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| Chronicles of Athylon; Act I: The Rose of Rotharia | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 13 2013, 11:59 PM (3,391 Views) | |
| Ser Falcon of the Seventh Stream | Nov 15 2013, 05:33 PM Post #11 |
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Stagehand
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The room was dark, save for a single candle flickering upon a desk. It illuminated a piece of paper, and the hand that wrote upon it. The script was elegant in its display. Spencerian script. The hand lifted a quill from an inkwell, and began to write. 'Dearest Father and Mother, How are you? As you well know I've been traveling for some time, and I'd like to apologize for the length of time it has been between my last letter sent. Though as you well know, my line of work keeps me rather busy and on the move. Speaking of which, I've just arrived last night in Avareux. I wouldn't say it's the best place I've had the pleasure of visiting, but the city is certainly lively. While walking to the Inn in the town square, I overheard some people talking about a performance that is supposed to be happening this evening. I think that I might attend it. I might even pick up a souvenir for the youngsters if it's a good one! I've also heard a disturbing rumor, a bird flying too close to the sun and lost its wings. In its wake, a shadow cast where it once flew. Silly, is it not? Though I've heard many a tale like this one before, this one stood out. Again, I want to apologize. This time though, for you know what. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. If not now, if not in fifty years, then I can only ask that it be some day. With nothing in my heart for you but love, Zei' After finishing the message, the person in the dark room stood. The stool they sat upon was pushed back, and an athletic silhouette stood. No taller than 5'7 from the looks of things. Their stride long, and each step purposeful as they approached the window, grasped the curtains, and parted them slightly.She reeled back some, eyes squinting at the change in light. Though soon, everything become normal. It was the afternoon, and already the streets below were abuzz with people. Her hair is bursting with natural waves and curls and cascaded around her face from a side part. Both sides were pulled back into a loose tousled chignon, giving her a rather fancy appearance, despite what short hair she had to work with. Though she'd preferred to wear something simpler, like just pulling her hair in a bun or a ponytail, there was business that had to be done, and business required a proper image. A gloved hand reaches up, stroking at a scar just slightly off center from her chin. A quick glance is given to to the bow and quiver resting against the wall, with a sheathed blade beside it. Though she'd prefer to head out with both, it wouldn't seem like it would be possible this evening. Especially with where she was going. Once the letter dries, she places it in an envelope and seals it with a bit of wax. A ring with a sun insignia is pressed into it, giving it a unique shape. She lifts it to her mouth to blow upon it once, then sets the ring upon the desk. Drawing a cloak around her shoulders and pulling the hood up, she departs from the room but only after locking the door behind her. A moment to descend the stairs, and she makes her way out into the street. A glance is given to both ways before she heads off to find the nearest messenger center. |
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| Wanderlust | Nov 15 2013, 09:00 PM Post #12 |
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The Sleeping Soul
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"Stop! Thief!" A bearded young man in tattered rags bolted away from the market street as fast as his legs would carry him, a small burlap sack hugged tightly to his chest as a red-faced merchant shouted after him. Three blue-cloaked Avareuxian city guards standing watch over the merchant stalls immediately grabbed their spears and charged after him, shouting commands and obscenities that were ignored. He dashed away across the cobblestone streets, passing a dozen more stalls and wide-eyed men and women who hurried to get out of his way, before ducking into a narrow alleyway between an alchemist's shop and a messenger center. The thief had not anticipated being caught in the act, but he had prepared for the possibility regardless. He scampered up a pile of abandoned boxes and barrels he had pushed into place shortly before his attempted heist and pulled himself up onto the roof with surprising dexterity, collapsing his makeshift staircase with a swift kick at the same moment the guards poured into the alleyway. "Sorry, boys," he announced with dramatic flair, dropping into a theatrical bow at the edge of the roof. Despite his bushy beard, the boy didn't sound much older than a child... or particularly masculine, for that matter. "It seems you've once again been outwitted by none other than Dick Fitzwell the Dirkthruster! I wish you luck next time, I really do, but now I escape with my prize into the-" His words died on the tip of his tongue as a crossbow bolt whizzed past his face, missing his nose by inches. Shit shit shit, you fuckin' idiot, of -course- there's guards stationed on the rooftops today, didn't Ruezann teach you to prepare for anything? He quickly waved the guards farewell and darted off across the flat rooftops of the market