showmaster | SHOWMASTER HEART GAME (FRIDAY)

SHOWMASTER HEART GAME (FRIDAY)

A familiar voice can be heard above you, you're not sure if they're talking to you or not but it does feel like you're part of this conversation:

"What a Wonderful Story that you have. I've read it many times when I was feeling sad. You know, I wanted to keep it in my personal collection, but it doesn't seem that's going to be possible. To grant my wish, I'd have to sacrifice what it means to be a reader ... to become the story. That's The End that I'm looking for.

...

...

...

...

..."

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[he will just do a lil peeky out of the nearest one]

[You can't see much but a stairway, however, you can in fact hear the sound of a casino, slot machines and the like.]

[Ticketmaster’s chambers, huh…

closes the door again for now and walks up ONTO the stage. does anything happen]

[As you get on the stage, a stagelight shines right at you. Seven large looming figures surround you, shadows in darkness, but you can tell that there are figures nearby.

But what's interesting is that they stand around you in a circle as if there should be eight. One spot is empty.]

Who will tell the story?

[A voice speaks out.]

You must decide.

Edited 2026-01-17 03:09 (UTC)

[tilts his head at them]

What are my options?

Those in the stories of the Performances.

Who is telling the story now?

We are the Legends of Estoria.

[shakes his head]

Should people not be free to tell their own stories? Legends are useful, but they grip us by the throat.

Yes, they should.

But to continue, a narrator should be chosen for this story.

And what if I don’t choose? Will it end at last?

Then you can leave the stage and another will eventually come by...

[touches something in a pocket]

I won’t.

What holds the story anchored, Legends of Estoria? It exists independent of the narrator, but it is trapped. Is it the stage itself that holds it?

It is a multitude of things. The Stage. The Ocean. The Library.

Could I destroy them?

If you destroy the source, you may destroy a few of those things holding the story together.

And where is the source?

The Owner of These Memories.

Well.

[kneels down on one knee upon the stage, takes the lighter out of his pocket, and flicks it on, the flame held against the shining floorboards. will it catch?]

“Only a few” probably won’t cut it. But I’ll choose to take a risk.

[The flame is immediately snuffed out.]

Who will tell the story?

[A voice speaks out.]

You must decide.

[sighs]

I’m the one here, then, am I not? I’ll tell a story.

[The shadows seem to disappear as if allowing him to tell his story.]

[he still has the lighter in his hand, though it’s out; he runs his thumb over it, looking out at where an audience should be]

My story isn’t gentle. Then again, stories large enough to move a world rarely are.

You ended up putting me between two worlds, you see. In both, people are people, but the world is full of power, and enough power in one place can have a mind of its own. In both, that power seeks out people and makes them more than they are, but it burns a great deal of what used to be there, in the process. It makes them immortal. It costs them enormously, and many of them wish to be free of the burdens it brings.

[is anything happening or is he just literally monologuing to the room]

[There is someone in the audience watching.]

[he offers her a small, formal bow, when he notices her]

In both worlds, in foolishness and desperation, a girl called people out of stories. She warped the fates and narratives they were struggling in, to tie them into her own.

But in one of them, the one that came before this one…that had a power of its own that was unexpected. Because when you rip someone out of their story like that…you make it clear, and obvious, that things can change. That they do not have to remain as they are, even if you thought they did while within their bounds. That even in places with seemingly no hope, barren and scorched and riven with strife, green may come on the wind from faraway lands, and endless wars may be laid to rest.

When stories are told, they bring excitement, and comfort, and joy. When stories are afforded the opportunity to change and grow—and when doors open between them—it makes miracles.

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