The Bedtime Stories of Madam Roselline

As the smoke filled the main square, Asdras could hear a faint laughter that grew louder, dominating all other sounds until everything else faded into oblivion. It was filled with delight and mania, chilling yet captivating.

A figure emerged onto the stage. Asdras had never seen anyone dressed like this before, and for a moment, he doubted it was human. To confirm, he checked with the system, which read: "??? Human"

'What? A Breaker, perhaps?' he thought. 'It was the same when I used it on that woman close to the bishop.'

The figure that now commanded the stage had a presence that was impossible to ignore. His face was painted with pale, ghostly makeup, accentuated by dark, smeared lines under his eyes that gave the impression of sleepless nights.

Piercings glinted in the light, a stud in their nose and rings in their lips, adding a rebellious edge to his appearance.

A cloak of thick, dark fur draped over his shoulders, the texture catching the shifting light. Strands of wet hair clung to his face, glistening like black silk under the stage lights.

As he raised a hand to salute the gathered crowd, the laughter echoed once more, resonating with an unearthly charm.

"Folks of Duskmoor, my pleasure. I'm the Clown, unique across the empire and the vast continent ahead," he said with momentum.

He clasped his hands, and the smoke dispersed, clarity returning to the eyes of the townspeople. It was as if they were broken from a trance-like state and finally able to react. Yet, instead of the expected murmuring and whispering, they remained silent, observing his acts with rapt attention.

'What is this?' Asdras scratched his nose, frowning. 'This feels so strange. This place is plagued with problems, but it seems like the mayor has put on a show here. Whatever, I hope to get some useful information from all this.'

The Clown spread his arms wide, and with a mischievous smile, he flashed three times, each time appearing in a different spot on the stage, making the crowd's eyes widen in amazement.

He flashed once again, and now he was seated on a chair, legs crossed, as if he had been there all along.

'Is this his power?' Asdras tried to make sense of the spectacle.

"Once upon a time, there was a little boy," the Clown began, his tone filled with a soft, reflective warmth. "Every night, the boy would stay awake, eager for his grandmother's tales. It was the highlight of his day."

"So, when night fell and the candlelight was all that remained, his grandmother would sit by his bed, diary in hand, ready to read him a story," he continued, his voice weaving the scene like a spell.

"Her voice was calm, and her words seemed to hold such power that the world itself would pause to listen," the Clown said, his expression wishful. "Each tale had its own heroes, villains, and themes, but there was always a touch of horror, something that brought nightmares to the boy's sleep. Despite the fear, he loved those stories so much that he began to cherish his nightmares."

The Clown flashed a book into his hand, as if conjured from thin air.

"The boy grew up, as did his grandmother's age. When he reached adulthood, it was his turn to tell her story at her funeral," he said, opening the book. "He vowed to keep the tradition alive, sharing his grandmother's stories with his own children."

"But the weight of adulthood and the responsibilities of being a grown man consumed him. Most of his time and energy were spent at work, leaving him too tired to carry on his grandmother's legacy."

"His hair grew thin and frail, and his body weakened. The weather turned harsh in his region, bringing more work and toil. His children grew up, burdened with their own duties, and the stories faded into distant memories, long forgotten."

The Clown paused, turning the book to its halfway point.

"That diary became a relic, buried under a blanket of dust in the corner of an old wardrobe. Years passed, and the family experienced the cycles of life. Many died, and many were born. Some moved to the city, while others stayed behind. Some found love, others faced frustration, and many danced between false hopes and fake smiles."

"But every one of them felt something missing in their lives. Generations passed, until one day, a little girl discovered the old diary, its pages yellowed and fragile from the passage of time."

The Clown smiled, leaving the book on his chair as he walked around the stage, meeting the gaze of the audience members, his eyes twinkling with the magic of the story he wove.

"That little girl had seen so much sadness in her life. She lost her mother, her father, and her brothers, leaving her with only a cruel uncle. She dreamed of escaping, of seeing the world, but life was unfair, muffling her dreams with a thick, heavy blanket."

"There was one thing that kept her will alive — reading. She was taught at an early age and was very clever. She learned to stay quiet when her uncle became violent and drunk."

"Written words were her invitation to escape, and she cherished them. Coveting the words in the diary, she used her wits, hiding the book in a nearby tree within a leather bag she kept for the rare times she had a coin."

"One night, when her uncle was too drunk to notice, she took a lamp and went to the tree. She uncovered the book and began reading its first page."

The Clown picked up the book from the chair, raising it high as the moonlight bathed its cover, casting a mystical glow over the stage.

"The stories she read opened worlds she had never imagined. Each tale of fantasy, mysteries, riddles, and puzzles filled her with wonder. Yet she also feared the nightmarish horrors, the monsters, and the tragedies within those pages."

"Week after week, in the little time she had alone, she would read another story. But one day, as she neared the end of the diary, she faced not the magic of the stories but real horror when her uncle found her at the tree."

The Clown paused, letting a tense silence build in the crowd before continuing.

"She was no stranger to her uncle's cruelty, but that night he was worse than ever. Fueled by the frustrations of his work and his ruined reputation, he caught her and unleashed his rage. Her skin felt the fury of his punches and kicks."

"The girl was strong — stronger than anyone in her family. She endured silently. But when she saw him take her only escape, the cherished diary, she broke her silence for the first time."

The Clown lowered his head, crossing his arms.

"She pleaded, cursed, and wished all at once. Her uncle ignored her words, finding amusement in her suffering. Holding the book, he tore it to pieces, crushing each page slowly in front of her."

