MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

[pumpkinhollow]

SYMPHONY OF SORROW

If the Audience Would Please Take Their Seats

You find yourself at the theatre.

You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.

There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.

A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

Observer’s Overture

First Movement in E Minor

adagio, con dolore
PP

Lights down on the chorus, who sits in the stands. They are playing the role of the audience. Ad lib spoken word between chorus members seated near one another. Soft music begins to swell eerily.

Lights up on the stage. A performance begins, apparently in media res, where the chorus is meant to observe.

vacillante, improvvisato
cresc. P

The performers on stage play out their acts, appearing fearful. The chorus ad libs quiet uncertainty from the stands. Some of them will look down at their playbill and find their own name on the schedule of acts to come. There is a brief description on the page of the act that is scheduled for them. It is clear by the state of the ones already on stage that this isn’t something they have a choice in.

Chorus members attempt to rise from their seats, but cannot. Not yet. Foreshadowing to a later movement. For now, they must endure the overture.

Opera Infernale

Second Movement in Various Keys
( A medley of vignettes, performed in various styles)

chorale concerto a tutti, con affetto

F

Various chorus members rise between songs and make their way to the green room, where they are costumed. They have some time to talk with other incoming acts. They will find themselves and their loved ones being prepared for their acts.

segue

Those who performed before stop in the green room again. They look drained. A fate which awaits the incoming acts.

segue

On the stage, each act is a musical recreation of trauma. A worst fear, a most painful moment, an act of cruelty, a time of hardship. The styles will vary accordingly. If the other players in a given tale are present, they will receive their role without question. If a cast member has no fellow performers from their own world present, an understudy will be chosen to play any other roles from those that they are close to. Everyone is off book. Vocal quality is adjusted to match the conductor’s standards. Staff ensures there are no interruptions. The show must go on.

CODA: Für Nimona
A Coda in A Minor

There is a stranger in the green room, unmoving. Pale glowing eyes peer out from an ungulate-shaped void perched atop a high end suit. Antlers leer overhead. He is waiting for someone. Staff take no notice of him.

Ensemble's Lament

Third Movement in G Minor

bocca chiusa
PPP

There are other places to be besides the stage. Other roles to play.

pesante

Behind the stage, the stage crew toil under Baritone, the stage manager and the Viscount of Suffering. There is a pipe organ built into the man’s chest, and the bell of a horn where his heart ought to be. It shows. He is as cruel as he is miserable. He runs a tight ship.

declamando, letando

There are others in the pit, if they have the musical skill for it. And while this part of the performance is managed by a kinder sort, the Contessa of False Comforts is not so named for no reason.

The opera is long. There are no intermissions. The orchestra plays until their lungs ache and their fingers bleed, while Sonata assures them that it will all be over soon. Surely she cannot be lying. Surely there must be an end…

freddo, pietoso

Just outside the auditorium, there is work for the chorus serving food and drinks, taking ticket stubs for the endless stream of audience members, cleaning messes, or all other manner of soulless work. Perhaps these ensemble members simply did not interest the Conductor. Or it could be that they were made more miserable elsewhere.

Reprise - Observer’s Overture

Fourth Movement in E Major

impetuoso
FF It would seem that once a chorus member’s concerto is complete, they are free to move about the premises. At least until they are scheduled in a supporting role for another soloist. This means a chance to explore--- or escape.

presto repente, bellicoso
cresc.

Those attempting to escape will be met with resistance, however. Guarding the doors are shades, creations of the Conductor who can wear the faces of those held dear by those that look upon them. Escape, more likely, will come from within.

Members of the chorus who attempt to do battle with the Conductor, however, will find themselves up against something far more dangerous. Figures of glass, in all different shapes. Some abstract and solid, some hollow and human-like, and everywhere in between. Perhaps some chorus members will find one to be familiar.

The Hero will need an ensemble of her own to make it through and strike at the Conductor. Perhaps a resistance can be formed in a hidden location near the green room.

Homeward Aria

Fifth and Final Movement in C Major

tiempo di fanfara, vittorioso
F

When a dagger of Aster is driven into the heart of Prince Efrain of Sorrow’s Song, at last, the illusion fades. The members of the chorus relinquish their roles and find themselves on the summit of Crane’s Ridge.

It will be an arduous journey home, but it can be done with the solace that there is one less Demon Prince to trouble Pumpkin Hollow. Music in a joyful major key swells, then decrescendos.

enfatico, mancando poco a poco

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, entrapment, grief, depression, mood control, loss of bodily autonomy |

Comments

QUESTIONS/COMMENTS/CONCERNS

[pumpkinhollow]

[abhorrently]

does the event recreated on the stage have to be something the person directly remembers? 🤔

A Coda in A Minor [locked to Aster]

[yournewsidekick]

Oh, hell no.

She knows the conductor as soon as she gets a look at him. Nimona tries to wrench herself from her seat, a low growl building in her throat, straining with the effort to get loose. Even shifting doesn't set her free. It's like the spark at the heart of her has been welded to her chair.

Near the back of the program, one page reads:

DEATH OF A MONSTER
feat. Nimona

And as the rest of the opera unfolds, it becomes pretty clear, pretty quick that there's no getting up until she's closer to her debut.

When the binding finally loosens, Nimona dissolves into a speck of light and bolts for the exit. No luck. No matter how she tries to dodge or what corridors she tries to escape down, the shades herd her inexorably toward the green room. "Ohhhh, you want me to sing?!" she finally hollers over her shoulder as she pops back into human shape. "Fine! I'M GONNA SHATTER EVERY GLASS IN THIS PLACE AND USE THE BITS TO STAB YOU IN THE -- "

She stops there.

Cocks her head, staring up into the two glowing pinpricks atop that immaculate suit.

"You know," she says with false lightness, "one monster to another? That looming ominously in the corner thing is way overdone."

[daemoniumexmachina]

The comment provokes a laugh. But his mouth doesn't open, even as he continues to speak.

"You know, they say the line between classic and cliche is quite thin. But I assure you, looming is simply a byproduct of me standing in one place for too long, not something I need to deliberately do." He takes a step forward, offering a gloved hand. "Prince Aster, of the court of the Dark Feast. I know you're not keen on royalty, so let's skip the formality and get right to business. I believe you have some unfinished business with my elder brother, and I'd very much like to see him dead."

The Purple Impostor | OTA

[impostor_syndrome]

Early in the playbill is the title I'll Have It To Go, listing Purple as the headliner and some townie as the masked antagonist. A tragic tale of death and dinner for the last member of a salvage crew left behind on a far-flung moon, after one crewmate dies and the other puts on a jetpack and flies away.

Green Room

Purple tries to make a break for it after their show, not wanting to deal with the consequences of having been pressganged into leading a fucking musical number about how everyone they thought they could rely on died or abandoned them and they died slowly and painfully at the hands of a scarier monster on a distant speck of rock. They make it halfway to the fire exit before they run square into an usher's arm.

"Not so fast!" It's Cyan, wearing the uniform jacket and matching little striped cylindrical hat over their spacesuit and helmet. Backed up by Lime, who they last saw rocketing into Adamance's night sky (the practical effects recreating it for the play weren't too bad), and Green, who's looking less decapitated than they remember him. How are any of them here? Green puts his hands on their shoulders and spins them 180 degrees while they're distracted.

"When did you get here? Why don't you have to sing?!" they protest, as Cyan and Lime fall into step on either side of them and march them back to the green room. "Why are you going along with this?!"

Coat Check

Purple points at the demon behind the counter, whose wooden horns and tightly stretched hair are formed into an uncomfortable-looking harp-thingy. "Give me back my shovel."

It's like dealing with lootbugs. They can't see it back there but they remember taking it over here on their way in, during that weird sad haze. The demon says, "You won't be needing it during the performance, and it'd be rude to block the other attendees' view of the stage."

"No one needs to see this crap. Give it."

"That's against venue policy." The harp-headed demon sounds downright smug. Purple pulls out their knife.

[stoneoftherose]

A Murder (Reaction tags only please.)

[Lights up.]

[Enter KAINS and GUESTS. NINA KAINA holds court like a queen, HUSBAND, BROTHER-IN-LAW, ARTISTS and SERVANTS orbiting around her like Jupiter and its moons. Only SIMON KAIN stands apart, watching with fond indulgence.]

Enter the TWINS, ANDREY and PYOTR.


PYOTR
I don't see why I have to be here when you're going to do all the talking.

ANDREY
I've told you before, it's for the look of the thing. Just smile and bow to the rich lady who's paying us, and then I'll cut you loose to get drunk.


[They make their obeisances to NINA. As PYOTR steps away, FARKHAD leaves the group of ARTISTS and approaches him.]

FARKHAD
So this is the mind that birthed the Cold House and the Dancing Bridge!

[PYOTR looks at him with great surprise.]

PYOTR
You know me?

FARKHAD
How could I not?

[Exit Partygoers. The great collaboration begins: FARKHAD's resonating baritone drawing out PYOTR's shy tenor. As the CATHEDRAL takes shape on the back wall of the stage, flanked by the skeletons of two roofless and wall-less houses, their multi-floor spiral staircases reaching for the stars, PYOTR and FARKHAD share theories, calculations, and eventually philosophy. Sometimes they are joined by NINA and PYOTR; sometimes SIMON steps forward to lead the CHORUS, flanked by the ever-watchful, ever silent ISIDOR BURAKH, Artemy's father. But they are alone as they share a bottle of TWYRINE and PYOTR tells FARKHAD of his visions, the great inhuman SPIRIT he has been trying to contact all these years.]

[FARKHAD is disturbed.]

FARKHAD
You first encountered this spirit in the Capital, but your impressions have only grown more clear since coming to Town-on-Gorkhon. Petya, how do you know your spirit isn't the goddess the Kin worship?

