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glare out
Karakael woke in a cold sweat, panting heavily, fleeing from the dreams of the night. The nightmares of hands and horror still haunted him after five thousand years - it was likely they would never be gone for good. He had come to accept that over time, even as he grudgingly had accepted the visible marks of shame and trauma branded onto his face.

Still, that hardly meant that he enjoyed the persistent memories. Nor did he appreciate the more mundane reminders of his past. When he woke to find a red string firmly tied around one finger, tugging him into the past, he resolutely ignored it. The community enjoyed toying with his emotions and memories far to much for its own good. He did not like the man he used to be. Acceptance of him was a different matter all together - the former Inquestor had learned from experience that repression was rarely a beneficial habit.

He knew, instinctively, who the string was connected to. The community worked in predictable ways, after all. The more pain it could bring him, the better. And what could be more painful than the community reminding him, yet again, that the man that he had once cared for so deeply was dead and gone, but for the occasional glimpses he saw of him on the community.

The masked Inquestor fought back the onset of more memories, preferring to think instead of a holiday that he honestly enjoyed, one that the community did not force upon him. All that Mardi Gras would require of him would be a cape and a mask, and a willingness to forget all that ailed him for a few hours of revelry. Was it any surprise he preferred the one over the other?


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