A familiar stage bathed in bright lights. A set of steel manacles, mounted to the wooden floor; the work of the fine locksmiths working out of the curiously-named shop called Rig-a-Mortice in Mirabar. A fine pair, well-constructed; resistant to shimming, comb picks, and many of the more simple methods of getting ratcheting manacles like these open; it was nothing that she couldn't handle, however. A feeling of malaise twisted her guts into knots, and she did not know why. For her, escaping these couldn't be simpler. So, why did she have a bad feeling about all of this?
She admonished herself. "Come on, get a grip," her inner voice said. "It's nearly showtime."
She began her patter, wearing a bright and infectious smile that she plastered over her inexplicable anxiety. Her voice was warm, and it projected far into the gloom that rested off the stage and shrouded her audience. In response to one of her jokes, some strange laughter carried over all others. It did not sound like any laughter a man, an elf, or even a dwarf would make, but more like a hyena's. A derisive snicker, that terminated in fits of giggling.
"Your imagination's running wild," her inner voice chided her. "Come on, stay focused. This isn't like you."
It wasn't. She called a volunteer up to the stage; a hooded figure of small stature raised their hand and heeded the call. Its cloak was black, with red silk lining its interior. Its skin was the color of alabaster, and it wore a breastplate made from brass that looked as though it belonged to antiquity. The volunteer did not speak, but a ghost of a smile could be seen beneath its hood as it secured the manacles around her wrists.
It was not a kind smile, and there were teeth. Long teeth, made slick with crimson.
The lights lifted and the strange laughter returned, though now it was a chorus. Furry things nine or ten feet tall began to pick over the bones of those in the seats next to them, a few deciding to suck out the marrow to savor what lay inside. Bloodstains and half-eaten bodies lay strewn about all over, and a cry for help, a cry all too familiar, all too well-known, came from the box seats. There was no time, she had to get free. She had to save him. She couldn't bear to lose him, just as she lost all the others.
She could not get free, though. Try as she might, what should have been rudimentary to escape from was holding her fast. She tried to slip her wrists out, pull at the chain for tension, and nothing worked. Meanwhile, the laughter seemed to be getting closer. The mocking titters grew louder as the mangy beast-men climbed up onto the stage. Panic set in as they closed the distance and opened their mouths and showed off their many rows of teeth, and then--
Maxine awoke drenched in her own sweat, her breathing uneven. She stared out the window into twilight, into the Tears, as she made some of her own. She made her way over to the vanity to dry her eyes, and yet she could not help to stare at herself.
"You are a fraud," her inner voice jeered. "What's all of it for, if you can't save yourself when the chips are down?"
A primal yell escapes her as the mirror shatters, the nearby chair connecting with its silvered surface. Her anger leaves her, and she is left only with sorrow and despair to offer companionship as the night dragged on.