The Jester's Feast

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Jester attends her first feast of the True night but will she survive it?

Submitted: October 23, 2011

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Submitted: October 23, 2011







It was easier than it looked, flipping and dancing through this restless crowd, who parted ways for the purple-clad jester as she twisted her way lithely toward the king, silver flashing on her wrists and ankles, bells tinkling softly in her hair. She gave one last, miraculous backwards leap, twisting sensuously in mid-air and landing silently before the king, sweeping her hat off her head as she sunk into a low, almost mocking bow, the bells ringing clearly through the stunned silence as the man upon the throne opened his eyes and slowly began to applaud the unwelcome jester.

He was a formidable man with dark eyes that saw all, yet the jester, though young and still tender from her childhood, seemed unafraid, straightening up out of her bow with a look of incredulity;

‘Did I not impress my master, sire?’ she asked, her clear tones void of the disappointment she suddenly felt. The lord smiled at the girl.

‘It sufficed.’

She scowled, dropping her hat unceremoniously to the floor, straightening her rumpled attire.

‘I thought it was brilliant,’ she muttered, shaking her head in disgust. The master merely ignored her, looking over her head at the masses gathered in the hall. To his well-fed, wealthy eyes they looked like bedraggled, starving savages. But he did not detest these filthy scarecrows, they were his people, the minions of an empire he himself had built up without the help of the weakling gods that religious men, heathens, called upon. He had created life and sustained it. These savages only looked so; aristocrats having fasted for six days and nights, living without luxury, in honour of the coming feast.

‘True Night is upon us.’

The jester, broken from her petty grumblings by her keeper’s voice, followed his gaze to the high windows, where the dark seemed to push against straining glass and a visible shiver ran through her. She took a step forward and flipped over the stonesteps to the throne and settled cross-legged at her master’s feet, studying the hoards in contemplation of her fate. He pulled her into his lap as he sat again, as a father would his child, and women, beautiful yet evil began to make their way throughthe crowd, which parted, revealing an altar which the women were now readying. The girl’s eyes settled on the altar and her master felt her stiffen in his arms, blood draining from her face as full comprehension flooded it. Witches. An altar. True Night. A sacrifice. Fear finally flooded her as she rationalized what was to come and she began to struggle against the arms around her, whimpering and moaning.

‘Be still my beaut,’ her master crooned but she struggled all the more, misunderstanding his intentions. His patience waned and he shoved her off his lap, ignoring her cry as she fell, and stood, mages gathering around him, his cloak torn away as an armour of black obsidian coated his body and the crowd roared as he stepped down and he walked among them, to the altar.

‘Tonight!’ he cried and they roared again.

‘Tonight we pay tribute to the True Night!’ Tonight we kill and feast, toasting the darkness that grips this land, purging it of the weak and unfit, cleansing the infection of heathen priests and bastards, paving the way for our domination! Tonight we feed on the soul, and the blood, and the flesh of the innocent!’

Another roar filled the hall, pierced by a shrill scream. The jester’s head rose from where she still lay on the floor and her eyes locked on the struggling figure of a girl, no more than fifteen years of this world, being dragged toward the alter by guards of the court. Relief and pity flooded the jester and compulsion pushed her to her feet and she made her way to the girl, taking her hand as she waved away the guard. She whispered soft words to the girl, who became calm. The jester led the girl to the king, slight guilt tugging at her insides as she stepped back to watch.

The king smiled and ran a loving finger down the girl’s cheek, his smile widening when she shivered. There was a tense silence then the lord drew his hand back. The jester winced as the metallic ring and the sound of cracking bones rang through the hall. The girl lay slumped against the altar, barely conscious, blood running down her face. The jester,fully awareof her master’s impatience, hurried forward, pulling the girl gently but firmly to her feet, wiping the blood away tenderly with her naked fingers. But her master would not wait. He pushed her aside, sending her sprawling, and drew the girl to him. Cold, stone clad fingers first stroked her virginal vagina the he shoved his hand into her. Sharp stone and his brute force tore her apart and fresh screams rent the air; men moaned, their sexes hard and pounding. But this only lasted moments. He tore his hand from her and cast his eyes over the hungry mass.

‘And now her soul is our’s for the taking!’ he called then his eyes held those of the fallen jester.

