Uh, I hope I’m following the event guidelines correctly. Also note, “Vermillion" is spelled with two L’s instead of one, since the color can be spelled two ways. I’m basically borrowing the name of one of my personas for this event, since I’m attached to the word in general and it felt fitting aha. Don’t mind me.

After nearly tripping over every possible obstacle in the room of tent, I finally manage to reach the item that caught my interest - a fascinating little scroll. What is this, some kind of freeform poetry? As I finish reading it, I can’t help but snort impolitely at the last line. “Don’t be late,” I mutter to no-one in particular, repeating the phrase I’d just glanced over, “Of course they just had to leave a note in that vein - don’t they know I’m literally the slowest individual alive? I’m late to everything!” Really, it would be just my luck to get tangled up in something like this - it’s bad enough I could be in the middle of a complete fiasco involving potentially supernatural and demonic forces, but heaven forbid they expect me to be a fast and prompt individual. Let’s face it, that’s going to be my actual demise, scary creatures or no.

But, given that I’m stuck here for the time being - especially since I have no idea where I am at all - I should at least humor whoever wrote this. Maybe I’ll be spared for at least a short period of time if I do; I don’t see what else is an option right now. Carefully, I read and re-read over what is written, determined that if I’m going to do this, I’m at least going to attempt to give it my all, and end up feeling baffled at a very specific set of lines, “Only your reflection can be shown, blending in you’ll need to.” Immediately, I glance over to my left, seeing my own image staring back at myself through the mirrors positioned there. I’m sure my facial countenance right now would be quite comical if this situation wasn’t so dire and ominous. A reflection? What could that possibly mean though? And blending in? Blending in with what, exactly?

I scrutinize the room again and its surrounding decor, or what I can observe at least from the dim lighting. Trying to get a better view, I make an endeavor to navigate as best as I can, but somehow manage to trip over that hideous pumpkin again anyways. Again. Really, why do I have to be so clumsy? Now is definitely not the time! Grumbling unhappily as I push myself off the ground, I begin to dust myself off, and that’s when an idea comes to me. “It’s quite odd, really,” I ramble on to myself, “The colors here hint so much of vibrancy and life, but they’ve faded over time. It’s like they’re muted and gray, and yet there’s still lights and other bits that work here and shine quite brightly, bits and baubles of this circus-like atmosphere. It’s haunting, yet mischievous - just as clowns are meant to be symbols of happiness, but often emit a very different feeling entirely. Uncanny valley, I suppose.”

Nodding to myself, I carefully traverse through the room and back to the wardrobe, rifling through it, and the plethora of fabrics and costumes within. “Perhaps something that catches that vibe, the very spirit of this place!” I spend far too long weeding through the piles of clothing, their musky scents wafting into my nostrils as I disturb them from their resting place. Brushing off a few mothballs, I finally find what I’m looking for, and after donning my new attire, admire myself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure I am impeccable, no detail left unseen. Wouldn’t that be fitting? The devil is in the details, after all. I chuckle to myself, and suddenly hope that whatever creature I’m dealing with is actually a demon so they’ll understand my pun. Immediately I backtrack that thought, because on further introspection dealing with a demon probably wouldn’t be so fun, and given that everyone seems to have an unspoken rule of disliking wordplay-related humor, I’d best keep it to myself if I want to keep my head.

“Ah, there we go, it’s dim and dark like this place, but bright at the same time. I think that fits the theme of blending in. I’m not so sure about reflections though, unless it means the figurative kind,” I muse, “Hmm, now that I think about it, even though I think I’ve got the aura of a clown - with my own personal flair, that is - I don’t think I’m quite scary enough. It did say ‘terrifying,’ didn’t it? I mean, I’m only a measly human, so I don’t know how ‘terrifying' I can really make myself in comparison to whatever I’m dealing with.” Rummaging back through the supplies in the area, I come across a bottle of red paint. Or, at least, I sincerely hope it’s red paint, because I’m about to splash it all over myself for a melodramatic effect, and if it ends up reeking of copper scent, I might just gag.

Then again, I think to myself, paint can have a pretty strong scent too, so I guess there’s really no winning with this one. Oh well, go big or go home - and I can’t actually go home right now, so I might as well go all out. I dump the contents of the vial onto my being, closing my eyes and bracing for the worst. As the red liquid splashes all over my new clothing, my nose is immediately assaulted by a strong odor that I absolutely don’t recognize as either paint or blood, and I literally have no idea what I just bombarded myself with. Is it poisonous? It’s probably poisonous. As it drips down off me and to the floor, I begin to think I overdid it. Yes. I definitely overdid it. Regret incarnate. Well, maybe now I smell badly enough it will ward off any monster that comes to get me. There’s got to be a silver lining to this, right?

I look down again. Okay, okay, far from silver. Sighing, I resign myself to my newfound fate, and gather up the instructions to re-read them. “Well, I think I’ll be called ‘Vermillion.’ That’s a fitting name, isn’t it? Especially since a certain idiot decided to literally drench half of my existence in it,” I remark dryly, which is ironic seeing as I’m anything but.

• something this side of cute that on second look is OH GOD BEES
• an acrobat or contortionist who has no arms (so a carny type in a circus)
• done up in paint & costume like a doll who would do all the jerky uncanny valley movements
• those nifty little boardwalk "pets" on wire leashes that u can jitter along in fake movements for the bee pet

also i took a few tiny liberties in that theres technically 2 characters tied up in the story of this avatar but i wasnt sure how 2... convey that here?? other than make more than 1 avatar, but i ran outta time 4 that, so i went with the acrobat

im hoping its obvs that this OTHER character that i made up already went thru all the stuff that all the clues n events n things laid out happened to & left n that arms is uh.. playing a rly bad version of mystery detective

i tried 2 stick within what was written exactly for each chapter & not deviate so that it would be the story exactly (like al finding the camcorder in his home/trailer, al getting spooped by camcorder, al going thru 2 the carnival & getting all gussied up)

& then like, arms finds the discarded camcorder its like well GREAT...

it was an interesting challenge

but anyway, i hope its okay i handled it this way ;;

if i have time tonight, i rly wanna get the 2nd avatar & the 2nd pov story up

They spare a quick, nervous little grimace for the memory of tittered laughter in their ears from the twins. The blue and yellow paint smeared over the lower half of their jaw and mouth cracks a little.

It's been a long day. Finding a discarded camcorder inside a dusty empty tent (cracked like someone dropped it out of shock or surprise), the empty tents themselves, the heavy wardrobe looking like it's primed to topple and crush someone at the slightest cough, stacks of crates and barrels, and even a huge cracked mirror all make it longer. Too long. They should be used to storage spaces like this: the out-of-the-way tents filled with odds and ends waiting on shows and miscellaneous uses. But this just doesn't... feel like that. Doesn't feel right.

This place isn't lit up for attracting crowds. It looks dead. Like the misshappen pumpkin they nearly squashed in with their bare foot when they dropped the tent flap and stepped forward.

Arms just wants to go back to their trailer. Forget Al's poaching of sales. Forget kicking Al's fake tail off his backside for having to go find him.

Forget Al.

W-e-ell--

Unrequited crushes certainly won't let them forget Al. Stupid, stupid Al.

They huff out a shaky breath at this. It could possibly pass for a laugh.

Pretending this also passes for resolute decisiveness, they lift a foot decorated with painted lines meant to mimic the jointed seams of a doll. They pinch their toes around the camcorder's strap to adjust how it digs its weight into their shoulder. Absently hoping this doesn't crush the bright gold-and-turquoise feathers of their costume too badly, they then shuffle their way past the mirror and the wardrobe with way more nervous energy than they want to admit to. And promptly bang their knees into a tacky little table. It should've been obvious. It... is obvious. If you're looking for tables. Or if you have a flashlight. It was probably obvious for Al. Al's smart.

Smart enough to turn tail and get out of here?

Maybe not. But Al would've at least brought a flashlight. Or used the camcorder's light.

They glance down at the table, cheeks puffed out as they alternate between rubbing one kneecap with the sole of the opposite foot, and then the other. Dust outlines an empty spot on the table, but they don't have to look far for the crumpled bit of paper that was manhandled all to hell nearby. Picking it up between their toes is next, then awkwardly uncrumpling and spreading it out on the ground. They sit crosslegged when this doesn't work out for them too well. Wiggling until they have their ankles pressed to their thighs and their feet up with the paper held taut, there's just enough natural light with their eyes adjusted that they can squint at the scrawled writing.

Well, they think with a frown that chips off a little bit of paint from the corner of their clown-decorated fake smile. I guess I'm dressed for this occasion at least.

The acrobat hops right back up, balancing daintily on their heels, and returns the rumpled paper to the table. Unease makes them hesitate. They could still go back to their bike and get out of here...

Nah.

Someone has to drag Al's stupid scaly butt back to the ringmaster. Even if Arms has no hands to do it with.

This looks very interesting by the way, I'm intrigued 😄.