The hall should not exist.

Too wide.
Too deliberate.
Too… arranged.

Left — bodies twisted into something almost beautiful.

Right — metal figures standing in perfect stillness.

Ahead — movement repeating, adjusting, performing.

---

Eljara:
This isn’t a battlefield.

Sean:
No.

Eljara:
It’s staged.

A beat.

Sean:
That’s worse.

---

She studies the shapes.

Not disgust.

Recognition.

---

Eljara:
This isn’t chaos.

Sean:
No.

Eljara:
This is design.

---

Silence.

The distant rhythm continues.

---

Eljara:
Carnival.

Sean:
Yeah.

She finishes it.

Eljara:
But no end.

---

He nods.

---

Sean:
Drukhari.

---

Pain as structure.
Excess without return.
Inversion without boundary.

---

Eljara:
The Imperium hides it.

Sean:
Yeah.

---

Eljara:
Festivals. Rituals.
Moments where everything bends.

Sean:
Pressure valves.

---

She steps closer.

---

Eljara:
Controlled madness.

Sean:
So you don’t notice.

---

A distant figure moves.

Not attacking.

Performing.

---

Eljara:
And the Harlequins?

---

Sean’s voice lowers.

---

Sean:
They know it’s a stage.

---

A pause.

---

Sean:
Drukhari live inside the carnival.
The Imperium denies it.

Another beat.

---

Sean:
Harlequins perform it.

---

Her eyes narrow.

---

Eljara:
Cegorach.

Sean:
Yeah.

---

Silence stretches.

---

Eljara:
So what is this?

---

He looks around.

Carefully.

---

Sean:
This is what happens…
when the joke never ends.

---

A beat.

---

Eljara:
And the Imperium?

---

His answer is quiet.

Certain.

---

Sean:
It schedules the joke.

---

The rhythm continues.

Endless.

Precise.

---

In the far future, chaos is not the greatest danger.

It is forgetting that you are part of the performance.

Because once the carnival stops being seen—

it stops being controlled.

---

If you want stories where ritual hides truth,
where systems survive through illusion,
and where even madness follows rules —

step into a campaign where nothing is accidental.