[PYOTR laughs.]

PYOTR
How can that be? She isn't in backwards tribe's superstition, she's some glorious. Transcendental, even. The idea that something like her could be limited to a base medium like dirt...it's nonsensical.

FARKHAD
The Kin don't just believe their goddess lives in the local dirt, they believe she's the entire world. The soul of a planet...what could be more transcendental than that? Have you talked to Burakh about this?

PYOTR
Of course not! We need him to keep the Kin in line...without his support, we'd never be able to dig in this town again.

FARKHAD
But if I'm right --

PYOTR
You're wrong.

[They argue. Their words grow heated, angry -- wounding. FARKHAD exists. PYOTR pursues him. The CHORUS shrieks. PYOTR re-enters, his hands drenched in red.]

[ANDREY enters.]

ANDREY
Brother! The trench is finally finished! You must come immediately, I need you there for laying the pintle -- what's happened?

PYOTR
Andrey...

ANDREY
What's on your hands?

[Pyotr grabs him by the collar.]

PYOTR
What did you see?

ANDREY
What?

PYOTR
In the trench! What did you see in the trench?

ANDREY
Nothing. Just rocks and dirt.

PYOTR
...Thank god. Thank god.

[He lets his head fall limply on Andrey's shoulder. Lights up. Curtains close.]

An Accounting [CW: emeto-adjacent imagery]

Pyotr does not linger in the green room after his performance. He hurries out, not speaking or looking at anyone. The demons don't try to hinder him; if asked, they will shrug and say he's probably gone to his dressing room.

You haven't heard of anyone else getting a dressing room.

It takes a while to find him; the opera house is a labyrinth backstage. But eventually, if you're lucky and your hearing is sharp, you may hear the sound of someone retching. Follow the sound and you'll reach Pyotr Stamatin's dressing room.

If you enter, you'll find him bent over a basin, quicksilver dripping from his mouth and eyes. He is not surprised to see you, merely annoyed.

"Close the door," he orders you crossly.

Anodyne

The opera house and the casino may both be the playgrounds of demon princes, but otherwise they could not be more different. There is no pleasure or indulgence here, only pain and despair. Your turn on the stage has left you broken and weeping -- or perhaps you are simply exhausted by your own misery and that which surrounds you. Either way, you abruptly realize that a man has approached; he now stands by your side.

Even if you've seen Pyotr Stamatin around town before, you might not recognize him now. He stands up straight, his hair pulled back from his face into a severe ponytail. His eyes burn like two hot coals, but his voice is flat and lifeless as he quietly informs you, "You're hurting. I can make it stop, if you'd like."

accounting.

[abhorrently]

The door shuts without a sound. The shadow who has slipped in, dark clad and severe, holds his gaze with a look that seeks to pierce him through, flay him until she sees bone, until that voice of his ruins itself with howling shrieks.

"I don't enjoy someone making a fool out of me."

He had said he had no idea. He had said he did not know. And fool that she was, she had felt heartache for him, offered comfort and consolation for his lost love. Had he lied? Had he lied to her when she had extended herself and tried to honor friendship with honesty? If he had lied, she'll make him dance, so shall be his spasms of agony.

(But he is her friend, her friend, and does she really want to cause him such pain?)

(Does a man with a death wish even fear such?)

Agent Connecticut / CT

[liesdontfindyou]

Kill the Messenger [for Carolina]

[liesdontfindyou]

An (In)definite Epitaph
feat. agent CONNECTICUT & agent CAROLINA
as
agent CONNECTICUT & agent TEXAS
By the time she's being hustled from her place in the chorus out to the green room, CT's heart has long since fallen to her stomach. She has been staring, dumbly, at the listing in the playbill since she first caught sight of her own name and no matter how many times she blinks, or flips the page, or tries to stand, it does not change and she cannot move. Not until it is her turn. Not until she feels the draw to rise and step through to be costumed, to prepare her for her starring role.

A skintight bodysuit pulled up from toe to neck, pitch black and clinging to every curve, thinner than the kevlar it mimics. Deep brown armour snapped onto her body in pieces, one by one, too light where it rests to feel right, but it looks the part. Each click and clasp familiar, a ritual that had once been as routine as breathing air now stripped from her own control and placed into that of the costumers.

When it comes time for the helmet, for the narrow eyes of her visor to settle above her own and the HUD to spread out in digital space between them, there is... nothing. The costumers step back and her vision is clear, but she sees only Carolina, armoured up to the throat like she is.

And then she is hurried away. Go, go, the show is about to begin! The stage is set, the lights toned red and dimmed dramatically so the incoming action can just barely be seen in the gloom.

CT takes her place, stage left.

And the music swells.

[coolhatluvr]

Feet of Clay

Patty kicks up a fuss all through makeup, wardrobe, and the green room, but as soon as her feet hits the boards of the stage, all the fight goes out of her. Her limbs feel as heavy as lead, and yet they don't seem to have any trouble carrying her to her mark against her will. As she opens her mouth to begin singing, the only thing she can freely move are her eyes, exchanging scared and mortified looks with the other "actors" as they begin to sing as well.

At the opposite end of the stage, out lumbers an enormous, tubular, red thing. It takes Patty a moment to register its great rolling eyes and its little red cap. Is that supposed to be Inspekta?

[staybizzy]

As the singing begins to swell, Capochin takes center stage. A golden spotlight splits the black backdrop, creating a facsimile of the rift.

He's been dressed in a costume of his old uniform, and some part of him feels more himself than he has since he arrived in Pumpkin Hollow. But most of him feels fake. That hollow shell that emptied himself of everything except that overwhelming devotion.

As his aria continues, an impulse drives Capochin to reach into the front seam of his jacket, where there is a hidden compartment containing blue ribbon. He tugs at it, dumping it onto the floor as it spills loose in yards and yards and yards until the lamenting song culminates into a crescendo and he is left weeping with fistfuls of it in his hands.

He stands once more, dragging the mound of fabric to the Inspekta puppet to present it up to him. Then Capochin turns back to the audience, back to Patty, back to a Godpoke that has now stepped onto the stage silently, to sing the final line of his solo.

"Mi dispiace. O dei, mi dispiace così tanto."

Godpoke stands opposite him now. Behind them, Patty and the other members of the Bizzyboy choir await their larger role. Behind Capochin, the Inspekta puppet and the Rift loom. They must confront the massive, clattering thing in order to end their scene.

Leon S. Kennedy

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

I. You are not a blade, no matter what you say [The Stage][Reactions only]

[ Labeled on the playbill as Forged in Fire, a heavy, industrial-sounding song rises with the curtain, all pounding of hammers on the anvil and grinding of the whetstone. Leon stands across from a muscular blond man in a red beret and a bulletproof vest, twirling a bloody knife idly with a scowl on his scarred face. In Leon's arms is the slumped body of another man with dark hair, unmoving as blood pools around him. Leon glares at the man in the beret, who begins to sing in a growling voice. ]

Krauser
When I was a young man, like you
I thought I had potential too
I joined up and was proud to serve
Forged into the country's faithful sword
They sharpened me as I did you
I gave them years, I paid my dues
But what good is a blade that breaks?
That could expose Uncle Sam's mistakes?
Best melted down and left to rust
I should've seen it coming, but-

[ Leon lays the body on the ground and gets to his feet, unsheathing the knife strapped to his own shoulder. The two men still alive begin to circle each other, drawing closer and occasionally taking swings. ]

Leon
A soldier is not a blade
No matter what you say
A man is not a tool
To be thrown away like they did you
They had a responsibility
To you and to your men
They should've kept their promises-

[ Krauser interrupts, throwing himself into Leon's space with a flurry of blows that Leon only barely manages to block or deflect. Their knives spark as they make contact. The two begin to fight in earnest. ]

Krauser
What does a promise mean, rookie?
I thought in all this time you'd see
When we were fighting side by side
That honor's nothing but a tie
That binds down people too naive
To know what the world has up its sleeve
For dull knives and broken blades
For dogs that don't know to behave
But I'll be stronger than before
Quenched in blood, a blade reforged

Leon
A soldier is not a blade
No matter what you say
A man is not a tool
Your decisions were made by only you
What gave you the right to kill for this?
For revenge? For your men?
Tell me what this is all for

[ A pause, the music stalling on a wavering high note as Leon and Krauser stare at each other, blades locked against each other. ]

Krauser
[Spoken:] Power.

[ The lights dim, then start to flash in a way that's probably not very comfortable on the eyes as Krauser leaps back and hunches over. Menacing spikes begin to sprout from his arms, which almost double in size, his left arm growing into a long, jagged blade and his right a clublike fist. Leon backs away warily, only for the lights to return to normal as Krauser lunges at him, swinging his bladed arm inches away from his throat. ]

Krauser
Power is all that there is
As far as a sword or gun cares
It's true for you and it's true for me
Whether or not you're ready to see
Tell me what you think you are
With all your edges honed and sharp
One day they'll dull and you'll be here
Your honor all you have to spare
They'll cut you out, I know this much
So why not beat them to the punch?

[ The fight escalates, the tempo rises for an instrumental, Krauser knocking Leon's knife from his hand and forcing him to fight bare-handed - then slows as Leon puts Krauser on the back foot with a headbutt to the jaw and responds, the two of them almost seeming to move in slow motion. ]

Leon
You are not a blade
No matter what you say
And I am not a tool
If there's some good left I can do
What happened to you was horrible
But it doesn't justify this
There's only one thing left to say
For Luis, for the village, for Ashley-

[ Leon rams Krauser to the ground and picks up Krauser's knife off the floor, angling it over Krauser's heart. ]

Leon
Goodbye, Major.

