words, as if they were wrapping around him and chasing away death’s chill as it tried to claw back at his bones.
Perhaps that was it, he reasoned – the one who brought him back from the beyond was surely protecting the investment. Not unlike a certain ringmaster he once knew, who was doubtless trying even now to make his former body perform. He shook that thought back out of his mind too – there were some things it was better not to know.
“Art thou ready?” A hint of concern knitted across wrinkled brows, the warmth of it seeping further into a newly beating heart. “Thy audience shall be arriving soon, but if thou need more time—”
Dribbles shook his head with a wide smile, giving his deepest bow to the conductor of his encore. “You’ve set a fine stage, and put breath back in my lungs – a performer such as myself needs little more than applause to complete our scene before the curtain falls.”
True to his word, the clown brought as much life to the evening’s entertainment as Withers had brought to his soul, making good use of the rather unique opportunity. After all, very few performers had such a chance after their final act was done.
“Tis true, the last time you laid eyes upon poor Dribbles, he was in pieces!” He paused for dramatic effect, watching several eager faces interspersed with a couple who were less impressed with his antics, though at least food and alcohol had softened their disposition some. “Well tonight, it is your sides that will be splitting!”
The punchline landed as flat as expected, though a particular horned duo laughed uproariously enough to make up for the rest of the crowd, a feat that was repeated often as his act went on. But his eye was most often drawn to the lifeless of the party, the one who applauded politely and laughed with the silent smile that seemed just as precious as the gold inlaid in wrinkled skin.
Since the first day he had trodden the boards at the circus – a heckler turned comedian in a twist of fate that changed his entire future – Norris Greenie had encountered a great number of things that most could never even dream of. Giants and monsters, creatures beyond reckoning, and even a colony of mindflayers who turned out to be rather fond of juggling. Yet none of them were Withers.
The lich was a unique one, that was for certain, but… What kind of man could command life and death with as much ease as breathing?
Dribbles tried talking with the party’s guests a while, subtly pressing them for information, but the answers largely boiled down to a shrug and “he’s just…Withers.”
—
Just Withers took a position mostly to the sidelines of the festivities, content to merely observe, and to dispense a few words of timely wisdom as they were required of course. In truth, he had missed the strange group in the seasons since they had departed, each seeking their own destiny, yet he was also deeply proud of all they had accomplished.
Foiling the plans of the pitiful excuses for deities, ending the Grand Design, taking down a Netherbrain with so few losses? All remarkable achievements, of course, but it was more than that. Seeing how each had grown, progressed beyond the ties that bound them to outrageous fortune and made their own futures.
Every one of them had chosen their path and walked it with pride.
Even after the last of them sought the warmth of another’s arms that night, or the peace of their own tents, he found himself standing by the remains of the fire, considering the last path that had not been set.
“I won’t ask you for payment, and I hope this has squared away the debt of my sorry soul,” Dribbles the Clown gave another deep bow, producing a flower from somewhere up his sleeve. “Lay it upon my grave, if you wish. I doubt I’m long for this world, after all.”
“Thou art in a hurry to leave already?” Withers asked, considering the flower now held between his own fingertips. “Every petal falls in its own time, thou shouldst not seek to hurry it along.”
—
Dribbles found his feet rooted to the ground in the face of the kind eyes that regarded him softly, leaning down just slightly as Withers fixed the flower in his hair.
“There, tis far more fitting for thee to wear such beauty than to allow it to wilt within mine old fingers,” a wry smile accompanied the words, one that felt warmer than the last flickering flames of the fire beside them.
“A while longer then, it seems my performance has yet to end, if my audience remains.”
“Thou needst not put on thy act for mine sake,” Withers gestured to the small pile of logs next to them, “but by all means, follow thy heart’s desires.”
A strange choice of words, perhaps, for simply stacking a bit more wood and kindling in the centre of the pit. Dribbles found himself turning them over in his mind as he turned the glowing embers to bring the fire back to a quiet crackle. “The heart is a funny thing, isn’t it,” he grinned sheepishly, “and I’m not just saying that because I’m a clown.”
“Tis indeed, and pays no heed to mind nor better sense,” the lich glanced in the direction of several distant tents and the shadows that played upon the canvas of them. “Thou hath stood on stage long enough – come, sit. We need not remain on our feet to talk.”
He had been wondering if it was perhaps a quirk of resurrection that had kept exhaustion at bay, or if it were something else entirely. But he couldn’t deny that it might be nice to relax more, perhaps even come to terms with his life-after-life. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m still in my work uniform, such as it is.”
“If thou art comfortable, I take no issue with thy appearance.” The slight heat of wrinkled fingers was less than an inch away, so close as they sat together on the moss and grass that carpeted the floor of the clearing.
It took all of his self control not to sate his curiosity and entwine their fingers there and then, steadying himself with a deep breath and fixing his gaze on the fire instead.
—
Many a season had passed since Withers had spent so much time in intimate proximity to a living being, even a recently revived one rarely stayed this close for long.
Most appeared to find him intimidating, perhaps unsurprising given that he had long since mastered the greatest fear of most mortals – death. And he was not merely death’s master, but instead its caretaker, the guiding hand that for centuries had walked beside souls as they left one world to reach the next. Yet his hand oft remained empty of any who would take it willingly, days of mortal lovers long since passed.
The clown could have sat further apart, leaving a greater distance between them, or even taken his leave with a gracious apology and no doubt another flourishing bow, but there he remained. Sitting close, no sign of fear, no animosity, not even the hidden agenda of a thief looking for an easy pocket to pick. It was… perplexing , and it had been centuries since Withers had even been close to perplexed.
“Thy performance was most enchanting,” he offered, copying Dribbles in keeping his gaze on the flames in front of them.
“That’s not what most people would say,” the grin was audible in his voice even without looking, “it’s usually either outstanding or someone is drawing their blade and going in for the refund.”
“Wouldst thou prefer the dagger?” Withers returned the jest with his own, deadpan delivery drawing a genuine laugh from the clown who performed for many a long year.
“Ah, there it is! You were just trying to steal my material the whole time – a pity, I would’ve given it to you if you asked.”
“Oh? What wouldst thou give, if one were to make such a request?”
A brief pause, and Dribbles finally turned to face him, cheeks showing a deeper pink despite the layers of makeup still covering his skin. “Are you still talking about taking my jokes?”
“No.”