🕯️ The Marionette’s Curse

The townspeople of Grendel’s Hollow had always been wary of outsiders, but when Maël the Puppeteer arrived with a cart full of wonders, they welcomed him with rare curiosity. His marionettes danced without touch, performed without strings, and whispered secrets that made even the crows stop cawing.

His prized creation was Liora, a pale, glass-eyed marionette with black silk hair and fingers so delicate they could braid thread. She never bowed, never broke, but only stared into the crowd with a look too knowing. Some claimed they saw her blink.

Children adored her. Old women crossed themselves. Men who mocked her performances grew silent in her presence, then disappeared altogether.

Maël swore he carved her from driftwood found on the edge of the Black Marsh. But others whispered it was no tree he shaped, it was something older. Something that bled.

Soon, Liora began performing on her own. The stage creaked at night with unseen movement. Maël awoke to find her in different poses, her head always tilted toward him.

Then came the dream, visions of strings tightening around his heart, choking his breath. In the dreams, Liora whispered in an ancient tongue, her voice like cracking bone and lullabies.

He tried to burn her once. The flames recoiled.

The town’s final night was painted red with fog and ash. Maël was found seated on stage, mouth sewn shut with fine golden thread, his eyes glassy and hollow.

And Liora? She took a bow.

To this day, Grendel’s Hollow is silent, except for the sound of soft footsteps on an empty puppet stage. Performances begin at dusk.

There is no audience.

Only the puppets.