[ Leon plunges the blade into Krauser's chest. The lights dim, the curtain falls. ]

II. And I am not a tool [Backstage, Seeking an Exit][OTA]

Well fuck. Leon's glad that's over. Shaken, hands still covered in red that's probably just stage blood, hopefully, he roams the hallways behind the stage, wishing they'd let him keep the knife. As it stands, he's unarmed, and putting a lot of effort into making sure the demons and shades and whatever else don't notice him prowling around looking for an exit.

At some point he happens across someone else he recognizes from around town, or that otherwise looks just as disgruntled as he does, just as he's ducking into an open dressing room to avoid the notice of a patrolling stage tech. Guess who's getting grabbed by the arm and yanked in after him? He figures the risk of getting punched is better than letting someone else get caught.

III. If there's some good left I can do [ In Combat ][ OTA ]

When things kick off, Leon is - less ready than he wants to be, but when is he ever? He's managed to steal a pair of sturdy leather gloves from someone's costume, and that seems to be the best he's going to get in terms of arming or armoring himself. It's fine. He's done more with less.

A glass figure approaches him, humanoid, tall, and elegant. Spindly, even. Squaring his shoulders, Leon raises his fists and cracks it across the smooth transition from neck to bulbous head that could be generously called a jaw. It twists on impact, reeling, and Leon manages to dart in and hook his arms around its waist.

"Look out!" he shouts, then throws his weight back to suplex the thing into the hard concrete of the floor, where its head shatters on impact. Grimacing, Leon leaps back to his feet and dusts himself off. "Looks like it's time to get up to some bullshit in this china shop."

Yeah he's not proud of that one. It's the best he has in him right now.

IV. Wildcard

[ Need something else? Feel free to plot with me at quodvide on Discord!! ]

And I am not a tool

[impostor_syndrome]

"What the fuck--" Purple sputters as they're yanked out of their stride. There's a slight rubbery stretch to the arm Leon's pulling on that's not really how human bones and connective tissue are supposed to behave, followed up by that momentum carrying their full body weight elbow-first onto Leon's torso.

“In which a woman and man dance circles ‘round the truth.” | Closed to Gerry

[cyansoldier]

EBERLY PREPARATORY SCHOOL OF DANCE
Catherine Church.......... ‘Agent Carolina’
██████ ████.......... ‘Agent York’
Breakup Ballet.

You deserve this.

She sits, program in hand, reading her name– her name– with a cold, dead weight pressing her down into her seat, feeling as though she might never have the strength to move again. Not until it’s her time to descend the auditorium stairs, foot-lights guiding her down, down, around the pit and between the folds of a velvet black curtain.

Icy torpor guides her into the green room where she's undressed and dressed again, costume laid out with a note scrawled in familiar handwriting.

‘Break a heart,
Break a leg.’

She turns, rakes her eyes across the mirror she stands in front of. Her armor is a cheap recreation made from brightly painted plastics; insignificantly weighted and wrong against her body. Through the yellow tint of her helmet’s visor, she sees herself– an ugly, spiteful, scared thing standing at full-attention, who can do little else than anticipate what’s to come. Demons fuss around her. One juts its head in through the door and snarls 'five'.

Thank you, Five.

A mood steals over her, mind numbed to utter stillness. Lethargy and obedience like tendrils suffocating whatever reservations she might have for her debut. Her armor-clad body moves in response to powers she cannot see, ushering her out of the green room, through busy opera labyrinths and to the backstage.

The lights come up.

You deserve this.

Cathrine Church moves en Couru into the swell of blinding light.

Her partner appears from the shadows,

And the show begins.

[skeletonkeay]

From a darkened portion of the stage, "York" appears from the shadows. Sandy brown armor, of a similar costume quality, obscures the face and form of its wearer as he walks in deliberate, pointed steps at half-time toward Carolina. He strides to meet her, hand extended, as he pulls her into their pas de deux.

He is silent, but his movements tell his story, plaintive and pleading. Let's not do this. It doesn't have to be this way. A twirl, that ends in her spinning away from him. His arm is outstretched. Urgent. But their fingers disconnect and he must give chase again in a grand jete.

Sephiroth

[imjustaman]

Performance - CW: Body horror (Reactions only, please.)

One-Winged Angel

Starring

Sephiroth as himself

Leon S. Kennedy as Cloud Strife

It had been horrible enough having his past reenacted in the dream world. But at least there, he knew not everyone had seen it. In this situation, everyone was being forced to see or at least hear each person’s dirty laundry. He wanted out. He had tried to get out. But of course, it had all been to no avail. He was furious at whoever was behind this. Probably the same one who had caused so much anguish in both January and February. How would he ever put his past behind himself when it had to be dredged up over and over again?

The performance was done to an intense piece of music filled with pain and hurt and anger. “Burning inside with violent anger,” as it described him, all too well during that horrible time. At least Sephiroth had a beautiful baritone voice. The piece was a montage, starting at Nibelheim, where Sephiroth was forced to reenact losing his mind and destroying the town before fighting with Zack and Cloud and being thrown in the reactor by Cloud.

There was a shot of Aerith’s death. Of course it would have to go there.

And the battle at the Northern Crater. He was forced into his original Safer form for that, hovering above the stage, the six white wings large and sweeping and his right arm merged with the black wing on his back. Loose feathers were floating into the audience and the orchestra pit. The form was different than the one he used in the woods, but similar enough that he was positive that anyone who had seen him there and not known his identity would know now.

He spoke of his plans to be a god, to send Meteor on Gaia and then absorb all the power of the Lifestream as it rushed to defend itself from the attack. And the more he spoke of it, the more it hurt now that he was sane.

The piece of music came to its crescendo close as Sephiroth and Cloud faced off again, just the two of them, and Sephiroth gave that immortal line.

“I will ... never be a memory.”

The curtain fell.

So did Sephiroth, collapsing backstage and breathing heavily, shuddering at the memories. The pain. There's a flash and he transforms to his second Safer form, kneeling on his legs but still with wings everywhere.

Green Room - After the Performance OTA

Sephiroth is drained. He really wants to go somewhere in solitude and not come out. But he knows that won’t work, so he’s in the corner in another form, this one most like his normal form, but with wings everywhere in addition to his regular limbs. He’s hunched forward, his hands in his hair, and he has all of the wings around himself like a white and black cocoon. But he’ll come out if someone is there, wanting to talk to him. He’s sure Leon will, after being forced to play Cloud. Who knows who else.

Part of him can’t help thinking everyone will be against him now. And yet he’s told much of what was shown to some of the residents there and they still accept him. Will they still, however, when they actually see and not just hear about what he did?

Homeward Aria OTA

It’s over. Is it over? He wants to believe there’s no coming back from what was done. He could come back from it, but then he’s a special case.

On this place, though, where death is never permanent, can he really relax? Really believe?

He looks around, shaken, as the illusion fades and it becomes clear of the journey ahead of everyone.

“. . . I can help,” he says awkwardly, hesitantly, spreading the seven wings on his back. “If anyone would like a ride down....”

But no one, surely, will want to ride down with their life in his hands. Not after what they saw. Not after what they heard. It’s laughable to even try to offer help.

Green Room

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

Leon can't decide if it's more or less surreal, living out someone else's memory in the form of a fucking opera as opposed to living out his own. Either way, it felt like being jerked around on puppet strings, his own voice foreign to him as it was wrenched from his throat. He spends a good while after the performance ends slumped forward in the makeup chair in the green room, clenching and unclenching his fists and savoring the fact that he can do that of his own accord again.

That small comfort can only sustain him for so long, though. There's other, bigger things to be worried about. Like Sephiroth, also collapsed in the corner and probably having an even worse time of it than him right now.

"Hey," he says, voice hoarse from the performance. "You... uh, you holding up okay?"

He thinks maybe he should be afraid of him, now, after seeing all that. But in a way, it's all so removed from anything he's experienced - sure, he's known plenty of men and women with god complexes and seen a few of them warp into monstrous forces of destruction, but this? All the talk of ancient beings and the lifestream and actual honest to goodness godhood? It's hard for him to fully absorb in a way that's just kind of making his mind shut down rather than process it right now. And honestly, he's okay with that, if it means he can still talk to the person in front of him like a peer. Seems like he probably needs that more right now.

Edgar | Snowpiercer (2013)

[hate_gettin_older]

[Starters below! Let me know if you would like one that isn't here.]

Green Room

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar is here before his unwilled performance: struggling into a costume version of the clothes he wore all his adult life, immobile in the makeup chair as attendants carefully paint stage grime and blood and bruises onto his face and hands, waiting with unaccustomed stillness until he's drawn to the wings.

And he's here again after, sweating and shaking, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

An Uninvited Guest | Closed to Aster

[priestessofthewilds]

As Nimona leaves his presence, the Prince of the Dark Feast may become aware that he is not alone. A slim, petite woman stands next to a table in the corner, gazing at him with an aloof softness.

"I suppose I should offer you congratulations, as of this moment, your plans will reach fruition."

[daemoniumexmachina]

As the woman approaches, Aster eyes her with a degree of uncharacteristic suspicion. She may look human, but Aster can smell the floral reek of nectar on her, the scent of sunlight and petrichor and insect wings. He knows faerie nonsense when he sees it.

However, he has no idea which court she is from. It would be easy to assume she is from the Indigo Scales due to their dealings with Efrain, but with the War of Tricks currently underway and Olwylder's recent trend of annoying interference, it could truly be any of the five. He can at least tell she isn't from the Court of Golden Sunspots, as he would have seen her by now.

"Yes, well, we aren't out of the woods just yet. One still to go."

fever.

[abhorrently]

scene ??? | closed to ripley.

