Phantasmagoria

Bensiabel is blinded momentarily as he stumbles into the tent. He appears to be in some absence of space until he realizes that everything within the tent is white. Crystals, clear as water, and sparkling like dew and sugar, erupt from the sides of the tent, creating such a canopy of glassy spikes over a path of flat white stones. The crystals are easily as tall as him, though some are even taller. They emit a gossamer glow, as though each holds its own star. The vision is so light and spectral he cannot be certain it is real. Yet the air smells of ice and sugar, and it is sweet to breathe, crisp in his lungs and throat. Bensiabel is hesitant to touch the crystals; they appear so fragile that they might shatter beneath his touch, but they are hard and smooth under his hands.

It is the sensation of half-remembered dreams. Fantasies conceived in fragmented moments of lucidity.

The phantasmagoria seems too sensational, too luscious to exist within a circus tent. It is an entirely different world. Yet Bensiabel senses something deep and ancient beneath it, some arcane power. 

He wants to ask Sage about it, but she would not know. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay