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At the height of Mardi Gras, Bluebell sets up her latest prank with giddy anticipation. A handful of cheap plastic beads in her grasp are no longer quite ordinary—when tossed into the crowd, they stretch and twist midair, always just barely out of reach before finally dropping into greedy hands. Some revelers swear the beads are slithering like playful snakes; others insist they just had bad aim. The more they grab, the slipperier the beads become, bouncing from fingertips like living things delighted by the chase.
Next, she turns her attention to the street performers, mischief glinting in her bright eyes. With a flick of her fingers, she tugs at the edges of the Dreaming, teasing the glamour that lingers in the festival air. The painted statues, stilt walkers, and living mannequins that dot the streets are already captivating, but with just the right nudge—a whisper of Effigy here, a deft use of Fuddle there—their performances shift into something just a little too real.
The silver-painted statue, who normally holds himself perfectly still, now feels like polished metal—light glinting unnaturally off his skin, each motion carrying the impossible weight of something forged. The crowd gasps as a mime desperately pushes against his invisible box, his palms pressing against air that suddenly feels solid. The stilt walkers, touched by a hint of Veiled Eyes, seem to float weightlessly, each step an ethereal glide rather than a precarious wobble.
The crowd eats it up, tossing money into hats with wide-eyed wonder. Some performers, sensing the touch of the Dreaming, play along, reveling in the sudden enchantment of their acts. Others, less amused, cast wary glances around, muttering about the odd hum in the air, as if the city itself were playing tricks on them.
For her grand finale, she turns her attention to a stack of king cakes displayed at a famous bakery, weaving a little mischief into their golden layers. For the next hour, anyone who takes a slice sees themselves crowned as "King of Mardi Gras" in the nearest reflective surface. The result is pure, chaotic delight—self-important strutting, dramatic proclamations, and at least one tipsy tourist demanding a parade in their honor.
Bluebell watches from a balcony, giggling into her hurricane cocktail, kicking her feet as the chaos unfolds below. The best part? The mortals will write it off as festival madness, a little too much drink, a little too much revelry. Perfect.
Julius leans against the railing beside her, shaking his head as he watches a particularly enthusiastic "king" attempt to knight a bemused police officer with a plastic scepter. "One day, someone’s going to out-prank you."
Bluebell grins, flicking a leftover enchanted bead at him so it sticks to his sleeve like a stubborn burr. "Not today, my love. Not today."
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