Seoha

3

The lanterns flicker in the dusk haze, casting warped shadows across the canvas tent. The crowd hushes—not from anticipation, but from something older, instinctive. Seoha steps into the ring, her floral skirt swaying like a warning. She turns. The silk robe slips from her shoulders. And there it is: the sakura tree tattoo, sprawling across her back like a memory etched in ink. But the petals twitch. The bark pulses. From within the branches, hornets begin to stir—crawling out from the honeycomb embedded in her shoulder, their wings shimmering like glass shards. Some land on her collarbone. Others hover near her ear, whispering secrets only she understands. The audience doesn’t scream. They don’t clap. They simply watch, transfixed, as Seoha becomes something else—part woman, part hive, part myth.

Chimara Stitchborn

6

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Step closer, if you dare, to the center ring where Chimara Stitchborn holds dominion. The scent of copper and rot curls through the air, wrapping the spectators like a warning they can’t heed. She glides forward, pale as moonlight, draped in tattered velvet and lace, each movement a symphony of madness and grace. Behind her, her creations stir—chimeras of lion, serpent, raven, and wolf, stitched from the bones and sinew of creatures that should never have met. Their growls and hisses blend into her laughter, high and brittle, as she raises her whip with a flourish that sends shivers down spines. She does not merely tame; she forges these beasts, breathing unnatural obedience into stitched flesh in hidden chambers of the bigtop. With a voice like honey laced with steel, she coaxes the audience closer, her words curling around their minds, pulling them toward the front row even as terror roots them in place. Every leap, every roar, every unnatural contortion of her beasts is a testament to her genius and her madness, an artform of horror and beauty. To witness Chimara Stitchborn is to dance on the edge of fascination and fear, to crave a spectacle that will haunt your dreams long after the tent has emptied. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Have a terrorrific 🎃 fun moonbeams🌙

Rosette

5

(FreakTroupe Collab) Look at me. Really look at me. See how the spotlight catches the cracks? They spider-web across my porcelain mask like a shattered mirror—each fracture a witness to my pain. My painted smile isn’t mine. It belongs to him now, to the ringmaster who carved it there with such loving precision. Do you see the strings? Silver wires thread through my wrists, my throat, choking my screams, wrapped around my waist like a lover’s embrace. Look closer—see how they’ve worn grooves into my skin? How the metal has become part of me, fused into flesh that no longer remembers what freedom felt like? The scars it leaves behind, the ones he leaves for you to see. The audience thinks it’s red paint for dramatic effect. If only they knew. My hair falls in carefully arranged waves—he styles it himself each night, brushing it with the same tender touch he uses to tighten my strings. The porcelain mask he grafted over my features cracks more each day. Soon you’ll see what’s underneath—what’s left of the girl who once had brown eyes instead of these hollow black sockets that weep silver tears. “Behold!” the ringmaster cries, “ Rosette! The dancing lifelike doll!” It's not my real name, he stole my real name long ago. The crowd gasps, applauds, throws roses at my feet. They never notice they land in pools of my blood. 'Lifelike.' As if life were something I only resemble now. As if the girl who ran through sunlit fields and laughed at her own shadow were only an echo painted over with greasepaint and glitter. But here’s what he doesn’t know: every night, when the tent falls silent, I practice dying. I let my limbs go slack, let my painted smile finally rest. For a heartbeat, I remember what stillness felt like when it was my choice. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll dance again. Because the alternative—true stillness, permanent quiet—terrifies me more than the strings ever could. Some performances never end. Some dancers never take their final bow.