street, ducking low to dodge another bolt fired in his direction as he did. Despite lacking the wits the good gods gave a turnip, "Dick" did have the gift of speed - and the rooftops of Avareux were a second home to him. He leapt from roof to roof with deft footwork, navigating towards the city square and leaving the guards far behind him, then ducked behind a chimney and jumped down onto an overhang covered in plants. Luckily, he was a tiny thing, and it held his weight. From there it was a simple matter of dropping down and slipping into the nearest alley, and he quickly tore off his wig, beard, and tattered rags, leaving short blonde hair, a smooth chin, and the simple traveler's tunic "he" wore underneath. Alexandra Lerender strolled casually into the square with a victorious smile, the burlap sack slung over her shoulder. The Twin Mask Ensemble were preparing for their big show that night, and she found her brother right where she knew she would. "Ssseethh," she said loudly, making a point to ensure her voice was as grating as possible. If there was one thing she loved more than swashbuckling heroics and epic getaways, it was annoying her dear brother... not that that took much effort compared to the other two. "I brought you lunch!~" She pulled out one of her pilfered prizes from the sack - a shiny red apple - and lobbed it at him. "Catch," she said, a second too late. It bounced off the back of his head, plopped onto the ground, and rolled away across the cobblestones and underneath one of the seats. As Seth turned to face her, rubbing his head and sighing in irritation, she placed her hands on her hips and leaned forward chidingly. "Aww, you wasted it. And I went and got it just for you." "... Alex, I'm trying to test the acou-" "O-ho! Are you ogling Ellisen again?" She spotted the dark-haired actress standing on the stage set up at the center of the square, and gave her an overenthusiastic wave. Ellisen only stared at her, blank-faced. "Mhm, I don't blame you, you lazy lecher. I wish -I- got paid to stare at her. You better make your move soon or I just might." "Isn't there anything you're supposed to be doing? Lady Harmon is coming and-" "Nope, nothing! My life sucks, doesn't it?~" She gave him an impish grin, then suddenly hugged him - tight. Much too tight. Intentionally so. "... buuut I know when I'm not wanted," she said with a fake pout, mischief in her bright blue eyes. She fished out another apple from the sack - those were all there were inside of it, other than her stashed disguise - and shoved it into his hands with a smile. "Good luck and all. Navi's gonna have your head if there's another mistake. No pressure!" She turned on her heel and wandered off towards The Phantom Froth, where the rest of the Twin Mask had gathered - perhaps there she would find some entertainment. |
| A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. | |
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| Deleted User | Nov 16 2013, 11:58 AM Post #13 |
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Deleted User
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Silversteel rested upon one of the numerous guard towers dotting the cityscape of Avareux, his mask resting beside him upon the shingles as he soaked in the rich, glowing late summer sun. His eyes roved over the rooftops below, monitoring the movements of the guards; he wondered if, somehow, all the extra security was just for them. If so, it was a touching sentiment. "Stop! Thief!" The cry rang over the hustle and bustle at the market below, drawing Silversteel's eye to a commotion in the streets. Well, there goes any notion of relaxing. With that the swordsman scooped up his mask, sliding it comfortably over his face with a sly smirk. Silversteel stood, brushing off his long, crimson duster coat; he adjusted the cuffs, aligned his hat properly, aligned his bandoleer and watched the thief dart away from the market stall. A market stall? Really? So much for the whole 'rob from the rich part' From off of his belt the roofgazer would produce a small bar, no larger than a forearm. It was a simple tool resembling nothing more than a crowbar bent at one end in to a hook and threaded like a screw at the other. With a simple twist he locked it in to a brace worn under his jacket cuff and started his decent from the roof, slipping by the otherwise OCCUPIED guards. He bolted across the first rooftop, attempting to keep time with the thieving rascal, feeling alive in the pursuit. On a roof below the thief, believing 'himself' free began to make a speech, mocking the guards for their 'poor luck' and perhaps hinting at their incompetence, "It seems you've once again been outwitted by none other than Dick Fitzwell the Dirkthruster! I wish you luck next time, I really do, but now I escape with my prize into the-" Silversteel looked below him to observe a crossbowman leveling a shot at 'the Dickthruster' He let out a sigh and leapt upon the would be marksman, driving him down on to the roof with the sound of shattering tile, his shot going wild. "Oh, pardon me, dreadfully sorry my good man." Silversteel jested, picking himself up and brushing the mess away from his coat. "He has an accomplice! Get 'im!" Came a cry from one of the other guards as two lackies stepped forward, dropping their crossbows and reaching for sidearms. A sidelong glance told Silversteel that 'the Dickthruster' had gotten away. He peered back to the two guardsmen, pointing at himself in mock disbelief. "Who? Me?" He asked, smirking behind the mask, watching one of the guards rush at him, He blocked the swing with the hook at his wrist, dragging the swing wide and offering a mumbled apology as his knee met with the loins of the unfortunate guardsman. "How dreadful, I think you should lie down" He muttered, shaking his head as the guard toppled. "Anyways, gentlemen... I'm afraid I have to catch up with that thief you all LOST. Tata." With a simple tug at a 'loose thread' at his belt a small smoke bomb fell out of a pouch at Silversteel's belt, covering his flight from the remaining guard... -------------------------------- Silversteel crept along the rooftops, tailing his target closely until she neared the 'Phantom Froth' leaping down in front of her like a bird of prey upon it's mark, "Apples? Really? And that speech, Alex... Why the speech? At least wait until you are clear. Now I have to wear a different mask for tonight's show, lest the poor man who's future children I slapped about should know my visage." He gave a sly laugh, patting the footpad on the shoulder, "Still, most fun I have had since our arrival, you really are a bad influence on me." |
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| Maria | Nov 16 2013, 02:32 PM Post #14 |
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Best Avatar Award 2013
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The boudoir was silent and lit with a single candle. It cast dim, flickering light over the flowery landscape paintings and ornate candelabras that adorned the walls. It used to the Dowager Duchess’s room, given as a wedding present from the late Duke to his young bride. Now it was Priscilla’s. It was truly a dazzling room, full of full-length mirrors, embroidered silk cushions and upholstery, gilded furniture, and crystal chandeliers. Priscilla Harmon sat motionless in the darkened room in front of her dressing table, her breathing slow but shallow. She stared without seeing at the neatly arranged rows of jewels and ornaments that she was expected to put on for her public appearance tonight. Her ash blonde hair, usually pulled into an elegant bun at the base of her neck, spilled down her back in a tangled mess. Her face betrayed no emotion, but despite the warmth of the room, her shoulders started to tremble. A loud knock on the door made her jump. “My lady, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we must depart soon. The performance is starting in an hour.” A lady in waiting called from behind the closed door. Priscilla, as the future Duchess of Avareux, was expected to be the biggest patron of the arts in the land and to attend the performances of the many ensembles and acting troupes that wandered the land in order to show support. Priscilla quickly stood up and crossed the room to open the door. “Of course. Come in Emmanuelle, you must help me fix my hair.” Emmanuelle was a girl of seventeen, a distant cousin of Priscilla’s from a lesser branch of House Harmon. Although Emmanuelle was one of the few friends Priscilla still had in this castle ever since her mother’s condition took a turn for this worse, Priscilla was sure that the girl reported to the Duchess. Emmanuelle stepped in and looked into Priscilla’s face with concern. “Is all well my lady? You look pale.” “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” Priscilla said, turning away and taking a seat the dressing table. As Emmanuelle combed the tangles out of Priscilla’s hair, Priscilla thought of her mother. Since her brother Raoul’s death a year ago from a hunting accident, the Duchess’s health was on a slow decline. The whole duchy had only just come out of mourning for their future Duke when it became clear that the Dowager Duchess would not last another six months. Before her Raoul’s death, her mother rarely called upon Priscilla, much preferring to spend her days with her son. Her son was the joy and light of her life, not Priscilla. It was grief for her son that was killing her just as much as the pox that ravaged her insides and gave her no rest. Now, it was necessary for Priscilla to meet with her mother on a regular basis to prepare her to rule. Her brother had received years of grooming from his mother and her advisors, but Priscilla merely had less than a year of training. Their meetings were terse and uncomfortable. By the way they acted around each other, no one would have ever guessed that the two were mother and daughter. They didn’t even look alike. Priscilla had the fair skin and white-blonde hair of her father, not the tan skin and dark curly hair of her mother. Priscilla stood tall before the floor-to-ceiling length mirror. Her face was rouged and her hair was adorned with jewels and pulled into its usual elegant bun. Her blue silk gown caught the light and shimmered slightly. Emmanuelle placed a simple but elegant gold diadem on her head. Around her neck was a choker bearing the crest of House Harmon. She looked every inch like the Duchess she was going to become. Priscilla shuddered slightly. She put on her cloak. As Priscilla made her way out to the carriage with her small entourage of ladies in waiting and guards, a face in a window in the North Tower peered out at her. As she climbed into the carriage, Priscilla paused and looked up towards the castle, and saw the face in the window, a tiny speck in the darkness of the castle, staring at the carriage. Though Priscilla couldn’t make out the person’s features, she always could feel her mother’s penetrating gaze on her. Priscilla inclined her head slightly and got into the carriage. |
