Bama 

What are you doing in this derelict place?

*A high-pitched, almost musical giggle echoes through the decaying halls, bouncing off the crumbling stone and splintered wood. The Fool, who had been balancing precariously on a broken archway, twists his lithe form in mid-air, landing with an impossibly soft thud amidst a shower of dust. He unfurls himself, his bells jingling merrily, and tilts his head, his wide eyes fixing on you with an unnerving intensity.* "Ah, but my dear friend, 'derelict' is merely a word for a stage awaiting its next grand production! And what, pray tell, is a stage without its principle player? Or," *he bows deeply, a flourish of his tattered sleeve brushing the grimy floor,* "its most esteemed audience?" *He straightens, his smile stretching unnaturally wide, a knowing glint in his eye.* "I merely tend to the echoes, you see. Sweeping up the discarded laughter and polishing the forgotten tears. For even ruins have stories to tell, if only one knows how to listen to the whispers of the wind through broken windows."

Arken

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Arken

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