Humpty Dumpty and Nowhere Town

The strange visitor

The figure tilted its featureless head, a gesture that was somehow more menacing than a growl.

“I am the Audit,” it droned. “And I have come to check your books. I have come to inspect the authenticity of your delusion, Humpty. For in the boundless tapestry of the Universe, there is no greater fraud than the creature who truly believes he is the smartest one in the room.”

The figure then reached out to it's hood, revealing the obsidian face. The tarven's lamps reflected it's emotionless face. A light murmur filled the raven,as Humpty was in shock.

The Audit spoke its final, horrifying line: “And I, Humpty Dumpty, am always the smartest one in all the rooms.”

Humpty Dumpty, the un-categorizable Wonder, the god of mischief, the master of the crafty arts, finally understood. He had met a rival, a force of pure, distilled, cosmic mockery. He was face-to-face with an antagonist whose nothingness was the perfect mirror for his own invented existence, and it terrified him more than any demon or god ever could.

" What level of sorcery is this ?" Humpty asked in wonder, gazing furiously at the figure " What gave you the temerity to think you can challengee, don't tell me you're here to take my pace Mr. Audit... Or should I say, Humpty Dumpty."

The already rough-hewn interior of the Braskys Inn—a place usually reeking of perpetual spilled mead, damp leather, and the faint, lingering scent of spectral remnants—plunged instantly into a terrifying uproar. Outside, the great, rugged oaks seemed to writhe in the oppressive silence, and the owls that nested in their boughs hooted not with the rhythm of the night, but with a screeching, eerie discord, like a chorus anticipating an imminent, horrible doom. The evening breeze, which usually rattled the loose panes of the inn’s windows with cheerful vulgarity, calmed to an almost spectral halt, the air itself growing heavy and cold, as if the breath of some colossal, slumbering thing had just been withdrawn.

“Isn’t that Humpty? What in the eggshell is happening?” a Sky Biker, a towering figure whose goggles reflected the flickering torchlight like twin, molten suns, roared from the densest part of the crowd.

“Oi, Dumpty! What’s up with this clone, you got a twin now? Did you fracture in the wash?” Another Phantom Hunter—a gaunt, wiry creature whose skin was the colour of old parchment—screamed, her voice sharp with a mix of shock and morbid curiosity.

Amóge, whose patience was thinner than a pixie's wing, could no longer contain her mountainous rage. She pulled out her hunter rifle, and leveled it straight at the figure who dared to ruin her peak-hour business.

“Oi, you Fraud,” she spat, the word echoing like a gunshot, “that’s enough for the evening. Take your spectral shenanigans and your bad fashion sense elsewhere.”

The figure, an exact, unsettling mirror of Humpty Dumpty, smiled—a slow, deliberate curve that didn’t touch its bulbous, dull eyes. Its very presence seemed to drain the colour from the room, lending a sickly, moonlit pallor to the faces of the patrons. The entire tavern folks bore arms, the metallic scrape of drawn blades and c****d guns filling the unnatural silence in anticipation of the signal to pounce.

Humpty Dumpty, however, was already in motion. In a flash of a millisecond—a moment where he calculated risk, reputation, and the potential for a truly flashy professional move—he decided.

“Pretty Amóge,” he said, his voice a smooth, calming balm over the roaring tension. “It’s alright. My friends, please be calm, I've got this.”

Humpty waved a dismissive hand, a casual gesture that nonetheless commanded respect. It was a testament to the strange, charismatic power he had built—a power woven from equal parts genuine charm, baffling skill, and the sheer audacity of his legendary scams—that his gesture seemed to instantly quell the riotous uproar. They might be a crew of volatile miscreants, but they were his crew.

He turned to his double, tipping his polished, lacquered derby hat with a flourish.

“Mr. Audit,” Humpty began, his tone mockingly polite, “can I call you Dumpty, you know,just for familiarity’s sake? What’s your take, pal?”

The doppelgänger chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound like bones rattling in a coffin. It winked its unsettling, bulgy eyeballs, and spoke, its voice unnervingly calm, possessing a chilling, bureaucratic smoothness that was far more sinister than any roar.

“Dumpty, you say? Why not I be Humpty, and you be Dumpty?”

Humpty placed a hand on his hip, feigning offense. “You know, given that you’re a mirror image, I’d assume a certain level of intellectual, you know, mirroring. Because the Dumpty in Humpty doesn’t mean dumb, per se. It’s an ancient, honourable name, derived from the Old Realm term for ‘magnificent, tragically flawed visionary.’ Though, to be fair, you might be the exception, mate.”

The Audit—for that was its chosen moniker—froze. Its unsettling smile evaporated, replaced by a deep, terrifying frown. It glared menacingly at Humpty, who was beaming in what the Audit clearly perceived as a lame, utterly inappropriate joke. The ominous power radiating from the figure intensified, making the air around it shimmer.

“Make no mistake, Humpty,” the Audit’s voice dropped, acquiring a gravelly, metallic edge. “I hate you. I loathe your guts with absolute, cosmological passion. You see, my friend, I am not merely a phantom. I am a strange visitor from the Sphere of Phantoms, the very apex of spectral integrity. And I am here—I, the greatest arbiter of destiny in all the planes—to challenge the greatest Fraud that has been tarnishing my good and polished name across the realms.”