[abhorrently]

The stage is cavernous, the rim lit by flickering and wavering candlelight - torches, not electricity, rule here. What rises is dark and red and shadowed, lines both harsh and curved. The strange sense of something organic. Stone and flesh. The rhythm of the drums is low, steady. A heartbeat to something unknown.

Enter FEVER dressed in close fitting black. At first, a silent form crossing the stage, until she draws closer to the audience, and the light deigns to illuminate her. She looks at the audience, but does not see them. Her shadows look somehow deeper, all warmth stripped from her demeanor. As the recitative begins, she is lost in thought, and it leaves her somber, severe.

FEVER:
Things progress a-pace - the alliance holds, the right pieces move. There is no reason to doubt.
(slowly pacing, to herself.)
Time is still a luxury we possess. Nothing need be overly rushed.

Music rises. (Adagio, D minor.) The expression on her face shifts, from deep contemplation into a haunting peace. The smile one would see in a painting of a saint, utterly serene.

Aria for FEVER:

Grave risen, grave destined, drawing their borrowed breath.
Grave risen, grave destined, think they win against death.
Against what is foretold.
Against what I behold.

I see the heavens without stars,
I see the world gone silent.
I see the sun bleed crimson in the sky.

All things die, all things will,
This we know, this is true.
All things die, all things will,
This we know, this is true.
All things die, all things will.
But there is so much left to do,
Still so much that I must offer up to you.

I see the heavens without stars,
I see the world gone silent.
I see the sun bleed crimson in the sky.

All things die, all things will.
But there is so much left to do,
Still so much that I must offer up to you.

Lost in and devotion, her guard slips for one moment - enough for another figure to appear from the darkness. The orchestra gives a warning thrum, but it's not for her.

---

And inside, she is howling, shrieking, despising every moment of this. Things that perhaps were and now are, and she detests this little play, feels like she's being choked with the clothes and the words, and she hates, hates, hates it. But she cannot draw a true blade. Cannot cast and burn this place to the ground. She is as bound to the story as anyone else, and oh, Efrain will hurt before the end for it.

Customer Service Hell

[xiaoxiuya]

Shen Qingqiu has had no luck since waking up in this opera house. After being forced to take a single turn across the stage he found himself exiled to the concessions stand, with scarcely enough time to wash off the makeup or change out of his costume. He doesn't know why, it was a difficult role but he thought he did okay?

(That's why he's been exiled. That is exactly the reason why. Being able to brainwash himself into feeling okay with his performance is like room temperature tea to Efrain and his court, it's just nasty.)

There is no dignity to be had in his current situation, his hair beginning to fizz and fall out of its braids from the humidity behind the counter while his arms and apron have been collecting grease splatters from the popcorn machine like it's new couture. His feet actually hurt; he didn't know that was actually possible in an immortal body.

The one bright side is that the demons are too busy to stop him from slipping people free snacks and smokes if they come up to the counter. It's not like he's getting paid for this, so why should he follow the rules?

[redlightgreenlight]

The moment she'd been released from that hell, she had essentially fled from the green room and everyone else. She's waiting for Aster to make his move, and she's not doing it as a human, but most of all she's looking for her more powerful allies, the ones who did not just see her trauma laid bare on a stage.

Shen's scent draws her to him and she knows he needs to hear what she has to say before Nimona gets started.

Shen.

father mulcahy | M*A*S*H

[lovethyneighb_or]

but if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; [the opera]

the trench lights gleam and the rockets play (cw: death, religious homophobia, blood, murder)

i. the flood of magnificent orange yonder

SCENE: THE DECK
The curtains rise. The stage is set: the wide deck of a ship on the rolling sea, gently, so slightly swaying, visible only to those who pay attention. The music is light but tense as FATHER MULCAHY enters, looking lost, and leans on the rail; to the audience and to himself, he sings:

What a strange place to have ended up. No reasonable course could have landed him on a luxury ship of such magnitude from where he was all the way from the blood and muck in Korea; from the hospital camp, from that place of gore; especially without his knowing. And where is the rest of his company?

Enter the LOVER, a male wearing a mask, some grey-feathered thing lightly speckled (or splattered) with red. He yelps, and run towards MULCAHY, who greets him with excitement in turn. They sing: they are old comrades (nothing more), surprised to see each other here. MULCAHY is just barely more newly arrived. The LOVER has had a day to adjust, and explains: this is a prison ship, and the lot for them here is games of bloodshed and torture, without death as a reprieve. They have none of their other war comrades here; their only company is other far-flung denizens of the multiverse, and no one has found a way to leave.

Enter HARRY POWELL, a tall, dark, charismatic priest who has almost certainly never seen a day of undeserved hardship in his life. He is not played by an actor. He is a masquerading puppet controlled by stagehands, and his voice echoes from all around in the voices of many familiar friends and townsfolk.

He is at first charmed to see another priest, but upon realizing that MULCAHY is Catholic, not Baptist, sneers and walks off.

ii. is a battery blazing miles away.

SCENE: THE BEACH
The set changes: the background shifts to blue skies and palms, and on the deck the railings are removed as the tilt levels and flattens. MULCAHY and the LOVER burst from the brush, out of breath and covered in blood that isn't theirs, especially at the hands. Singing, it is understood, tragically and comedically, that this is a death game and they have had no tools to assist the dying they've come across, and will eventually be found by a hostile. Both of them staunchly refuse to participate. They will always, together, refuse to survive at the expense of others, even if everyone resurrects at the end; the LOVER as a doctor, MULCAHY as a priest. Feels just like home, eh? the LOVER jokes.

They sit on the beach and wait for their turn to die, leaning on each other. Eventually POWELL emerges from the brush; MULCAHY tries to beat him off, but not before he murders the LOVER with a switchblade. MULCAHY clutches him as he bleeds out in his arms. After the LOVER dies, MULCAHY wails openly.

iii. with a rush and a singing a great shell passes;

SCENE: THE CABINS
The backdrop returns to ocean; the deck tilts and rocks, representing turmoil. Dividers emerge from the deck floor to represent a small cabin dormitory housing the LOVER in his bed. MULCAHY knocks at the door hurriedly. He enters, and the two of them clutch for each other desperately on the bed, both still covered in blood. This is the morning immediately after the first death match. They sing reassurances into each others' ears until the LOVER can no longer stand to have his heart wide open; he hurtles himself off and out of MULCAHY'S arms, declaring that he is going to get a drink. MULCAHY follows to make sure he is okay.

On the way, they encounter POWELL again. The LOVER assaults him with verbal acrobatics, which POWELL responds with ignorance and disdain. The LOVER slugs him clean across the jaw and storms off, MULCAHY close behind.

iv. the rifles resentfully bicker and brawl,

SCENE: SHADED FOREST
The backdrop becomes wooded and tall. The deck is flat. Dark, trunk-like cutouts emerge from the deck. MULCAHY and the LOVER sit half-hidden, leaning on each other tiredly. They sing; it becomes clear that this is not the second death game, nor the third. It is the sixth. Still they die together. Violence and battle sounds in the distance. Something rustles in the brush.

v. and here i crouch in the dew-drenched grasses,

SCENE: CABINS
The backdrop returns to ocean; the deck tilts and rocks again, worse, representing turmoil. The LOVER waits in his room, hands clamped over his ears while an intense cacophany rages in the corridor outside and he struggles to maintain balance. Red leaks in from beneath his door, against which are many thuds.

Eventually the racket dies down. It all goes quiet except for some murmuring and other people emerging from rooms. When there is a knock on the LOVER'S door, the LOVER pulls it open almost immediately for MULCAHY.

The LOVER kneels down in front of MULCAHY and asks to be blessed, just to feel MULCAHY'S hand on his head. MULCAHY obliges. The stage levels and calms.

vi. and listen and look and love it all.

SCENE: PIANO BAR
The backdrop becomes a piano bar. From the deck emerges a piano and seats and tables, all of them empty. The deck rocks slightly. MULCAHY is seated at the piano, playing something delicate and lovely, while the LOVER sits atop of it. They are rehearsing casually. Both of them look haggard.

As they sing, it becomes clear that this is a common activity they do to pass time and take their minds off of things... but the LOVER begins to sing more in earnest, leaning down close to MULCAHY'S face, which startles MULCAHY slightly. But he sings in return, both soft, both unsure. Both unwilling to break the spell of a supposed rehearsal.

LOVER. [To MULCAHY] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
⠀⠀This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
⠀⠀My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
⠀⠀To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
MULCAHY. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
⠀⠀Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
⠀⠀For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
⠀⠀And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
LOVER. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
MULCAHY. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
LOVER. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
⠀⠀They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

The LOVER reaches down a hand. He leans in to kiss; MULCAHY turns up his cheek; as they both understand is the practice for a stage performance.

The LOVER sits back up and looks away.

After the LOVER leaves, POWELL emerges to sneer at MULCAHY; he sees their relationship and despises it in the language of his wicked, misshapen faith. He calls them both, but especially the LOVER, peverse. MULCAHY walks away silently.

vii. god! what a life! but i must make haste now,

SCENE: DECK
The backdrop returns to the sea, and the deck back to a regular deck with railings. The deck tilts, staggers, and rocks erratically. The LOVER and MULCAHY sit by the rails. Both of them look strained, at the ends of their ropes after ten months of near-constant bloodshed and capture.

The LOVER is pleading for MULCAHY. He cannot take it any more; please, he begs, love me as I love you. Let me kiss you without restraint; let us know each other in the bed; or else do not lead me on, say you don't love me, don't hold me like you do. MULCAHY looks bereaved to deny him in order to keep his oath to God, that which holds his very sense of self inside; but he does love the LOVER as his own soul, but he cannot act in that loving-language that would fulfill him, let him understand the depth of it. It is less of an argument and more of a desperate beseeching for both of them.

