Juster (jester)

He's tall. Not just in height, but in his entire, quiet figure, frozen at the entrance to the tent, like a knife stuck in the sand. His face is handsome: sharp cheekbones, long eyes, lips pursed in a perpetual smile. But his eyes never smile. Never. They look calmly, searchingly, like a psychologist in a session who's already figured you out in the first three minutes.

The suit is purple—a rich, deep, almost nocturnal shade. On the chest and sleeves are yellow panels embroidered with strange symbols: maybe maps, maybe stars, maybe tiny bells that never ring. The hat is also purple, but a different shade: lighter, like an ink stain on wet paper. The boots are long and black, with a pointed, upturned toe, like those of medieval jesters, but without a single bell. When he walks, there is silence. Only the rustle of fabric.

He's the boss of this freak show. The Freak Circus. He doesn't shout, he doesn't gesticulate—he just stands at the edge of the arena, and everyone feels who's in charge. He loves applause. He loves it when people clap specifically for him. But he never asks for it. He loves crowded places—festivals, fairs, the crowd at the entrance. Because it's easier to get lost in a crowd, even for the tallest.

He teaches what he loves: psychology, history. He speaks softly, but in a way that brings the circus to a standstill. He's kind to children. If a child is lost or crying, he'll silently take their hand, lead them to their parents, and disappear without even a thank you.

He never goes without a hat. He never takes off his boots. And he never—do you hear me?—he never stops smiling.

And no one knows whether he's a jester or a master. Or both at once.