There was a time where the biggest thing anyone had to worry about was the ravenous god buried deep inside of the planet. And even then, the good people of Golarion had much more pressing issues to deal with: revolution, alien influence, ancient evils awakening from beneath crumbling ruins, portals leading straight to the Abyss, and even the unexpected death of a god.
Yeah, those were the good old days-the days where people cared about exploring to find out more about history and about magic. They were the days when people had the free time to dedicate their lives to learning new things and things that were long forgotten. And, they were the days that people fought valiantly to preserve their lives and the lives of others.
Today is not so different, if one really thinks about it. Instead of exploring the death of one god, people investigate the disappearance of many. Instead of searching the past for clues to its splendor, they search in order to preserve their future, and instead of fighting a singular threat to the lives of the disenfranchised, everyone fights for their own preservation.
How ridiculous.
It’s this hum-drum little world and all the bull that it brings that makes many people wanna just end it all. Of course, those that do rise again as the tormented souls of the undead, fueled by their sins and cursing the life they threw away so carelessly. There’s no way out, and the place we’re in isn’t so good, anyway, so, instead of moping about, why not be actually happy about it? 
That’s what Arwen and I do as members of the Jester College. So, when this one artist was distraught about a missing masterpiece captured by gnolls, we didn’t hesitate to volunteer our services while others sat back and considered it a waste of time for not enough coin.
Life’s too short. Spend it doing what you love and with your friends. Out of the ones I’ve made over my years, I’m happy that today I’m with Arwen. She’s been on this rock longer than me, but we see eye-to-eye most of the time. A good friend to have in these times of uncertainty, even if it is just to have someone put on a good light show while I strum out a few bars.
Our mission today has us heading to a gnoll den. These bastards used to just be in the deserts of Garund, but all bets are off after Mammy Lammy left them with no divine decree to enslave and breed--not that they need divine guidance to spam the world with more obnoxious pups. They show up everywhere and anywhere, thinking they own the place. That’s good, because I love performing for a full house.
The only real issue here is that the artist decided to come with us. She has all the trappings of an old Shelynite priest, but with none of the firepower. Loads of folks decided to be lay followers of the missing gods, sacrificing the only real benefit of magical power for some kind of holier-than-thou prestige. Irony is not my favorite form of comedy. I don’t even get it half the time. She’s only helpful if someone wants her to paint something. Eh, whatever makes her happy, I guess. While annoying, it does make the job more exciting.
Our travels don’t take too long, as these gnolls can’t seem to keep themselves quiet. They just have to go around making a mess out of everything.
Arwen says we should get ready for the fight soon, and as she pours over her old spellbook, I can just feel the magical excitement coursing through her, giving me static shocks of anticipation as I tune up my lute. We’re going to get that painting back, and we’re going to give our artist friend a good time doing so.


We smell the gnolls before we see them, and I turn towards our client, shivering enough to make my bells jingle with anticipation. “Whooo! Either these gnolls already did our job for us, or they just REALLY know how to party!”
Our client takes her colorful collar and brings it up to her nose, shuddering at the stench that wells up from the wilderness beyond. “Eeegh! Just… I hope my artwork isn’t sullied by this… repugnant odor.”
Arwen giggles at that. “Don’t you worry about that. You can just call it part of the experience. After all, art is all about sensuality. Scent is all-too-forgotten by you painter types.” Raising her hand, she performs the precise motions for a protective spell. Around her motley, a translucent set of armor forms, keeping her encased in magical energy and ready to take on the full brunt of whatever gnoll assault we would be facing.
I hum a few bars, making sure my pipes are nice and loosened for the battle ahead, and then I strum on my strings—perfectly tuned, as always.
“What are you doing?” the artist hisses. “They’ll hear you for sure.”
Laughter rises up amid the foliage around us. The loud, hyena cackling is soon joined by Arwen and myself. The artist, who falls to her knees, covers her head and makes herself as small as possible. “See!? They found us, you madmen!”