The orchestra's sound builds up until the LOVER bursts out, You love your God, who may not even be real, more than me, who is.

The LOVER regrets it the moment those words leave his mouth. The orchestra quiets to the sound of a lone viola. MULCAHY stands up, in tears, and walks away. The LOVER sits there alone. His arms hang empty and lifelessly.

The deck tilts backwards, slowly, until the LOVER disappears from view. When the deck levels again, he is gone.

viii. before the shadow of night be spent.

SCENE: MULTIPLE
MULCAHY cannot find the LOVER no matter how hard he looks.

ix. it's little the time there is to waste now,

SCENE: CABINS
The deck rocks slowly and shallowly, as though a cradle.

MULCAHY enters the LOVER'S cabin. He is dressed in his usual fare, but with a mourner's veil thrown atop. He has barely had time to grieve. He picks through the remains of the LOVER'S belongings: kitschy shirts, knickknacks, medical supplies, laundry, and junk. He adds things here and there to a basket of inheritance.

He finds a pile of unopened letters. MULCAHY flips up his veil to look at them more closely. Glitter makeup has been applied under his eyes, so as to display tears always on the verge of shedding. He knows for whom these letters are for and he knows what they say without opening them.

He puts them into the basket and sits on the ground, unmoving.

x. if i'd do the job for which i was sent...

SCENE: DECK, then SHIP
The deck rocks, unstable.

MULCAHY stands by the rails of the deck, still in no more mourner's garb than a veil, looking out to sea. POWELL reappears, silent for a moment.

Then he speaks. Here he is at his most virulent. He sings and spits venom, referring to Sodom, calling the LOVER a whore; he says good riddance, to be cast into the lake of fire where he and his kind belong; of the ship reeking less of brimstone with him gone; that he deserved it; that his love was selfish and never true, as his kind do not feel love, only frivolity and attention; MULCAHY ought to be grateful to the Lord for ridding him of a prostitute prancing and pawing at him.

MULCAHY tries several times to interrupt him with increasing ire, then bursts out in rage, refuting him through gritted teeth. POWELL becomes enraged at MULCAHY for being a priest passionately defending the LOVER, saying that if he'd ever read the Good Book, he ought to know what to do with the likes of him. POWELL lunges forward and attacks MULCAHY, ripping the veil from his head and taking him by the hair, dragging him throughout the corridors of the ship.

The scene changes into an indoor atrium, a central public area. POWELL demands that MULCAHY admit what he is; a sodomite, a whore, and an apostate; and repent, twisting MULCAHY'S arms behind him painfully. MULCAHY refuses. In a rage, POWELL strangles him.

MULCAHY flies into a blind animal rage. He howls, and the orchestra drops out, and the deck levels.

In silence, MULCAHY takes POWELL by the arms and rips him off of his puppet-strings and throws him to the deck. Sitting atop him, he begins to beat him to death, grunting and growling with the effort like a crazed beast. The puppet head bounces and cracks against the deck, leaking red. Then, under MULCAHY'S knuckles, it shatters entirely, caving in on itself as red splatters all over the deck and Mulcahy.

In silence, he eventually slows.

He raises his shattered hands, shaking. He does not understand what has just happened. He does not remember it.

A crowd of people rush, attracted by the commotion, but they are too late. They stop and see the scene. Someone emerges forth to gently take MULCAHY by the arm and lift him to his feet, then lead him away.

In silence, the curtain falls.

FIN

my bombs are right and my clippers ready [the green room] (closed to cr)

After the opera is done, they can find Father Mulcahy in the green room. He is either slumped in his chair staring dead-eyed and blankly into the makeup mirror, or asleep on the couch. In both cases, he is still in his costume, covered in blood.

the green room

[not_a_traitor]

There is nowhere left to sit on the couch. Instead, when he's finally able to reach the green room, Gaeta eases himself to the floor, leaning his back against the seat cushions. Chest tight, he just watches him sleep for a silent moment.

Then, in a croaking whisper from too many hours of singing: "Mulcahy."

Gaeta touches the back of Mulcahy's wrist, not caring about the blood.

The Three Faces | Valdis

[redlightgreenlight]

Green Room

Valdis is oddly compliant, though her eyes are scarlet and far less human than many may be used to. She observes everything carefully, tracking souls and scents through the room. She’s never one to wear much makeup, but on a stage her features must be exaggerated so it is far heavier. She hates the feeling. The red dress is like something out of an old hollywood movie, elegant, silky, light, almost more like a nightgown than a dress. The feathered, see-through robe lends itself quite well to the illusion. She’s not sure what scene she’ll be reliving, but right now, she’s more concerned about everyone else and how they are faring.

Tiamat | Closed to Crichton

Valdis is not playing herself. No, she doesn’t recognize this set, nor the words dancing in her head, waiting to be spoken to the shadow beyond the door. She can smell Crichton on the other side of said door.

“I know you’re outside, my love, my angel.”

The words lift from her lips in a beautiful song, one she does not know.

“My brother is away, come in.”

Meira | Closed to Max

It seems as if the stage is on fire, but no heat rises from the flames. Deep reds and blacks surround them both, a stark contrast to the white dress she wears. The man holding her hand smells like Max, but the black wolf mask covers his face and the grip of his hand around hers is very nearly painful.

She knows this scene. It’s extremely stylized, but something inside of her breaks as she realizes that Max is going to learn everything.

Valdis | Closed to Fever

The curtain rises on the scene. Valdis “sleeps” on a lush red chaise, seemingly unconscious. There’s the sound of a door unlocking and Fever enters, carrying a single red rose.

[abhorrently]

She'll know the storm, the relentless opposition that carries on mentally as it approaches. As Fever draws near, the picture of kind devotion - her body complies, but her mind rages, unsure as to her course, but hating the compulsion all the while.

Still, for now, there is peace. There is brushing back a stray lock of hair from Valdis's face, and tucking the rose into her hand, that she might wake to the flower's sweet fragrance and a gentle touch.

And yet, and yet. She can feel the changes roiling in her blood.

[ss_buttcrack]

Die Me Dichotomy
Interpretive Dance Featuring JOHN CRICHTON

[The lights come up on John Crichton, dressed in a white leotard, with his bare back to the audience. In front of him stands the frame of a full-length mirror, but it's missing the mirrored glass.

From the wings steps a second dancer, dressed head to toe in a black bodysuit, who comes to stand behind the frame in the place where the reflection should be.

The music starts with stringed instruments softly strumming a dire and screeching melody. As the music rises, so do Crichton's arms, extended with the grace of a ballet dancer, though each move is done with trembling limbs as he fights against the invisible force that compels him.

His right arm draws back, then plunges forward like a punch aimed at the 'mirror,' but the black-clothed figure catches his fist. The two of them seesaw back and forth, pushing and pulling each other through the empty frame, pantomiming the battle of wills taking place between two souls.

The black figure drags him through, and they change places. Crichton grips the mirror frame and rages silently against it, but he is stuck in place there as a new dancer, a woman in black with flowing raven hair, tiptoes out onto the stage.

The black figure reaches for her hand, and they twirl, coming to a rest facing each other, forehead to forehead. The black figure dips her backwards violently, until her head lays on the floor, then he brings her up and sends her spinning to the other side of the stage.

Now, finally, Crichton steps forward again. He runs up to the black figure, and they engage in a frenzy of movement so jerking and sporadic it barely seems like dance at all. The music swells as the black figure wraps his arms around Crichton, hands covering his face as the music cuts to silence.

Then, the strings start that slow wailing strum again. The black shadow lifts his arms, and Crichton is forced to mirror the move. He continues to dance and jerk like a puppet on strings as the female dancer crosses to join them. He takes her hand and turns with her, all the while the shadow behind directs the movements.

The female dancer holds her arms out like wings and leaps high; Crichton catches her with straining muscles. The shadow steps in close, hugging around Crichton's back, with arms wrapped painfully tight at his chest and throat. Crichton and the shadow begin a dizzying unified spin with the woman dancer still in his arms. Faster and faster as the music swells, until, suddenly, he throws her up over his head.

Knees shaking, arms quaking, he holds her there as the music grows to a crescendo. Then, with another daring toss, she tumbles back down into his arms, and he, with the shadow's hand still around his throat, catches her just before she hits the floor, then dips her lower, and lower, until her back meets the stage.

She begins to roll and thrash, arms raised as if trying to swim to the surface of a great depth. Crichton wrestles with the arms still around him--push and pull, back and forth--but he cannot break free before the woman's body goes limp.

One violin plays a long, desolate solo as the black figure finally releases him, and he falls to his knees, one sobbing line forced from his lips before the lights cut to black.]

"What have I done?"



Green Room, Before or after | OTA

If you find Crichton in the green room before his performance, he's in a sour mood and trying to hide in a corner for some modesty because they shoved him in yet another ridiculous skin-tight leotard. He'll be willing to be coaxed out to talk with a little effort.

If you find him in there after his stage debut, he'll be curled up in a tight ball against the wall, hiding his red and tear-stained face against his knees as he tries in vain to hide from view. Contrary to how it seems, he could really use a friend to talk to him now.

after.

[abhorrently]

Light footsteps approach him, and someone settles near. Not asking him to raise his face, but a soft fabric touches his arm, offered out to him.

(If he decides to look, it's a robe that Fever found, something to shield him from view, to give him back his modesty after everything. If nothing else, allow him this.)

For now, she is quiet, a shield for him against anyone else that might approach.

Drelasa Veloth (cw: body horror, illness, cannibalism)

[misbegottendreamer]

A House of Ashes, or, False Paradise
Feat. Drelasa Veloth as THE OFFERING
and
Deon, Leon, and Moire as THE ASH KIN

PART, THE FIRST
[Enter THE OFFERING, wearing a many-layered mask that resembles the face of a dark elven woman, and dressed in the clothes of a farmer's daughter. She kneels before a three-sided shrine, head bowed, posture humble. After a short wait, she begins to lament, raising to face the heavens.]

THE OFFERING
[In Dunmeris] "Blessed Three, what is my failing? / Prithee part my soul from sickness / From dark dreams deliver me now / I confess my grievous errings / Take me back into your care."

CHORUS
"Uncaring, uncaring, uncaring. The living gods, the champion-kings, their own failings have consumed them. Their sins gather on the Mountain, giving weight to reckoning. Ghosts forgotten watch and listen, memories marred by tombs untended, left unmourned by scattered kin. Here they come now, silent sister, to your sleeping voice awaken."

[Enter THE ASH KIN. Two wear masks that create the illusion of holes where the upper half of their faces should be, and are dressed in tattered rags. The third, acting the part of their leader, wears a mask where a fleshy, trunk-like flute emerges from the face hole. They wear dusty, gray robes. Each one of THE ASH KIN also wear extensions on their fingers to represent long, bloody claws]

THE ASH KIN
[in unison] "Sister, sister, sister..."

[THE OFFERING stumbles away from the shrine and the newcomers, facing the audience]

THE OFFERING
"Three, I bid thee, now preserve me / From the enemy approaching / In my faith I have not faltered / Surely, there's been some mistake!"

[THE ASK KIN descend upon THE OFFERING with claws as THE OFFERING screams and wails. The leader of THE ASH KIN eventually tears away the first layer of her mask, revealing a bloody wound on her right cheek]

[THE OFFERING hurriedly exits stage right, stumbling]

[Lights down]

[misbegottendreamer]

PART, THE SECOND

[Lights up]

[THE OFFERING enters stage left, slowly and as if in a daze. Slowly she sheds layers of her mask and dress as she wanders, occasionally stumbling and falling to her knees. Her face becomes more disfigured, her dress deteriorates into rags. At last, she reveals the final layer of her mask, where the eyes are heavily ringed in black, indicating that they have become empty sockets. She falls to the ground, weeping audibly.]

[THE ASH KIN enter stage right, quietly approaching THE OFFERING, muttering with concern. As they reach her, they cast off their rags to reveal fine clothes, and remove the first layer of their masks to show the faces of ordinary mer. ASH KIN 1 turns to the audience and begins to decry the cruelty of the Temple, while ASH KIN 2 worries over THE OFFERING]

ASH KIN 1
"Alone and lost you've wandered, sister / Here and now we find you, weeping / Cruelly by the false, discarded / A most undeserv'ed exile"

ASH KIN 2
"Take my cloak upon your shoulders / Gift you vittles for your hunger / Wounds untended I shall bandage / Shrink away not from these comforts"

ASH KIN 3, THE PRIEST
"In false-sleeping you have wandered / kept a slave by self-made god-kings / robbed of, sundered from, your birthright / handed to ancestral strangers"
"Now I ask you, sister-sleeping / would you venture to our Lord's hearth / to the place he prepares for you / and be named exalted servant?"

THE OFFERING
"I had thought my soul was ailing / now I see my spirit quickens / all these years a lonely daughter / kept apart from my true fam'ly"
"Servant without exaltation / would be just as much an honor / I am no one, I am nothing / but I welcome purpose offered"

ASH KIN 3
"Humble sister, gentle flower / a new pride within you shall bloom / see someday your great potential / loyal kin, well-blessed of our blood"

[The four exit stage right, THE ASH KIN gathered around THE OFFERING protectively.]

CHORUS
"Into den of flesh and fire / goes the waking-dreaming womer / to the feasting-ready spirit / her condemner-savior-keeper"
"Revelry a mask for horror / bloodshed dressed up as a banquet / dreams he deep of love and laughter / as he all-devours his children"
"Look away, you tender-hearted / for soon she shall face the altar / knife in hand and full of fervor / Dagoth's miracle revealing"

[Lights down]

John Rambo | CW: PTSD, graphic violence, death & gore, mentions of sexual assault in linked lyrics

[theydrewfirstblood]

1921
THE SOLDIER: John Rambo
THE COMMANDER: Anonymous

[LIGHTS UP; SCENE: SHERIFF'S STATION]

[Enter stage left THE SOLDIER, bullet belt slung across his chest. He is clad in jeans and tank top, a scrap of burlap tied around his head. Filth and dried blood streak his face and bare skin, a set of dog tags hanging around his neck. He is tearing open cabinets, pulling out guns, batons, boxes of bullets and heaping them on a desk in the dimly lit office/operations area.]

[Enter stage right THE COMMANDER, cast in shadow. His stature is square and solid but far removed from action, leaner than THE SOLDIER. The music swells--not the orchestral strings and drums of the classical alone, but punctuated by the harsh wail of an electric guitar.]

THE COMMANDER

You did everything to make this private war happen! You've done enough damage!

[THE SOLDIER continues stockpiling more weapons. His eyes are wide, staring--both somewhere else and present in the moment against his will. He is still on task, still on the mission. A heavy bass line is playing, punctuated by the occasional kick of a bass drum.]

THE COMMANDER

This mission is over, Rambo! Do you understand me?...Look at them out there! Look at them! If you won't end this now, they will kill you. Is that what you want? It's over Johnny. It's over!

[THE SOLDIER whirls on THE COMMANDER. The guitar squeals again, with distortion--undiluted pain and fury.]

THE SOLDIER

NOTHING IS OVER! NOTHING!!... You just don't turn it off!

[THE SOLDIER begins to pace slowly, a caged animal looking for a way out when there is none to be had. It's barely audible, but voices are running under the sound of his dialogue, a chorus of shades singing in time with the ambient melody playing just beneath his words. Gradually, they grow louder, more audible, more discernible...over and over as the volume grows...]

THE CHORUS

You didn't hear it
You didn't see it
You never heard it, not a word of it
You won't say nothing to no-one

THE SOLDIER

It wasn't my war! You asked me, I didn't ask you! And I did what I had to do to win! But somebody wouldn't let us win! And I come back to the world and I see all those maggots at the airport, protesting me, spitting. Calling me baby killer and all kinds of vile crap! Who are they to protest me, huh? Who are they? Unless they've been me and been there and know what the hell they're yelling about!

[THE CHORUS is gradually joined by THE COMMANDER, soft but clear, joining THE SOLDIER'S speech in quiet, reasonable song without drowning him out. THE COMMANDER separates from THE CHORUS to speak in similar tones.]

THE COMMANDER

It was a bad time for everyone, Rambo. It's all in the past now.

[THE CHORUS divides now, THE COMMANDER rejoining their refrain. The other half begins a new melody between each line, less a song and more a chant that remains quiet, overpowered by the refrain but unquestionably clear]

THE CHORUS ONE

You didn't hear it
You didn't see it
You never heard it, not a word of it
You won't say nothing to no-one

THE CHORUS TWO

We're not gonna take it
We're not gonna take it
We're not gonna take it
We're not gonna take it

THE SOLDIER

For you! For me civilian life is nothing! In the field we had a code of honor, you watch my back, I watch yours. Back here there's nothing!

THE COMMANDER

You're the last of an elite group, don't end it like this.

THE SOLDIER

Back there I could fly a gunship, I could drive a tank, I was in charge of million dollar equipment, back here I can't even hold a job parking cars!

[The guitar squeals again as THE SOLDIER slams one of the guns onto the desk and staggers back, overcome. He's no longer in the present, but worlds away as he slumps to the floor, back pinned to the wall. His broad, muscular shoulders heave with sobs he can't stifle, his voice is cracking.]

THE SOLDIER

I can't--I just--oh, my God, where is everybody? Oh, God...

[THE SOLDIER drops his head into his hands and begins to sob. The spotlight narrows onto him, the figure of THE COMMANDER no longer visible as he weeps bitterly--harsh wails of fear, of grief, of pain. THE CHORUS TWO is now silent, the original refrain of THE CHORUS ONE taking over completely, a whisper in the background.

THE SOLDIER lifts his head, chest heaving but seemingly, just barely, calmer. Beneath his words, a melody plays--an instrumental of the refrain.]

THE SOLDIER

I...I had a friend--it was Danforth. I had all these guys, man. Back there, I had all these fucking guys, who were my friends. 'Cause back here, there's nothing...remember Danforth?...He wore this black headband, and I took one of those magic markers, and I wrote on it, and it said 'if found, mail to Las Vegas'--'cause we were always talking about Vegas, and this fuckin' car, this red '58 Chevy convertible, he was talking about this car; he said we were gonna cruise 'til the tires fall off...

[THE SOLDIER pauses, breath hitching with a fresh sob...and his voice lifts, quavering...]

THE SOLDIER

...see me...

[He starts to sob as he speaks again, pausing between sobs to sing.]

THE SOLDIER

...we were in this bar in Saigon, and this kid comes up, this kid carrying a shoe-shine box. And he says, uh, "Shine, please, shine!" I said "No." He kept askin', yeah, and Joey said "Yeah." And, I went to get a couple beers...

...feel me...

...and the--the box, the box was wired, and he opened up the box--fucking blew his body all over the place. And he's laying there, and he's fuckin' screaming, there's pieces of him all over me, just...

[THE SOLDIER tears the bandolier off his body and flings it across the room with a piercing wail of song before he continues speaking--shouting, screaming.]

THE SOLDIER

...TOUCH ME!...

...and I'm tryin' to pull him off, you know, and I--I--my friend! That's all over me! I got blood and everything and I'm tryin' to hold him together I put him together, his fuckin' insides keep comin' out, and nobody would help! Nobody'd help, and he's sayin' "Hey, I wanna go home! I wanna go home!" He keeps calling my name! "I wanna go home, Johnny! I wanna drive my Chevy!" I said "With what?! I can't find your fuckin' legs! I can't find your legs!"...

