A/N: Content warning: Mentions of death, grief, alcohol.
The Tomewlakers helped Faust carry their dead back to town.
Wes and Jazz were the only children. There were no kids or teens to be seen, and this made Faust seem even sadder a place.
The men and women of Faust drank themselves silly in mourning their lost. Byrnhilda joined them readily in the alcohol.
When Wes saw the food offered at the bar, he realized he hadn't eaten in who knows how long. Not since before he'd met Danny in the cemetery. He had no clue how long ago that had been. According to Amity Park, it had been a month, plus however long he and Jazz had been in the Priestess' tower, then the Doorless Room, and now Faust. Wes' stomach didn't growl or pang at the sight of the food.
"I know I should feel starved, but I don't," he said to Jazz and Byrnhilda beside him.
"Starved?" asked Jazz, bewildered.
"Yeah. I haven't eaten in, at least, days, if not over a month!" he replied.
"Eaten?"
"Yeah. Are you alright? You don't sound okay."
"Uh, yes. Just, death, you know. Scary." She didn't sound scared to Wes, but what did he know about how Jazz deals with fear or death?
"You must be hungry, too, right?" he said, trying to help her any way he could, especially after almost, maybe, possibly dying by immolation and then having a screaming match with her. "You should eat. Here," he said, handing her a roll.
She took it. After looking at it, then around at the other patrons, who themselves were grieving via food, she put it into her mouth, whole. Alarmed, Wes gaped at her, until she smiled at him placatingly, and chewed.
Satisfied, Wes ate his own roll, turning to Byrnhilda."Uh, so, Byrnnhilda, do you, uh, also have mimics in your… Sealed Sanctuary?"
"Mimics? What are these?" she asked, mouth full of meat.
"Little shape-shifting creatures. They pretend to be an inanimate object until you touch them, then they try to eat you. We have a number of them pretending to be books in our Doorless Room."
"Hm, no. I have none of those. Perhaps they escaped with the last Tomewalkers who used your Sanctuary," she guessed.
"You mean, before us? What- how'd they leave? How do we leave? How did you get put in your Sanctuary?"
"Chariot." she said simply.
"The Chariot? Mr. Snappy Finger? With the portals? How do we find him?"
"You don't. He finds you."
"Who is he?"
"He is a cosmic horror. He runs games throughout the universe, makes his own worlds. He wrote the books, made the Sanctuaries. Then he finds people to put in them. They, we, can only leave one of two ways: We do what he wants, or we die."
Wes gaped at her, mind racing. Cosmic horror? Chariot hadn't looked it. Wes said as much to Byrnhilda.
"You have seen mimics and gold blood and Stingy Jack and magic books. Is it so hard to believe someone who made all that could make himself less noticeable?" said Jazz, for the first time in awhile.
"I guess that makes sense," admitted Wes. He looked at Byrnhilda. She was facedown on the table, halfway through a whole turkey, fast asleep.