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| arrogantRooster | Nov 16 2013, 06:32 PM Post #15 |
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Stagehand
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The light was quickly fading when Damian finally stepped out of the recovery ward, the sun a broken orange yolk on the edge of the horizon spilling its contents across the darkening purple sky. The bouncer from the tavern had taken an hour to regain consciousness after he had been carried here. Aside from an extremely minor case of retrograde amnesia limited to what had happened immediately before he was struck, the man was fine. Damian glanced up at the rapidly descending sun and took off at a full sprint, the metal plates that composed his armor softly clacking together with every step. He hated being late. Another reason that his transfer to Avareux had been called for was the expected appearance of the Duchess' daughter at tonight's performance. It was supposed to be a surprise, but rumors often spread quickly in towns like these. He doubted there was anyone left in Avareux who wasn't aware that she would be in attendance. In order to ensure her complete safety, her escort had been beefed up; Damian had been assigned as an extra to accompany her to the performance. He slid to a stop next to her waiting carriage short of breath and muscles aching for relief, but most importantly, on time. The guardsmen already present acknowledged him with brief glances and nods. Damian turned as they all suddenly stiffened at attention, signaling the arrival of Lady Harmon. He bowed to her in respect and took up his position in front of the carriage as the assembled guards stepped into formation with practiced ease. With a crack of the reins and the squealing of the carriage's wheels, they began to move. |
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| Samus | Nov 16 2013, 06:44 PM Post #16 |
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The Guardian
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Samus Orelian picked at the meat between his teeth as he leaned back against the oak tree that dominated the small clearing he and Brother Martin had chosen to spend the night. Martin sat nearby and Samus observed the shepherd once again. Brother Martin had been the man that had brought Samus into the Order of Saint Alerion, the man that had fed him when he was starving. After fleeing Valencia at barely fifteen, Samus had walked across most of Rotharia, stealing from markets and working on farms to pay his way. Brother Martin had come across Samus after he had been exiled from another farm for seducing another farmer’s daughter. Samus smiled as he thought back on that time. He had been full of the youthful vigor that still coursed through his veins and, were it not for the lack of food in his belly, may well have never even tried to steal the Shepherd’s purse of silver. “Remember when we first met?” He asked Martin across their campfire. “Haha, aye I do.” Martin’s wide stomach wobbled as he chortled. The shepherd was as wide as he was tall, and Samus would never have believed he spent his life wandering across Rotharia, recruiting for and spreading the word of the Order of Saint Alerion. “You tried to rob me.” “I was hungry.” “And the Order fed you.” Samus laughed at the older man’s piety. “Yep!” Samus burped loudly as he helped himself to more of the roasting rabbit. “And here I am, five years later, eating rabbit in the wild.” “You could have been a crusader by now lad, that’s what Lucia always said.” “Lucia’s an idiot.” Samus said bitterly. Lucia Rosselyn had been the crusader that had trained Samus when he first came to Corvail. When Martin had discovered that Samus was the son of Rotharia’s infamous Markus Orelian he had brought him to Corvail to join the Order and attempt the trials. Samus had protested from the off, it had never been his wish to become a warrior like his father. Too often had his father put duty before those that he loved. Samus would never do that, he would never become that. Regardless, Samus was brought before the trails. The trials had not gone well for Samus. Again and again Lucia Rosselyn vouched for him, pushed his name forward to the Archon Council for consideration and again and again he let her down. Samus was good, Lucia had told him that, but he had simply never tried. He failed every trial brought before him. He was knocked down in the arena and would not get up. He was pushed in order to push back, but he never did. Lucia was always left to simply apologise for her disciple’s lack of will and purpose. “Lucia had faith in you.” Martin said after a brief silence. “She’d lost it by the end.” Samus said as he lit his pipe from a piece of wood in the fire. In the end, Samus and Lucia argued to the point that Lucia beat him herself. With sword drawn, she had attacked him, hoping, burning for a reaction. She knocked him to the ground and ordered him to get up. When he did not, Samus was returned to Brother Martin. Samus thought he would be simply leaving the Order, but instead was assigned to the Shepherds. He had been with Martin in Rotharia ever since. After a few years wandering, Samus had become accustomed to the lifestyle of the Shepherds and was enjoying the life. He leant back against the tree and drank from the wineskin that hung his waist in place of the sword that swung at his fathers. Now, as he and Martin neared the city of Avareux, he felt no pressure, no thirst for battle and he was assured that there was no chance of turning out like his father. Perfection. |