‘The first taste is yours, my love,’ he said softly, then a sneer marred his words, ‘If you still have an appetite.’

She glared at him, hatred and disgust etchedacross her features but nevertheless she pushed herself slowly to her feet. The girl shrank from the jester’s outstretched arms but she coaxed her forward, catching her when the poor girl’s knees gave in and together they sank to the floor.

‘Sleep child, dream sweetly while you can,’ the jester whispered hoarsely then closed her lips over the girl’s.

She could feel blood soaking her clothes and skin, she could hear the lusty roars of the watching men and she heard her master laugh, and she felt the girl clutch at her weakly but her senses quickly dulled, her whole being attuned to the liquid substance that flowed between her lips – the girl’s soul. It was the purest yet darkest part of the soul, the part of this innocent that these hungry men would not savour and treasure, the part that only the jester and her master would appreciate. And appreciate it she did, arousal stirring in her own womb and she clutched the girl to her eagerly, completely lost within the simple act of a stealing a soul and the floods of lust that crashed over her. Then the flow ceased and so did the lust. She’d had her share and her part of the feast was now over. She pulled her lips from the girl’s and stared into those glossy eyes as she lowered her to the floor.

‘Sleep well child, dream sweetly while you can.’

She stood and walked away, footprints of blood marking her passage. She did not stay to watch as her master hoisted the unconscious girl above his head and drank of the blood and flesh that poured from her raped sex, she did not stay to watch as the hoards, both men and women, fellupon the corpse and fed, goaded by their lord and she simply ignored the morelevel-headed men who trailed behind her, begging her to allow them to bed her. She left the hall, swallowed by the True Night, unafraid of the dark and evil. She welcomed it.

‘My mistress leaves my side in my time of pleasure…’ the king mused quietly, watching the frenzied crowd, a slow ember of pride only slightly doused by disappointment.

‘Only because she herself feels no pleasure,’ said a soft voice and she stood at his side, free of blood and now clad in a sombre black jester’s attire, this one more tightly fit than the previous; the king’s gaze lingered over her lithe figure but she was solemn and unresponsive to his inviting tug on her wrist.

‘What is it that irks you so?’ he asked, dropping his hand from her wrist, ‘Jesters of this court are usually accustomed to such rituals.’

She turned her gaze over the heads of the hoards and it was a few moments before she spoke.

‘I am well accustomed to it sire, you witnessed me partake.’

‘Then why did you leave, did your feast of her soul displease you?’

The jester shook her head, ‘It pleased me well enough sire, it was the manner in which she diedwhichdisgusted me.’

He frowned at her,’ ‘She should be honoured to be a sacrifice on a night such as this.’

‘She was not sacrificed! She was humiliated then devoured!’ she snapped, not caring if her tone angered the lord.

A snort escaped her master, ‘Lady, we have no place for the weak and they have no purpose but to fulfil the needs of my domain.’

‘Would it be too much to grant her a shred of dignity?!’

The king looked taken aback, ‘To what end?’

‘Grant her that for which you would beg at your enemy’s feet!’ the jester cried, causing those nearby to pause.

Her master half rose from his throne then sunk back down, shame etched on his face.

‘This barbaric scene is no way for such a pure soul to loose it’s life,' she sighed,her voice soft and her gaze far, ‘Dignity. The right to die with pride. That is all I would ask of my enemies if they wished to execute me, or’ she glanced at him, ‘of my master, should he wish to sacrifice me.’

The lord, so proud and haughty but a few moments ago, sunk his head into his hands, ashamed and angry, unable to reply to this child’s soft-spoken words. There was a breeze of movement and he felt a soft pressure on his arm.


He looked up to see her kneeling before him. Without the slightest hesitation she pulled herself between his knees and kissed him gently upon the lips before pulling back to kneel before him, head bowed. It took him a moment to regain his composure then he placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face.

‘Jester,’ he said loudly, not ashamed to have his people hear the request he would make of this simple court servant, ‘It is custom that the jester be sacrificed on this night but I took a liking to you and have spared you that fate. Would you repay me in kind by allowing me to bed you tonight my young love?’

It was the jester’s turn to be taken aback but she gave a small nod and the crowd roared its approval as their mighty king swept the 16-year-old girl off to his chambers.

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