[Verse 1] I filed through the gate with a laminated sigil, where the bards in polyblend impersonate the mythic juvenile tribunal. A cartographic con of borrowed archetypes, San and Cat in prestidigitation by way of Nickelodeon apocrypha. Their pact was second edition, all charisma checks and cafeteria theology, each wink a contested save against the archivist’s desire to footnote the room. I saw a Sokka-grade fool’s errand, but dressed as a freshman paladin with a glittering prop weapon and a thesis on affective resonance. [Pre-Chorus] Roll initiative, darling, the whole hall is a symposium of disguises. Every booth is a dungeon module, every grin a counterfeit familiar. They speak in class features, in childhood relics and borrowed HP, and the air turns to vellum when the canon starts to breathe. [Chorus] Crit fail, sweet heart, crit fail on the mask. San & Cat in the banquet maze, San & Cat, don’t ask. Hit points in the punch bowl, lore in the cheap red cup, (crit fail) (crit fail) and the whole damn myth steps up. [Verse 2] Somebody plays the ingénue like an ancient enchantment, all deadpan cadence, all chaotic benevolence, as if iCarly were a cleric school and Victorious a bardic conservatory with a minor in hexes. I’m elbow-deep in meta-ritual, watching the cosplay economy convert nostalgia into radiant damage. The vendors trade in talismans: plastic crowns, printed sigils, a fake microphone sanctified by group consensus. One kid min-maxes eyeliner like a warlock pact, another multiclasses into melodrama, and the whole crowd crits the floor with their synchronized shrine-to-shrine pilgrimage. [Pre-Chorus] Roll initiative, darling, the whole hall is a symposium of disguises. Every booth is a dungeon module, every grin a counterfeit familiar. They speak in class features, in childhood relics and borrowed HP, and the air turns to vellum when the canon starts to breathe. [Chorus] Crit fail, sweet heart, crit fail on the mask. San & Cat in the banquet maze, San & Cat, don’t ask. Hit points in the punch bowl, lore in the cheap red cup, (crit fail) (crit fail) and the whole damn myth steps up. [Bridge] I swear the dungeon master of memory kept a hidden index in the rafters, one hand on the sourcebook, one hand on the social contract. We all became a subclass of witness, awkward, glittered, half-specified, speaking in footnotes and snack-food prophecy while the con rolled past us like a gelatinous cube of adolescence. [Final Chorus] Crit fail, sweet heart, crit fail on the mask. San & Cat in the banquet maze, San & Cat, don’t ask. Hit points in the punch bowl, lore in the cheap red cup, (crit fail) (crit fail) and the whole damn myth steps up.
0/500