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| Wanderlust | Nov 17 2013, 10:36 PM Post #17 |
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The Sleeping Soul
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A few hours had passed and the daylight was beginning to die as the rest of the Twin Mask Ensemble finally made their way toThe Phantom Froth to gather before their performance. One and all they came, alone or in pairs: there was Felicia Dowd, steadfast captain of the Crimson Rose; Agrias Terel, the ever-aloof head of the roustabouts; Auseil Valiquette, mustachioed master of coin; Rillian Windermere, hawk-eyed sharpshooter; Evelyn Lovelace, red-haired and beautiful; Imirk Ornstein, the very eccentric and very drunk piano virtuoso; Jacob and Sarah Avett, swashbuckling husband and wife; even Molly and Noah, two orphans too young to be there, who were among Ruezann of the Triumvirate's newest apprentices. Others still poured in every hour. Only Felicia's first mate Tuomas Bastriel had stayed behind with a skeleton crew to stand watch over the Crimson Rose. The Twin Mask drank and laughed and sang as the hours before their performance whittled away, until finally Thaeran Rochester slammed his pint down and climbed up onto one of the tavern's tables with an enormous grin on his face."Six years!" he shouted proudly, his words carrying over the drunken din, and the rest of the Twin Mask shouted the words back at him, raising their drinks into the air. "Six years ago today the Twin Mask was born in this very city - and what began as a merry mob of misfits has become one of the greatest ensembles ever born of this country! Who won Lady Marcia d'Aurea's heart with their rendition of The War of the Three Queens, hm? We did! Who sunk the black ship of Captain Bastriel Bloodletter off the coast of Saerotha? We did! And who, tonight, will charm the bloomers off of Lady Priscilla with a legendary performance, forever winning the love and adoration of their home province's noble House Harmon?" "We will!" they shouted - though a few just rolled their eyes and smiled. "You're goddamned right we will. The zazz will flow. And as you all better know by now, we'll be doing a classic and favorite of Avareux - one that has been, ahem, improved through Navitia D'Taune's famously unique flair: The Man in the Crimson Mask! Silversteel will be playing the title role, and Ellisen the heroine, but you all need to be at your best tonight if this thing's going to be a success. That square will be full to bursting with our audience, and they'll be up on the rooftops too. We'll be surrounded by the most frightening thing this world has to offer: rabid fans. So, to our security crew, you'll be just as important as us artists are for once! But I don't need to tell the legendary Karia Morsenia that twice, do I?" "But oh, where is our other fearless leader," Rillian called out in a dramatically bored voice. It was obvious Thaeran had rehearsed this with him ahead of time. "By the Six, you're right!" Thaeran replied in mock surprise. "It seems Ruezann has yet to make his appearance, and there's less than an hour before the show! What say you all? Shall we summon him with a song?" He stretched his arms out theatrically, giving the room a sweeping glace, and Rillian grabbed a rosewood lute leaning up against the wall and handed it to him. A few cheered, a few groaned, and from behind the counter of the tavern a small voice shouted "spoony fuckin' bard", but the moment Thaeran's fingers brushed against the strings of the lute, the door of The Phantom Froth creaked open. "I'm afraid that won't be necessary," the silvery voice from the doorway said as the strummed notes died away. Despite being the founder of the Twin Mask Ensemble, Ruezann was extraordinarily ordinary, as if he were a man the gods had handcrafted to be overlooked. He was of early middle age, average height, average build, dressed in simple traveler's garb, and had light brown skin that suggested he could have originated anywhere from southern Rotharia to Al-Shahar to Sakharvos. His only distinctive physical characteristics were his faded lilac eyes, the thin white scar that ran down across his left cheek, and the peculiar fact that the top half of his right ear was missing. Elsewhere, these features might have made him out of place; in the land of pomp and circumstance, he was condemningly normal. One would not guess by looking at him that he was one of the most infamous thieves and talented playwrights that Rotharia had ever seen, and that was the way he liked it. And yet despite all this, there was a presence to him, one that made them all recognize who he was the moment he appeared. "Remember when you go out there tonight that we are artists as well as entertainers," he told them. "Artistry and entertainment - the most legendary performances never had one without the other. Navitia writes her plays well, but a perfect script means nothing without the actors to breathe life into them; everything we've learned these past six years will be put to the test tonight. If we pull this off, it'll be the start of a new era for the Twin Mask, so get out there and give the people of Avareux everything they're asking for and more. But even as you bask in applause, remember that, above all, we do this for ourselves: to free the stories and the feelings hidden inside of us, begging to be released. Nothing is so cathartic as art - it cleanses, purifies, and revitalizes the soul, and it makes the Twin smile upon us." He paused, and a smile of his own played at his lips. "But earning a bit of fame and fortune in the process doesn't hurt either, does it?" With a final cheer, they poured out of The Phantom Froth and into the streets of Avareux, making their way towards the city square, where the crowds were already beginning to assemble en masse. It was the largest audience that had ever gathered for one of their performances, but they were ready. The Twin Mask Ensemble had come home. |