“Hey, mate, you’re a phantom, eh? Fresh meat out of the abbatoir, I see,” a scarred, hulking Phantom Hunter grunted. Ozzy, a veteran whose face looked like a topographic map of old battle scars. He bared a massive, notched axe, hanging it casually by his shoulder, ready to deploy.

“Careful now, mate. I’m not the type of prey you wish to predate on, if you value your head so much ,Ozzy.”

The Audit turned its spectral glare, focusing it with terrifying accuracy on the seasoned hunter. Ozzy, a ferocious veteran who had fought Reapers to a standstill, was visibly shook. How did this spectral upstart know his real name—the name he only used when signing official hunting contracts with the Crown?

The Audit returned its chilling attention to Humpty. “So, Humpty. To set the cosmic ledger straight, I’m here to challenge you, my self-appointed Arch-Nemesis, to a Trial by Combat. Do you accept?”

The tavern erupted yet again, but this time in fierce disagreement. Everyone knew Humpty wasn’t the battle type; his strength lay in wits, misdirection, and a bewildering confidence that made adversaries pause long enough for him to escape.

“Hey, Humpty, just say the word, and we’ll be done with this clown! I’ve got enough spectral rope here to bind him to a tax audit for the next millennium!” Grizzy, whose patience had worn thin, roared from behind Humpty, thumping his fist on a nearby table.

Humpty, unfazed, only smiled and tipped his hat further.

“It’s fine, my old friend,” he said, his eyes glittering. He turned to the Audit. “Hey, Dumpty,” he corrected, emphasis heavy on the nickname. “I accept your challenge. Sound the bells.”

The Audit reached into its voluminous, black-as-pitch satchel, and what it pulled out was not a weapon, but something far more insidious. Decks of cards flew into the air, not merely thrown, but launched and guided by a palpable force of arcane energy. They arced and swirled like a flock of frantic, doomed ravens, arranging themselves with impossible, magnetic precision on a polished slab of obsidian the Audit conjured onto a nearby barrel. They were no ordinary cards. They were the Reverse Tarot, the infamous Fortune Bearers, a divination deck of ruin from their world.

“Humpty Dumpty, shall I thrill you to a game of Fortune and Destiny?”

Humpty’s usually steady heart sank, but only a fraction. He knew the Reverse Tarot. It wasn't just a parlor trick or a simple divination card. It was a Dark Rite—a magical dual where two or more participants wagered not gold, but their very fate. If one party outmaneuvered the other in the game , the terrible fate inscribed on the pulled card would be inflicted upon the loser, often with immediate and gruesome results. It was a terrible way to settle scores or disputes,but he wasn't going to default—not now, with his esteemed, murderous spectators watching his every move.

“I shall participate,” Humpty declared, planting his feet firmly. “Let’s begin, you glorious, second-rate fraud.”

Every patron in the Braskys Inn, from Amóge wiping down her counter to Ozzy sheathing his axe, suddenly became absorbed. They settled down, forming a tight, expectant circle around Humpty and the Audit. The air was thick with the scent of fear, spectral magic, and the deep, heady excitement of a high-stakes supernatural gamble.

The Audit swept its hand over the deck, the cards flipping and settling with a soft, ominous thwack.

“Here are the rules,” the Audit began, its voice echoing with the authority of a vengeful bureaucrat signing a death warrant. “The deck holds ten cards, impartially shuffled by the deepest magic, ensuring perfect, randomized fate. There are five unique figures, each appearing twice. The figures are: The Siren, The Invunche, The Clown, The Hanged Man, and The Banshee.”

He paused, letting the dark significance of the figures sink in.

“For every card picked, the pulling party shall present the image on the card by speaking a metaphor, riddle, or cryptic description. The other party must then decipher which of the five figures is on the card’s face. If you pass, the game continues, and you may make a counter-move, pulling a card yourself. If you lose, the figure on the card shall manifest into the tavern, bursting terrifyingly into reality, and the curse of the Reverse Tarot shall be inflicted upon you. The nature of the curse is not fixed, but tailored to the figure—a fate far worse than simple death.”

Stinky, Humpty's perpetually quaking Henchman, who was hiding under a corner table, emitted a high-pitched whimper and promptly fainted.

The Audit’s smile returned, wider and colder than before. “However, deep within the card deck, there is a single, blessed item: a Bypass Card. Should you be lucky enough to obtain this, you can nullify the curse of the Reverse Tarot—once. Crucially: No outside interference. If anyone—friend, foe, or disgruntled barmaid—interferes, the full, unbridled curse of the entire deck shall be unleashed upon the defying individual, binding their soul to the cards forever. So, Humpty Dumpty, let’s curse each other to damnation.”

Humpty felt a mixed state of doubt and a perverse, intoxicating certainty for the first time in years. This wasn't a scam; this was an existential showdown. But the very concept—a deadly guessing game of metaphors—fired a spark of pure, reckless brilliance in his mind.

“Sounds like a plan, Dumpty,” Humpty said, his eyes now glinting with professional enthusiasm. “But before we start, a quick question for the Audit of the Sphere of Phantoms: Given you're such a grand arbiter of truth, why are you here playing a game of lies and riddles? Bit of an internal contradiction, isn't it? Just wondering what that note says on your celestial expense report.”