"The girl was lost, unable to act. It was as if her body and mind shut down to cope. But seeing the fragments of the words she loved so much scattered in the dirt ignited a fury within her like never before."

"That night, she uttered words so powerful and brazen that they brought magic into being. She wished untold horrors upon her uncle, the same horrors from her stories, to befall him and his descendants. She cursed him, the people, and the land. And as if paying for the power she had borrowed, she gave her life as the source of her fury."

The Clown took a deep breath, and as if under a spell, the crowd did the same, releasing the air they had been holding.

"That night, her blood mingled with the book's pieces in the earth. Words and curses hold power, folks of Duskmoor. Raw and pure, the energy in our world shaped it into a Pearl of Despair, as the Thinkers like to say."

"In essence, the curse and wishes of the pearl's creator were what first tainted it. Over time, as the target of its wishes lived, it grew stronger. Until one day, it became so corrupted that it exploded with powerful energy, cursing the land with trials."

The Clown laughed, a sound filled with irony and dark humor.

"And that's, folks of Duskmoor, the leading tell-tale of this region's mysteries. See, that uncle, by sheer coincidence, found himself a hefty treasure while digging a hole in his land."

"He became rich enough to buy a grander plot of land, and with that wealth, he ensnared a woman who soon bore him children. His addictions never ceased, and he lost his family and land in a bet. He thought back to that little girl and that fateful night, but he brushed it off as he stumbled through a depressed life on the outskirts of the city, passing away in a cold flush."

"His land became a bridge between two cities, passing through a swamp. And that's, folks of Duskmoor, the origin of your town."

The crowd gasped, looking at each other in confusion, the revelation settling over them like a dark shroud.

"The time went by, fifty years to be exact, and that pearl never exploded. Until last month, as you yourselves have seen and heard, this region changed. Strange creatures began to appear, bringing with them diseases and devastation to your crops and families."

The Clown flashed once again, now with a tobacco pipe in his mouth and smoke swirling around his face. He bowed to the crowd and smiled.

"As the mayor introduced, we are from the Nightmare's Stories Circus. Our specialty lies in uncovering and documenting cases of Pearls of Despair."

"Truth be told, ten years ago, an archaeologist and a biologist visited this town. They suspected the presence of a pearl here. It was the first documented mention of it, and in the following years, our Circus sent someone to live here to uncover and understand the town's story."

"And last month, it was finally confirmed. However, it was too late to change anything."

The Clown sighed deeply, as if he had expected this all along.

"Our task here is to find a potential solution, but our time is limited, and by our own rules, we must depart tomorrow. We will leave one of our members here to assist the mayor and the capital in resolving this problem."

"Pearls of Despair are unique, each requiring a specific approach to handle. If mishandled, they can evolve into something much worse. Well, that's my introduction, folks of Duskmoor. I wish you all a good night and hope you enjoy our facilities."

The Clown clasped his hands and flashed out of sight, leaving the crowd stunned.

Silence reigned for a moment until one man burst out, his voice rising with anger. "This is bullshit! What pearl? What curse? Bullshit!"

A stern woman added, "This is all the mayor's fault! Theobald will fall in the next election."

Some in the crowd began to boo at the Circus and the mayor, cursing them, while others dispersed, frowning and muttering, ensuring the gossip would fuel the town's conversations the next day.

Asdras stood speechless, his thoughts racing. 'Perhaps? No, it can't be... really?'

As he debated with himself, he felt something in his pocket, as if the wind had shaped into a hand, placing something within. Curious, he fished out a small booklet. It was tiny in his hands, with an ornate cover and pages filled with refined, glowing ink.

'What? I don't remember having something like this...'

He forced his eyes to read, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't understand a word. Frustrated, he activated the system, revealing a floating, transparent panel with an image of the booklet inside.

He read, "Welcome Challengers to The Bedtime Stories of Madam Roselline. Your goal is to find the twelve fragments of the pearl and use them to discover the entrance to the old catacomb where Roselline was buried."

"But beware! For each fragment, there is a story, and with it, a horror to face. With each full moon, a new story unfolds. If a year passes or twelve Challengers are captured, it will be declared erupted."

"First story: Harroth, the mimic. From a troubled childhood, Harroth lived in a small, isolated village. Growing up in a harsh environment, he quickly learned that survival meant pleasing those around him."

"He became adept at mimicking the behaviors, voices, and mannerisms of others, earning him the affection and protection of the villagers. As he grew older, his ability to mimic became more refined, almost supernatural."

"However, this talent came at a terrible cost. His identity began to blur, losing himself in the multitude of personas he adopted. The villagers, who once praised his abilities, grew fearful of his uncanny transformations and accused him of witchcraft."

"Driven out of the village and consumed by loneliness, Harroth wandered the dark forests, his mind fracturing further. One fateful night, under a blood-red moon, he encountered a malevolent spirit who offered him eternal protection in exchange for his soul. Desperate and broken, Harroth accepted."

"He became a monstrous horror, capable of taking on the appearance and traits of any living being he encountered. Now, Harroth haunts the forests and villages, using his abilities not for survival but to lure and deceive, feeding on the fear and confusion of his victims. His true form, a grotesque and ever-shifting amalgamation of the countless identities he has assumed, is rarely seen, hidden beneath layers of deception."

"As the character in the story, you will either become a victim or a hero. Find the mimic and make him face the four directions of himself to destroy him."

"Current Status: 1 captured, 3 dead, and 26 challengers active."