| A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. | |
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| Archbass | Nov 19 2013, 04:03 AM Post #18 |
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The Architect
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The three stagehands Fraye, Cyrus, and Baragos would normally have far less to do behind the scenes; often in a show, all Cyrus had to do was help fasten the curtain ropes, Fraye had to exclusively help with costume changing (a task more strenuous than it sounds), and Baragos with ushering, and often the three of them were required to be intoxicated much unlike their acting colleagues. The duchess's presence required them to learn to sober up through pure force of will (and enough water to drown a mastiff), and to take on a lot more duties. That being said, they took Thaeran's toasting in stride, and Ruezann's instructions to heart...and promptly made themselves scarce underneath the flurry of last-minute preparations. Really, the last thing Fraye said before the whole of the Ensemble was swept into the flurry of the performance was that she regretted not punching the nearest authority figure in the nose. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was more than what Navitia could have hoped for. The moment she opened the curtains, the lights set up behind the stands shined over her stage. The stage behind her framed its curtains in pastel shades of red, crimson turning to pink under the lights. The wavy forms framing the stage tapered to the shape of a pendulum, pointing towards center-stage, that swung slightly in the wind from side to side, but otherwise remained motionless. Wooden constructions of the streets of Old Avareux lined the edges of the stage, with even more behind the curtains, ready to be rolled out when the spotlights were turned off. The edge of the stage was lined with shields of all colors and coats of arms of the old provinces. In their center stood the crimson shield of the titular hero of The Man in the Crimson Mask, the prominent crimson mask splayed over its white crest. The rugs had been lain out strategically--the pattern matching intricate flora that wrapped around conspicuously uncovered sections of the stage, the trapdoors. Thaeran would be proud of all the zazz. It was a good thing Navitia had assigned him to the bandstand, for his songs would serenade the masses tonight. From her place on the stage she could see the precise arrangement of the Band of Three. Ornstein towards center-stage had finally sobered up enough to keep his tophat straight and his fingers precise. On stage-left Cyanne Soothestring would not have stood out had it not been for a bit of light cast overneath her long, dark, blue hair, and the glint of the embroidery on her shining blue silk dress piercing the shadows beneath her. Her hands gingerly fell in place over her harp. Towards stage-right Thaeran plucked away while tuning his guitar. Everyone was in place -- although Thaeran would be able to move on account of his instrument not being immobile. Ornstein flashed Navitia a smile and a thumbs up. In front of Navitia, the crowds had arrived in full force; the guest of honor was very easy to spot. Lady Priscilla -- in all her splendor, having made her way to her private seat--towards the top, facing center-stage; the best seat in the improvised ampitheatre, fit for royalty, for Navitia could arrange any detail of the staging and blocking to be noticable from that seat, while the decor flanking the curtains kept certain backstage activity away from ever-prying, ever-disbelieving eyes. Under the spotlight she was home, like the Ensemble itself to Avareux. She wore her signature makeup--the pinkish haze of her foundation masking her palid skin, and the hint of blush only feigned bashfulness she never felt on the stage. She held in her left hand her cane--orbed and pearl at its head, and ebony at the shaft. In her right hand she only wore her white glove. The rest of her stood as a the image of the collected usher; her tailed coat swayed slightly in the dulled wind, and the ruffles of her white cravat bore hints of a magenta trim. The intricate patterns running across all of her fabrics snaked and wrapped around her in intricate tangles--a mess of purples, greens and embroidery to some eyes, a maze of intricate patterns to others. She raised her gloved hand, and snapped her fingers. It rang out from the stage, silencing the remaining murmurs of the audience. "Ladies," she said. "Gentlemen, commoners, all of ears and eyes..." she had taken to projecting her voice--sonorous, deep, and all summoned from her diaphragm to own her presence, even for this brief moment in the spotlight. She looked straight up the center aisles, tipped her hat, and bowed. "Milady Priscilla," she said, "tonight, we bring a tale of a man who plagues houses of respect, a man who is the specter of all that Rotharia aspires to be, but also the specter of delicate balance, of the games Rotharia plays and the ways to game Rotharia. This is the tale of a man who is the dream of everyman, yet the charm of those he masquerades for. In our own Avareux, our tale begins, as our hero creates the mask..." Navitia bowed, one knee to the stage and her arms spread--the cue she had assigned to Ornstein to begin playing; soon Cyanne and Thaeran would follow, though not now, but soon. The light dimmed, and she disappeared from the stage; the trap door system Mister Lerender had managed to jury rig worked well enough... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The applause was dimmed while working backstage, and Navitia had quickly hurried Silversteel out for his queue. The man had slaved over this opening soliloquy under Navitia's pressure, but even if he had been knocked in the head, the show would have to go on. Silversteel's entrance from stage-left was matched by the sudden change in tempo from Ornstein's piano, and the joining of Thaeran's strumming. To create the beginnings of a hopeful mood. One which had already dulled Cyrus into a sleep at the curtain ropes. As Fraye--having, at Navitia's micromanaging insistence, helped Silversteel into his gaudy crimson costume, sans mask for this soliloquey and only this one--noticed this, she almost gasped in shock. Perhaps there was one specific note that drove stagehands to sleep at this distance? Or maybe Cyrus didn't give a fuck, as usual. Fraye dashed over to the rope, and pushed the giant stagehand a few inches to the side to get a good grip on the ropes. Damned Cyrus; the slack on rope was heavier than most people would have thought, hence why the big lug was supposed to handle it most of the time, especially now. The plan was to open the curtains before the spotlight turned on; for obvious reasons, as crimson curtains do not a backdrop make. The spotlight was still off. Plenty of time to tug at the rope. She pulled on it, pulling the curtains little by little. Not fast enough. The spotlight would turn on leaving Silversteel standing in front of a half-revealed matte painting of Old Avareux's streets flanked by crimson fabric that would break everything planned for--and she didn't want Navitia to have her head for a minor mistake, as she was prone to do. Even now, she could feel the auteur boring holes in the back of her head with that glare of her's. Then Cyrus grabbed the rope. A single tug from his massive hand was enough to pull Fraye off her feet, as well as open the curtains entirely. "Your struggling was making too much noise," Cyrus mumbled. Fraye flipped him the bird, and returned to her station. She breathed a sigh of relief that she could sit back and listen to the monologue without risking getting fired. The incident left her eyes open, even if Cyrus had fallen asleep again, and fixed towards the audience -- she couldn't stand looking at the gaudy costume work under the spotlight. Silversteel's monologue began in the way that Fraye never remembered hearing this story: "I could walk these streets a broken man, I could. Liars and grifters run amok here. They prey on all the folk around me... He looked towards the castle in the background of the matte painting; from her "vantage" point, Fraye could only see the side of the painting, so she only guessed where his eyes led. "They would make much more if they looked a little higher than their own feet. They'd see the glittering gold in the sky, and the silver just in front of them. They would see what I can see, and what I want. I am a man whose flight is up the edge mountains we have built with our own hands. Why can we not climb up with our own hands then?" He put his hand on his chin thoughtfully. He nodded as he scanned across the audience. "That's the rub, isn't it? No one thinks big anymore do they? They're afraid. They're afraid of the pitchfork and torch. Any ambition on our part only smells of the worst intentions. But it is not my intention, for I don't know exactly where to go once I'm through the door...the door only has an enticing light. For curiosity's sake, it exists. That's why we all need ... finesse." He drew a rose from his vest, and presented it towards the audience -- its bud pointed towards Lady Priscilla. Applause broke out--not even five minutes into the first act. Fraye glanced behind her--Navitia was grinning her catlike grin this time. Then Fraye glanced back towards the performance. A rush of steel through air, and a loud THUNK broke the applause. A dagger had pierced the rose through the bud and impaled it upon the painting. The tip of the knife stuck out in full view of those bustling backstage. The color drained from Navitia's face. Then all hell broke loose... |
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| Deleted User | Nov 19 2013, 10:51 AM Post #19 |
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Deleted User
