Headache I'm not one for telling stories, but when I do, they're usually spiked with interest. And by that, I mean they're either interesting, or just plain weird. Usually the former. It was late one night in Paris, roaming the streets in search of the local art show. I was having another one of those freak migraines, and my pals Bentley and Murray were doing their best to keep their voices down for me. After doing some medical research, Bentley determined it was simply a stress problem. But here's the catch; I'm never stressed.
By Fool's Words( be warned this is formulated on headcanons and all that jazz ) The lights in the seemingly endless circus were dim that morning. Not much could be seen, besides the multitude of glittering decorations, the flare of life-ending fire, and the bursts of light it emitted. A lone figure stood, watching the sun rise from the open tear in the roofing. With a heavy sigh, the fellow stepped down into what appeared to be a well-crafted prison cell, gruff looking guards scattered around the various halls of the new chambers. "Don't try any funny stuff this time, Houdini," one of the guards growled at the trapped fellow. In reply, he gave a scoff-like snort, and turned his back to the bars, the guards,
Shirin: YOU! Give me back the things you stolen from me!
May: ! H-Hey Shirin! C-Calm down!