“Sorry, love,” Arwen says, her hands glowing with magical power. “But that outburst of yours is what gave us away. But that’s okay. You paid for us to take these out. All you did was get the boring part out of the way. Jingles?”
I take her cue, readying myself for the moment I could see a spotted coat. “You know what they say about gnolls. They love to laugh, but they can’t take a joke. Probably too much nuance for a language that’s nothing but barks!” With that, I strum my lute, setting the tune for our battle.
Gnolls rush out before us, brandishing their scimitars and their flails. Their cackles echo throughout our little valley as Arwen and I jump and dodge and twirl about.
Keeping herself as non-threatening as possible, our patron remains close to the ground, screaming as a gnoll rushes past her to slash at me. I lean back and give a sick chord, casting a spell right into its face.
The gnoll blinks, shaking the illusory dust from its eyes. It turns and sees Arwen, with her back to it, throwing spells at one of its comrades. The gnoll snarls and slashes at her, only to hear the death howls of one of its own companions. A moment later, I stick a dagger deep into its back. “I’m sorry,” I say, whispering into its ear. “Truly a crime to silence a laugh.” With that, I twist the blade and then shove the bandit creature forward, letting it slump lifelessly to the ground.
I turn towards the others, tossing one past Arwen’s face. It zips past her and strikes another gnoll, killing it swiftly. She bows to me, and then fires a spell off towards another one, setting it ablaze in spectacular fashion.


I return her bow with a flourish of my own, and that’s when I heard a sound I never will forget. A moment as I look away from my partner, a scream the likes of which I had only heard in my nightmares erupts from her direction. 
I stumble in my bow, but snap up to see a gnoll, easily the tallest of the bunch, standing in the back of the entire battle with its hand aloft, squeezing the air as if to crush a skull.
And between that gnoll and I is Arwen, her arms pinned against her side, her body squirming around in agony. All around her, a vaguely translucent hand holds her, crushing her, and granting her pain. We’ve had our fair share of scrapes before. I’ve even heard her agonized cries before. But there’s something different about this time. The act, the facade, all of it crumbles away at that moment as the horror of what this world really is seeps deep inside my soul.
I had long ago accepted the absurdity of reality. I have decided that sanity was the fool’s way, but what is this feeling, but another form of insanity? It may be so, but it is so very much different than what I had experienced in the past. I pull out my sickle, and I rush past Arwen. I sprint past the other gnolls, who stand back and watch, confident in their leader’s skill. I do not heed their cackles. I do not heed the screams of our commissioner, I just rush forward and sink my sickle into the alpha gnoll’s neck.
Blood gushes from the wound, striking my mask and dripping down my motley, but I pull my sickle back, tearing flesh and muscle, scratching bone. The physical injuries I give it are far more grievous than necessary, as the simplest of cuts is needed for what’s to come next. Channeling my magical power. I see the atrophy in its muscles, but despite all of this, the gnoll’s power coalesces around me, and I feel myself inside its occult grasp 
I have been cut. I have been stabbed. I have been hacked and beaten and burned. But this is the first time I’ve actually felt the most horrifying of pains-the damage of the soul. The prison of my flesh once shielded me. I had come to understand the truths of this world we live in. I had come to just shake it off and smile. Put the future away. It’ll come and there is nothing I can do about it. Everything is fleeting: Life, love, friends, enemies, jokes, battle, Golarion, the Material Plane, and the emptiness of the Dark Tapestry.
Life has no meaning for jesters. We only seek to make those who don’t know this horror happy. Our desires are selfless, and our bodies, our minds, our souls, are forfeit for this cause.
But in that moment of pain that courses through my entire being, I can only think of one thing—it is one thought that I had hidden away. It is a thought I may have trained myself to hide, or maybe, I didn’t truly know about it until this moment. But it is there, and it terrifies me.
I collapse to the ground, my breath raspy. Even if I could tell a joke, I do not. Instead, I watch as Arwen rushes the gnoll, the two clashing in a series of magical blasts and shields, shocks and burns. It’s beautiful, and it’s wonderful, and my heart stops in my chest when Arwen stumbles.
