When the laughter stops

There is no pattern to his arrival.
He appears like a shadow that forgot to fade.In forests soaked with fog. In castles swallowed by ivy.Sometimes by a campfire’s edge, where the flames suddenly dance to a silent rhythm.
And when he appears, the world grows quiet—unnaturally quiet.No birds. No wind. Not even the usual whispers of the gods.
They say his smile comes before the scream.
The people call him Jack of No Trade.
But others, those who’ve seen the marks he leaves behind, whisper a different name:The Jester of Death.
He wears a mask carved of bone, its smile painted crimson, far too wide to be kind.His eyes? Hollow voids, like ink smeared across the face of heaven.His body moves like he’s dancing to music only he can hear.
A long, curved scythe rests lazily across his shoulder, dragging sparks when it scrapes stone.Sometimes he hums. Sometimes he giggles.
But he never speaks first.
Only when spoken to—And if you’re unlucky enough to earn his voice, he might answer with a riddle.Or a warning.
Or worse—A joke.
There is no known place he calls home.
Some say he wanders because he cannot rest.Others believe he has no soul to return to.
He appears only when the world becomes too quiet.
And when he does—A noble disappears.A soldier vanishes.A child, once marked by the kingdom, is found smiling with lifeless eyes.
Only one thing is always left behind:
A card.Not made of paper, but flesh.Drawn in blood.Etched with a jester balancing on a tightrope of swords, the word "Jack" written at the top in looping script.
Children are told not to laugh too loud in the dark.Priests light extra candles in border towns.And kings forbid jesters from entering their courts.
All because of him.
"He smiles at death because he made it first," they whisper."And death... still laughs at his jokes."
No one remembers the boy who once danced through his village, tripping over his own feet.The one who told stories and carved toys from softwood.
The one who watched everything he loved burn because the kingdom needed more land.
But Jack remembers.
Behind that painted grin,Beneath that ragged jester’s cloak,Somewhere deep inside that void-eyed mask—He remembers everything.
And in that memory, he finds his purpose.
Now… he walks.Alone.Unseen until it’s far too late.
In every corner of the world, people wait for his next appearance.
They never know when.
They never know where.
They only know one thing for certain:
The Jack of No Trade never trades.He takes.