[THE SOLDIER dissolves into harsh sobbing that goes on and on and on. THE CHORUS never stops singing.]

THE CHORUS

Oh, how absurd it all seems
Without any proof
You didn't hear it
You didn't see it
You never heard it, not a word of it

[Gradually the sobs quiet, THE SOLDIER huddled on the floor, his head in his hand, eyes screwed shut against the moment he is reliving, one of many he has been reliving for days. For weeks, months, years, all coming to a head in one instant brought on by two full days of being forced to return to the battlefield he's never been able to escape from--the one that's left him so isolated he came to this place starved for physical touch to a point where he broke in horrific and damaging fashion.

The one that's left him so crowded by the corpses of his most beloved comrades he's choking on the smell and the stillness of it, and has been for years.

The one that's left him so bereft that he is as he appears: alone in the dark, under a single spotlight, with a shadow no one can see as his only companion, his only solace.]

THE SOLDIER

...I can't get it out of my head. I've dreamed this seven years...Every day, I have this. And sometimes, I wake up and I don't know where I am...

...heal me...

...I don't talk to anybody. Sometimes a day...a week...I can't put it out of my mind...

[THE SOLDIER begins to cry again, to sob. Deep, wracking, heaving. The sobs of a child newly orphaned, the sobs of a lover holding his partner's fresh body, the sobs of a farmer watching his crops and cattle burn without a cent or a seed to his name.

He finally reaches into the shadows, sobbing out the words this time instead of singing. The music is silent.]

THE SOLDIER

See me...feel me...touch me...

...heal me...

[LIGHTS DOWN; sobbing continues, trailing off into dead silence.]

FIN

[hate_gettin_older]

In the chorus is one anonymous figure among many, singing through numb lips.

How absurd it all seems without any proof ...

(It's never come home to him before now: Rambo was a soldier. One of the men with guns and bullets, one of the men who took orders from the uniforms. From the Front.)

(He knew, but he didn't know.)

You didn't hear it, you didn't see it, you never heard it, not a word of it ...

He can't stop singing. He can't get out of this any more than the man trapped in the spotlight. They're all on the same ride, with no way to slow or stop or change direction. Running on rails.

Until the last spotlight flicks off, and the performance is over, and Edgar can struggle from his place and stumble backstage.

And head, unthinking, for the Green Room.

james sunderland / hi long time no see

[griefs]

( mostly setting this up for reaction type threads and post-performance threads! if you want to say you played any of the characters or even a background dancer, please feel free unless it's someone already taken. I'll post a comment reply to this so i can keep track.

CW the usual SH stuff, I'm not getting graphic. I link some monster pictures so be mindful of those. Gun violence/death. Flavors of suicidal ideation.)

-----

The stage is dark. We don't see her, but a woman speaks. This is MARY SHEPHERD-SUNDERLAND. She is our protagonist’s missing wife.

MARYIn my restless dreams I see that town. Silent Hill. You promised you’d take me there again someday… but you never did. Well, I’m alone there, now… in our “special place.” Waiting for you.

LIGHTS UP

The set is simple — a plain, corroded backdrop that could be anywhere, if that anywhere was adjacent to Hell. Or maybe just somewhere old and industrial.

We meet our cast, already in formation for an ensemble dance number. JAMES and THE RED PYRAMID THING are front and center. MARY is on JAMES’S right, and MARIA is on THE RED PYRAMID THING’S left. Notably, there are just two other average-looking humans — ANGELA OROSCO and EDDIE DOMBROWSKI. The remaining ensemble is composed of dancers dressed in disconcerting, monstrous costumes.

Now we're treated to our opening number. The music has a distinct style that might feel a little outdated if you're from any time past the late 90s. The choreography is enthusiastic and exciting, at odds with everything else we've seen so far. The dancers’ expressions remain blank. JAMES, in particular, looks almost as if he’s in pain.

It's discordant. Intentionally so.

This is our hero's classic “I want” song. It's the story of a widower hoping for a miracle. A broken man who wants nothing more than to be reunited with his wife who was taken from him far too soon.

At least, that’s how it seems on the surface. Beneath that smudged veneer, the disconnect between the lyrics and everything else we've seen so far is difficult to ignore. Maybe this is the story of a man who can’t — or won’t — remember. A man who doesn’t care what happens to himself or to anyone else. A man who would rather surround himself in delusion than face the wicked truth.

No no no no no no. It's a hero's journey. The audience wants this man to find his wife.

JAMES
You might call it crazy
You might say it’s scary
But my mind’s gone kind of hazy
And this letter… It’s from Mary!


JAMES holds the letter high above his head. The other performers mirror his movement, pumping a fist in the air.

JAMES
Do ya think she’s really here?
Do ya think I’ve lost my mind?
I guess it could be both
Let’s just see what we can find —

ALL
In SILENT HILL! (Yeah!)
We’re off to SILENT HILL!

(MUSICAL NUMBER CONTINUES)

Suddenly, one of the dancers stops. It’s EDDIE. He's visibly agitated as he steps forward, breaking formation. The audience might notice for the first time that he's holding a gun.

EDDIESTOP! Just SHUT UP already!

The music shuts off abruptly, leaving behind a deafening silence. Is this scripted? Has there been a mistake? JAMES appears as bewildered as the audience.

EDDIEYou really think you’re special, don’t you, James? Well, you’re not!

JAMESNo, Eddie… I—

Now JAMES steps out of formation too, so he can back away from EDDIE, hands up. He doesn't want a fight. The lights dim, and a SPOTLIGHT draws the audience's focus to these two.

JAMES may not want a fight but EDDIE clearly does. He takes another step, leveling the gun at JAMES.

EDDIE
(He waves the gun for emphasis as he speaks.)I. Said. Shut up! You don’t get to act like you’re better than the rest of us! I mean, you even think you deserve your own musical number, huh? Jeez, you're a real funny guy, James.

JAMES seems troubled, but more so he's exasperated. His hand drops to his side as he considers going for his own gun — the gun he found in Silent Hill. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, though. He doesn’t think he has it in him to take a human life.

THE RED PYRAMID THING looms between them, just close enough to catch the light without stealing the focus.

JAMES
(Trying and failing to hide the irritation in his tone.)Eddie, please. Come with me. Maybe together we can leave this place. I can help you. I can —

EDDIE laughs as he turns towards the audience and flashes a cruel grin, almost like they're all in on a secret together — one JAMES doesn't seem aware of.

EDDIEYou really think you can help me, James? You can’t even help yourself!

EDDIE turns back towards JAMES. A shot rings out. No one cries out. No one rushes to JAMES'S side. This is supposed to happen. It was always supposed to happen.

It's what he deserves.

JAMES SUNDERLAND is dead.

BLACKOUT AND END OF SCENE

CAST (do not reply)

[griefs]

James Sunderland………………………………………………………..JAMES SUNDERLAND
Red Pyramid Thing……………………………………………………….JOHN CRICHTON
Mary Shepherd-Sunderland……………………………………….…j̵̧̹̻̦̋̈̋̀ä̴̡̗̫͈m̴͈̎é̴̬̣͉͍̔̕ş̵̘̕
Maria……………………………….̴͚̭̳͎́̓………………………………………….…w̴̲̜̥̎͑ͅh̶̛͓͇͖̐͊͆ý̷̘̪̙̋̈́͝ͅ ̶̠̯̆͝d̶̢͈̙̈́į̴̔d̵͕̎́͆́̚
Eddie Dombrowski……………………….̶̢̪̽̎̈̆͝…………………………...…ÿ̸̘̮̊͊͛̈o̶̺͉͌ŭ̷͕̼͎̲ ̷̖̟̔̋́͝d̸̖̠̿͘o̶̦̬̅͂̈́ͅ ̵̮͍̍í̵͎͓̊̑͌t̸̮̓̈̕?̶̩͑̌͑͒
Angela Orosco………………………….…………………………………..ẅ̶͕͚̖́͜h̷̬̳̝̻̠̽y̸̥̪̩͖̏̽̐͠?̷̝̮̒̅̇
Monstrous Ensemble………………………….̴̥̲̘̏̊…….……………....…(MULTIPLE)

Sally Boyle | OTA, for people who have already performed their opera <3

[sunshinesally]

-A Modest Concession-

There isn't much sadness to be drawn from Sally Boyle these days. Sure, Efrain could have her spin another tale of her sordid past. A troubled youth as an orphan, a lost childhood sweetheart, a heart broken a hundred times, an adulthood playing dress-up doll for five thousand smiling idiots, her failure to protect her child. The happy little farm life she'd built with a man she'd guided through a journey to healing, who'd helped her raised her daughter, who she'd married in a dream and nearly married again before he just vanished.

But what cuts right to the soul of Sally Boyle, what true despair looks like, far moreso than any trite little dance number evoking memories of the same old trauma, is a far deeper fear. The agony of not

having

a voice

at all.

And so, just like she was in Wellington Wells, she is tucked away somewhere, toiling away. Like she was while with Anton Verloc, she is given a post where she can smile and wave and ask how she may be of service. Like she was in the Hastings home, she is strangled into silence for fear of a worse fate. Mindless drudgery in exchange for safety.

Perhaps all this is a somewhat dramatic way of saying that Sally Boyle is trapped working at the concession stand. Those in search of drinks or popcorn can find her looking haggard behind the counter, forcing a smile and asking what they'd like. And to add to the fun, she does in fact still have Gwen strapped to her back.

-We Angry Few-
[ After Crichton jailbreaks her, this is where they'll be rallying a group to help back up Nimona! ]

Once released from the concession stand, Sally has one thing on her mind--- getting out of here. Those concluding their performance might see a tucked away door off of the green room peek open.

