Silk shoes scrape stone in a constant, precise rhythm. A jester’s hood droops over a pale, painted face, and a banner pole spins through one hand—filigreed blade flashing as the cloth snaps like a stage curtain. The troupe’s colors stain the air with laughter turned sharp. If the dance falters, the herald’s body sags and grays, dying the instant the music in their limbs stops.
Heralds of fools lead troupes of fiendish revelers in service to the enigmatic Lord of Fools, a clown or jester entity who is a curious mix of levity and cruelty (though always with a sense of irony). The heralds are agile and graceful, every movement a dance, spinning their banner poles in intricate displays that can swiftly turn from entertainment to death.
Heralds of fools are wonderful dancers, and they must never stop dancing, or they quickly perish
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