A faint kazoo tooted in the distance.
It was mournful.
It was jazzy.
It was… heralding something.
Before anyone could interpret the emotional timbre of that kazoo solo, a fog of powdered sugar descended upon the brunchers' now-dusted memories.
The ground shook once—politely—and then with increasing passive-aggression, like a middle child who finally read their sibling's birth chart and did the math.
A curtain of croissants parted.
And from it, a figure emerged.
Tall. Stoic. Wearing a crown of artisanal jam jars and an expression like he once argued with God about mise en place and won on a technicality.
Clarissa clutched her cardigan. "Who… is that?"
Brunchaia leaned in, eyes twinkling with dangerous benevolence. "That, my sweet buttercrumbs, is the Brisanger."
"The what?"
"The Bringer of Seasonal Angst and Garnish," Brunchaia whispered, as a dramatic breeze blew a single chive across the table.