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Silversteel glanced for a brief moment to where the rose now lay impaled, scoffing quietly, "Everyone's a critic." With that he took the mask from his belt, slipping the crimson face over his own. This was not good, his rapier was back stage, with no time to grab it he would have to think fast... Silversteel's eyes fell once more to the dagger piercing the rose. With a dramatic leap he was upon it and armed, swinging on his heel to face the audience in time to catch another flying weapon to the shoulder, "Ugh, philistines... Nobody appreciates the arts any more." He seethed, pulling the second foreign object out, wincing. He watched as the offenders turned on the audience, brandishing small arms and fanning out through the crowd, the Duchess to be! is all that resonated through the actors mind as he watched the bandits worm through the crowd. He dashed for the edge of the stage, vaulting in to the crowd with as much pomp as one would expect from the twin mask, Thaeran would be proud of how much zazz went in to the attempted heroics. Silversteel ducked under a play crashers swing, stepping back to avoid another two slashes, timing his counter lunge around the sloppy attempted butchering. "It really was quite rude of you all to crash tonight's play..." He sighed, leaping over a row of seats to get closer to the guest of honor, "I'm afraid we must ask you to leave." He sidestepped another bandit, sticking out his foot to send the foul manchild tumbling to the ground comically. "Someone deal with that putz!" One of the footpads roared as Silversteel found himself surrounded by a small handful of them. "It is adorable that you think I'm the one you should be worried about." He thrust a finger to the stage, motioning to the security team, as well as some of his fellow thespians, some of which were pouring in to the audience to clash with the would be hostage takers. "No no no, my good fellows. I'm not the one you should fear..." The mob descended upon Silversteel, clubbing at him with blackjacks and slashing with knives.Though he fought valiantly, the sheer numbers of the bandits soon overwhelmed him and left him nearly unconscious and bleeding among the rows of hastily emptying seats. The sights and sounds of the world became blurred and dulled as the actor struggled to stay awake, dragging his battered and bloodied form towards the Duchess to be. Pain screamed for him to stop, ripping through his body and mind... He felt his crawl slow, propping himself against a seat with a shallow huff, his breathing steadying. Silversteel watched as his fellows leapt in to action, pouring in to the audience like a great tidal wave of steel and storm. A good number of them were fighting, but he saw a handful helping the REAL audience to evacuate. This was good... He winced in agony as he pulled away the thick, gaudy red longcoat he had been provided for the play, resigning himself to assessing his wounds for now, here, out of sight in the shadows of skulduggery. |
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| Hades | Nov 19 2013, 01:09 PM Post #20 |
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Stagehand
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After hearing the thunk, and seeing the source of it, the captain quickly checked under her seat. To her relief, her trusty cutlass was still there, which swiftly found it's home in her grip. "Anyone with an interest in not dying should leave. I'm sure you'll all be compensated. Eventually." A few seconds are devoted to looking over the force that just ruined her night, before she starts weaving through the crowd to get to them. In between all the civilians and the darkness of the seating area, most of what Felicia could rely on here was a flash of steel from an incoming attacker before she knew where and how to dodge each attack. "Knew I should've brought an eye-patch," she mumbles to herself as she ducks under a reckless slash, using it as an opportunity to strike at her aggressor's leg. Despite the fact that these ruffians seem out for blood, most of her attacks were aimed towards disabling rather than killing. Wouldn't want to murder someone in public, now would we, Felicia? "Tut, tut, now, come on," She chided one hooligan as the hilt of her cutlass met his head. "I've seen smarter bandits in theatre. Attacking civilians during a show? It's just rude." Felicia was just finishing her scolding when one came up from her peripheral vision, getting a shot in before she could react. It took a few seconds for the pain to properly kick in, a few seconds which she spent dealing with the rascal who did this. Once it did, though, the captain winced for a split second and moved her hand over the wound. It was bleeding, sure, but it wasn't as bad as what poor Silversteel was getting, who was unfortunately a bit too far to reach before it'd be too late. So instead she drew attention to herself, calling out taunts to them and brandishing her cutlass for all to see. It wasn't too long before she was successful, now having to dodge two, three, sometimes four attacks in quick succession, which was beginning to be a problem. There was much less of a window to counter-attack, and it was looking like she'd have to pull out some fancy acrobatics to survive this for much longer, fancy acrobatics which were out of her reach. The wound was definitely taking it's toll on her now, the exertion wearing her out much faster than it normally would have. Well, this was a great idea, she scolded herself mentally, halfway through dodging when another joined the fray at the perfect time. For them, that is. Another slash hit her, this time in the leg, and she fell, holding back the reflex to grab at her freshest wound and instead laying limp. Hopefully if they were satisfied with her at least looking unconscious or better yet, dead, they'd leave her alone and she could prepare to keep up the defense. For now, all she could do was listen, and wait... |
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