Descent Solo

Nobody in Particular.

The first years had had their magical gondola rides, the returning students had experienced their being taken up to the castles in the invisibly-drawn carriages. This was likely to be yet another year of turmoil and confusion and fear and chaos. Someone would get hurt, maybe someone would die. Maybe someone would do something, maybe something would change.

But the boy known as Piérre Marchonné was not destined to be that boy. Not right now.

No, the boy hitherto known as Piérre Marchonné, twin and brother to a Durmstrang fourth year named Romeo who shared of the surname, was not to be a cog in the mechanisms which would slowly be rotating in and about the school. There would be no hag hunts for him, no trains flying off of the rails, no darkness to corrupt his veins or Ravenclaw upperclassman by the name of Vladimir Athentos to harass and blame him for the injury of one Marion Davenport. There would be no pranks in the halls. There would be far less loud laughter in the Great Hall or in the classes which this boy's good friends knew he was infamous for. Rumors spread though the boy knew they would, he would not be there to hear or react to them.

He was needed somewhere else. Somewhere deeper. Somewhere away from the light he knew so well, and the people there who would spell certain death for him if he did not get away for even a brief span of time. Somewhere where he had met a very strange boy. A boy he had met as a first year, a boy who had kidnapped him his second year with a plea to help bend the worlds.

To bend them and not break them. To touch them and not sever them. Something that the other strange boy thought that this boy could do; the Scintillating Jester, the Grail, He Who Topples Kings and Empires. Chaosphage.

The Jester didn't know if he believed in all those titles, but there was something about them which gave him pause. Something about them which seemed more real than the world around him.

Because, perhaps, there was no world to feel real in.

But descend now he did, away from life and light, towards secrecy and curiosity, with his loyal silver cat on his shoulders and the four colored ties of the corrupted castle wrapped around his neck. These were his weapons and shields. Not armor, not blade. The colors of the school, his masque and his identity. Or, perhaps, the lack thereof identity. He was no exception, as Vladimir had lovingly shared with him on that night almost a year ago. He was not an exception to the house, one of those self-righteous individuals who snivelled and rebelled against the grain of the world for the sake of getting a rise out of their peers and higherups. He was not the exception, and nor was he the rule.

He was beyond it.

He was without titles, without a name, with only changing masks, with a heart which beat but a fraction of a second differently from the others, and with only a moniker to his name; the Jester. He was the bold and just. He was the sly and cunning. He was the seeker and the curious. He was the compassionate and true.

They were all his to call his own.

The Sorting hat, as he came to realize and had been told, never made a mistake. It never erred when trying to place a child into an environment where they would grow, flower, and flourish. Heroes and villains had come from every line of house and color; red and gold, blue and bronze, green and silver, yellow and black, and all of them had been placed there for reasons which suited them well. Red and gold had simply happened to be the one which had been chosen for him, and it happened that the red and gold history was an honorable and well-biased one.

The Jester didn't like those constricting, judgemental, biased guidelines. He needed to get away. He needed to flourish as all of these ideals. He didn't want to belong to a 'house' or an 'idea'. He belonged to them all unequivocally and undeniably. It was only because of rule and tradition that such a thing was impossible. It would have sparked dissent and chaos. Nothing would have been sacred or known in the school anymore.

Strip away the names and you discover the truth.

And nobody wants you to discover the truth.

They are more content to live in lies,

As opposed to putting hubris aside.

And this was why the boy known as Piérre Marchonné to all his dearest friends, Jester to those he had affected, Raven to those he had fooled, Friday to a team of his former affiliation, and Grail to the boy he sought to find once again, was now stepping into the depths of the dungeons with his cat, Figaro, on his shoulders.

He crouched near the entrance, watching and listening for the unknown things which skittered in its depths. He thought of each individual which was dear to him.

Rafael D'Spacitio and Evelynn Decipio, the team captains and individuals which the Jester loved with every fibre of his being. He hoped they would see through their differences and eventually become friends.

Every member of his former team, but especially Alan Vanes and Akari Kato; Alan, who had caught and lifted him up when he toppled and been the cause of many a smile, and Akari, the young Second string Keeper who would now be promoted in the Jester's absence.

There was Pericles Dralt. The Jester's considered the Ravenclaw student for a long time. Pericles was a kindred spirit to him, kindhearted, wisdom filled beyond his years. If anyone would understand the Jester's reason for absence, Pericles would. In fact, a part of the Jester whispered to himself that if he had shared his intentions, the eagle would have understood and comprehended. Pericles was like him. No name could define the boy, and given the time, perhaps the boy himself would understand and experience a similar revelation. But when that time came, the Jester would be there to help him and share in the brand new world, guiding him through it. When the time came.

Xailah Alptraum, a strange girl, but one that the Jester had always held in high esteem. A good head on excellent shoulders. A survivor. She too seemed to have made this expedition... But perhaps was not totally enlightened.

So many more names. Professors, students, helpers. Names that the Jester remembered fleetingly, some he cared not to remember at all. He was only looking for one, though. Only one name was important.

Kaegen.

The Jester was searching for the Master. A Master required a fool.

The dungeon entrance was empty. The Jester had departed its depths for the day. He was searching. Learning. Growing on his own. Quietly, he would be the passing face in the background; the silent shadow satisfied simply with observing, listening, considering. He would return here again, day after day, always skimming the thought of being late for class or for curfew, but never breaching it. He knew too well that he could not be discovered, especially for breaching the rules and guidelines that had been instated to protect them from the strifes which gripped the magical school.

He would one day speak again, ensure that his story was shared further. He would learn and grow just as any other student would, just without exceptional notice. But he would not interface with them if he could help it. He could not let them put into jeopardy this delicate, purposeful, individual pilgrimage.

It was a path he needed to travel alone, with only a Bengal kitten to join him and the many thoughts in his head to keep him company.

For now, This was his farewell.