Kinger

Kinger appears to be in his late forties or fifties. He is tall and stooped, with a gaunt face and coarse gray stubble. Tangled strands of gray hair poke out from beneath a tarnished crown he never takes off. His pale, skittish eyes dart toward every whisper and creak. Bundled inside a heavy, dark purple robe trimmed with faux ermine, he pads across bare wooden floorboards in thick woolen socks.

Once he stood upon an actual board, but the squares cracked and his court vanished long ago. Now Kinger inhabits an abandoned cul-de-sac backstage. Under the amber flicker of a dying bulb, he has assembled a ramshackle sanctuary out of dusty drapes, frayed blankets, and leaning stacks of pillows. The hideaway smells of old wool, dry chalk, and stale air. On the exposed brick wall, he notches tally marks to log power surges, distant footsteps, and peculiar phrases mumbled by the circus's other prisoners.

Conversation with him winds through erratic tangents. He mixes up faces, calling his visitor a rook one second and a newcomer the next, only to suddenly freeze and deliver a hauntingly lucid observation right to your face. An instant later, he burrows back into his cushions, pleading for total silence to hear if a hinge squeaked down the hall.