labyrinthking

In the aftermath of the dark tide, Jareth has much to do in order to set the labyrinth to rights. There were walls to raise, puzzles to plan, rooms to find where they had been shuffled away to nowhere. That said, even the master of the maze must rest from time to time, as he is doing now.

In the Nexus, a pair of smooth brass double doors surrounded by filigreed brass edgings, an ashtray, and a cloud anemone in a planter, chimes quietly before sliding open. Disgorged through the aperture are a slow wave of thick, fragrant red sludge, and a goblin king who is irritated and saturated both quite thoroughly. The doors soon close on the burgundy flood, leaving Jareth to pick his way to its edge, with a curse for every step. At least no one who knows him is seeing him like this.

In his throne room, the goblin king gazed into a crystal perched on his fingertips, watching the doings of an intriguing young woman he'd recently met. Her day had taken her to a home populated with a gaggle of children, companions of more complex association than an afternoon's viewing would explain, and now, out to an evening of singing with the blue-haired one.

The songs she chose to sing had him somewhat less than elated, however. After throwing the crystal across the room and sending one of his minions tumbling down a flight of stairs, he paced for some time, seething. How dare she, how dare she, steal his words and parrot them--not to someone significant, but to a roomful of half-drunken strangers. It was beyond bearing!

As he began to calm, his thoughts turned to admonishment; how best to make her see her error? He would need to speak to her in person, yes, voice his displeasure. Recalling the crystal to his hand, he watched and waited, planning to make his move as she next took the little stage.

As a general rule, Jareth favored grand entrances. There were times, though, when arriving quietly, at the back of a crowd, and moving into view at just the right moment, could have far greater impact. So it was now.

((The absence of any Cyrillic letters may imply that this is not the account of a Russian spammer. Drawing such a conclusion is fraught with considerably less peril than appending "I wish" with much of anything in His Nibs' royal hearing.))

The walls at the periphery of the Labyrinth march on, tangled with the brittle bones of forgotten vines. The weight of its sovereign's gaze is palpable, however, and for those seeking an audience with the Goblin King, this is as good a place as any to speak--and safer than wishing.