The Illusionist

"Now be sure, ladies and gentlemen, to watch my hands closely. I don't want to fool you. I want you to know. We have here a simple deck of cards. Examine it, by all means. Observe the table, solid above and beneath." He rapped the wooden surface. It echoed.

"There is nothing up my sleeves." He rolled up his sleeves, and there was... nothing. Emptiness. It hurt to look at.

"Remember, please," said the magician, as his clothes sagged and crumpled to the floor, as his face grew translucent and his voice attenuated, "that I have never lied to you..."

The Old Standby

It is cold where they are. The warrens are full of movement, full of fur and ears and twitching noses, but cold nonetheless. They do not groom. They do not quarrel. There is nowhere to go; the warren has no exit.

At intervals, the Glove appears. It selects a rabbit at random, and they await it in frozen silence. The Chosen is both lucky and cursed. Lucky, because once above the Hat's brim, he is able to feel warmth and see light again. Cursed, because he hangs for that moment above the Hat.

The Hat, and the icy tunnels within.