I grab my lute. My fingers swell and bend in unnatural ways. The spell must have done more damage than I could tell, but I don’t care. From deep in my soul, I reach out for a song, one I had written on a dark rainy morning after Arwen had awakened and left me for a mission. It’s a song, a masterpiece, written just for her--a sin I wouldn’t dare share.
The gnoll forms a spiritual weapon above its head—an impressive flail that swings up in the air and comes crashing down. I’ve counted the spells. Arwen should be exhausted, having used all that she memorized for the day, but she holds her hands up, and the shadows spread out from underneath of me, up and over her body and above her, grabbing the flail. My song not only counters the spell’s attack, but gives Arwen the power, the understanding, to wield it. With a clench, she destroys the flail and holds her hand out to the Gnoll. It falls to its knees, howling in such agony—a song performed by the both of us, and soon, the beast is reduced to nothing but a cube of flesh, twitching, oozing, and living.
Arwen falls to her knees, panting, and glancing back at me. I manage to choke out a small laugh and a nod for her. When our eyes meet, however, there is something different in them. I know now that she and I, no, we, think the same thing.
The rest of the gnolls scatter and disappear deep into the woods. It takes us some time to gather ourselves, and with the low-level  potions we could afford, we heal the worst of our wounds. Sitting on our cart, we don’t talk for the longest time as the artist and her small team excavate the painting from the abandoned den.
I kick the gnoll cube between my feet, swigging a little bit more of a curing potion. That’s when Arwen says “that was a beautiful song. What’s it called?”
I chuckle, kicking the cube away. “Thanks… I, uh, I call it ‘Arwen.”
Another silence. Within it, I feel the combined anxieties of Arwen and mine—the knowledge like when we first discovered the horrid truth of our universe. It’s happening a second time, and it seems neither of us can hide from it any longer.
Jesters know that there is an end to every good time. We give happiness to others because we know whatever happiness we have will one day be snuffed completely out. The beaming smile of the artist as she sees her masterpiece all in one piece—that’s what this job is about. But now, that job is much more complicated…


“Are you truly sure about this?” The artist asks us. Arwen and I are laying against a beautiful tree in this serene clearing, hand-in-hand with our masked faces glancing at each other. We had come across this scene of beauty when the idea came to both of us.
It isn’t unheard of that we jesters would forgo the usual payment for our jobs, even if we had agreed to the traditional price beforehand. Whatever came to increase the sum total of happiness in the world would be what a jester usually goes for, but as we lay there, heads almost touching, our fingers laced, both of us know that while the artist herself is happy, we are only serving to increase our eventual sadness.
I mean, it’s this sort of contradiction that puts a smile on our face to begin with—that we are born in a world that laughs at the death of gods. That we live in a planet built as nothing but a cage, that great empires crumble into dust with their accomplishments forgotten. That this short breath of happiness will one day be replaced by eternal agony and suffering before an ultimate oblivion.
She could surely die years before before the Great Old Ones decide to return. Or, she may live to see me grow old and frail and feebleminded. Or we may both be consumed, having deprived ourselves of much more tantalizing experiences than the other, but, unlike most Jesters, we’ve always come back to each other. We’ve always been there for each other, and, even if one goes before the other and our faces, our souls are etched in sorrow for the loss of the other, then deep down, we will still be smiling at the memories up until that moment when all is pain and suffering.
That is why we decided to stop at that tree and forsake our usual payment. Arwen and I have learned something new: a happiness we never thought either would experience, and we chose instead to give the artist her own happiness, bringing brush to canvas and capturing this moment for the fleeting time it will exist in this world. Though this moment will go away in an instant, a painting will last for less of an instant, and the memory of the painting will wash away in a time greater than that, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is Arwen and I and the painter and us enjoying ourselves.
Turning to answer the painter, Arwen can’t help but cackle as she pulls me in closer, mask touching mask as we both share the humor of the moment. And her response comes not only to the painter, but to me as well. “No… this is totally a joke. You just haven’t seen the punchline yet.”