"Hey!" she hisses under her breath. "Over here!"

Tagging in on top! But you can be sure he's going to be part of the commotion after too

[ss_buttcrack]

A Modest Concession

After the performance he was forced to give on stage he's tempted to wish their roles were reversed, but when he sees how miserable she looks behind that counter he doesn't have the heart to even think it anymore. Rather than approach her with sympathy, he decides to put on some lover-boy charm to see if he can at least cheer her up a little back there.

He puts on a theatrical tone and pretends this is their first meeting, starting off with a wolf whistle. "MM, mm. If I'd known they were hiding their best assets out here in the concession stand I would have come sooner. Hey there pretty lady, got any plans for later?"

Took centre stage for the world to just spit you up [for Jon]

[ghostbullet]

A Little Moth in Flame
feat. Melanie King & Jonathan Sims
as
MELANIE KING & ELIAS BOUCHARD
When she is pulled toward the green room, Melanie fights. First, uselessly, against the intangible tug that leads her there. Then, unsatisfyingly, against the demonic stagehands that manhandle her into a costume she cannot see to truly understand—sleek trousers, a surprisingly heavy suit jacket, and a lighter material draped down from her shoulders that tickles the backs of her knees and her hands when they fall back to her sides when punching her way out proves a loss.

She is on rails. She wants to rip them up from beneath her feet.

She cannot see the set laid out before her. The ornate, antique desk. The simple chair on one side, the office furniture equivalent of a throne on the other. But she does feel the knob of the free-standing door she is made to step through, oddly hot in her palm—so hot it almost feels as if it's going to burn, before she's through.

To her, it feels like a different space entirely—overbearing, smothering, probing. To the audience, all she's done is step through a door with no walls to its name.

She understands, then, where she is supposed to be.

But that doesn't narrow it down much.

[apocryphalarchivist]

There is no part of this that Jon doesn't hate with the entirety of his person.

In his confusion, he doesn't put up nearly as much of a fight as he likely ought to have. It's one thing to sit by the sidelines, witnessing the suffering unfolding on the stage--- as horrible as it feels, doing such a thing is nothing out of the usual, anymore--- but its another entirely to be swept away to behind the stage, where he's urged into a suit, has his hair meticulously tied back, and his glasses taken from him. Questions go unanswered, about what he's to expect, who he's performing with, what he's performing; perhaps he should have checked the playbill so he'd know what to expect.

Before the single castmate he's told he'll have (of all the familiar faces in the back, he isn't sure who it could be), he's ushered to the stage, and left to sit at a desk. Unbidden, his hands fold neatly. His posture is relaxed, confident, knowing, all in a way that he's all too familiar with. He'd hoped he'd been wrong, when the sight of himself in mirrors made his skin crawl.

As soon as he sees Melanie, he knows better than to hope that he's wrong. He's not given any opportunity to apologize, nor speak with her at all. He hasn't spoken to her yet fully, outside of short, stiff pleasantries. They'll certainly have something to talk about once this is all said and done, though, won't he?

He's not able to stop himself from speaking, standing from his seat, rounding the side of his desk. His movements are precise, practically rehearsed, all of a moment he'd never seen with his own eyes.

"Melanie, come in," he starts, smooth and certain. The words of someone who's known exactly what they intended to say, when the time came. "Your timing is impeccable. It's time for your first performance review."

Fourth Movement in E Major [The Battle; OTA]

[yournewsidekick]

[ooc: if your character would join the big fight, this is the spot! nimona will be singularly focused on efrain, so feel free to team up and plot among yourselves for battling prop demons/glass sculptures/whatever you'd like.]

DEATH OF A MONSTER

The curtains open on a shimmering gilded backdrop. Part storybook, part illuminated manuscript, it depicts a bucolic village near the edge of a forest. A stone well sits at center stage.

Two young girls enter. One, from stage right, is fair-haired with an impish grin, dressed in a simple blue tunic. This is GLORETH. The other, from stage left, is a child with long red hair nearly down to her ankles, her tunic an even simpler rust brown. She carries herself with her shoulders hunched in shyness and uncertainty, watching GLORETH with quiet longing. This is THE MONSTER.

The footlights click on and cast the girls' shadows onto the backdrop, but through a trick of stagecraft, they don't look like the shadows of two children. Instead, GLORETH'S SHADOW is an adult woman with long flowing hair, decked in a knight's armor and carrying a broadsword. THE MONSTER'S SHADOW is a writhing mass, vaguely draconic but never quite coalescing into something definable. They can both move independently of GLORETH and THE MONSTER, but in these opening moments, THE GIRLS and THEIR SHADOWS hold an identical pose.

A piping music swells.

A piping music swells. GLORETH begins to dance, heedless of THE MONSTER, while GLORETH'S SHADOW raises her sword.

THE MONSTER continues to watch GLORETH. Tentatively, she starts to copy the other girl's movements, first with fumbling uncertainty, then with greater confidence. GLORETH finally catches sight of her -- but rather than recoil in fear, she beams and dances closer, as if she were hopping on stones scattered across a river.

Their hands meet. THE MONSTER'S SHADOW roars soundlessly as GLORETH'S SHADOW swings her sword. Together, the girls dance in unison, GLORETH always leading and THE MONSTER following close behind.

Then THE MONSTER launches herself forward into an unprompted pirouette, and as she spins, she dissolves into a bright pink spiral around GLORETH, like a butterfly turning loops around a flower. She reforms as a girl seconds later, but the damage is done. Her feet hit the stage; the music stops.

GLORETH stares at THE MONSTER. THE MONSTER'S SHADOW pins GLORETH'S SHADOW to the ground, moments away from the killing blow.

Still, GLORETH does not run. She laughs. She holds out both hands to THE MONSTER, and THE MONSTER begins laughing too as she bursts into a shimmering pink cloud.

The music explodes in a joyous symphony to match. Now, as they dance together, THE MONSTER weaves in and out of half a dozen shapes: a bird, an otter, a wolf, a horse that GLORETH vaults aboard with a whoop of glee. GLORETH'S SHADOW shoves THE MONSTER'S SHADOW away to gain the upper hand. Members of the stage crew dressed as VILLAGERS wheel replicas of huts onstage; THE MONSTER darts between them as a bear in a balletic game of hide and seek, which morphs into a play fight as GLORETH picks up a toy sword to give chase.

THE MONSTER tackles GLORETH. Together, always together, they fetch up against the side of the well, laughing --

Just as an OLDER WOMAN enters from stage right and gasps.

The OLDER WOMAN yanks GLORETH away. Quickly, THE MONSTER shrinks back into the shape of a girl, holding out her hands as if expecting the OLDER WOMAN to join their dance, too. Instead, the OLDER WOMAN wraps both arms around GLORETH to pull her back even further. GLORETH struggles.

GLORETH
No! No, è mia amica!

OLDER WOMAN
Non è tua amica. È un mostro.

The music hovers, quivering on a vibrato of strings. Slowly, OTHER VILLAGERS begin to emerge from where they have been waiting behind the huts. GLORETH'S SHADOW levels her sword at THE MONSTER'S SHADOW.

A VILLAGER picks up a stone to throw at THE MONSTER.

Then ANOTHER.

Then ANOTHER.

GLORETH looks down at the wooden sword in her hand, then up at THE MONSTER. As the stones pelt her, THE MONSTER shifts in the same waterfall of forms -- first to try and escape, then to lash back, screaming in a child's voice as THE MONSTER'S SHADOW opens its mouth wide.

GLORETH raises her toy sword. Abruptly, the scene freezes, illuminating THE MONSTER -- a girl once more -- held at swordpoint by GLORETH. They stand in the same pose as their SHADOWS. When GLORETH speaks, her voice rings as both a child and an adult.

GLORETH
Torna nell'ombra da cui sei venuto!

GLORETH'S SHADOW strikes, piercing the heart of THE MONSTER'S SHADOW in an explosion of light that blinds the audience. The orchestra thunders to its triumphant conclusion.

Blackout.




But instead of the curtain falling so the next act can begin, there comes the sound of agonized breathing. Then a slow, slow scrape of claws along the wooden stage.

Two bright pink eyes blink open in the darkness.

"Your turn to sing, motherfucker," hisses Nimona, right before she lunges for Efrain.

[daemoniumexmachina]

There is a moment where the Conductor is given pause, a flicker of irritation on his near-skeletal face. He lowers his baton, and laughs softly. Melodious.

"Ah, dear Nimona. I had nearly forgotten about you," he tells her flippantly. "I see you've lost your pretty locket. Tired of Ballister already? Or did he just abandon you?"

While he's speaking, though, he isn't wasting time preparing to defend himself. He had an inkling that Aster might pull something like this, the way he did with Mendel. Efrain's lower set of hands duck into his shrouds, returning with a pair of short sickles. The blades hum like a tuning fork.

Half of who I am [for Crichton and post-performance threads]

[thismaskismybadge]

Behind the Mask
feat. Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy & John Crichton
AS
SPIDER-WOMAN & CAPTAIN GEORGE STACY

Lights up. In the centre of the stage stands a silhouette of white and black, interrupted only by touches of pink and blue. The girl's face is concealed behind the wide-eyed mask, itself cast in shadow by the hood. En pointe, she has the perfect, practised posture and poise of a ballet dancer and a gymnast in one.

The lighting shifts, the stage becomes drenched in ever shifting pastels—like a watercolour painting brought to life, even the stark geometric lines of the suit streaked with watery tones that fluctuate, subtly, every time you look at them, every time she moves.

Stillness breaks into the fast, twisting spins of a fouetté and then she is leaping, graceful and powerful, onto set-pieces of buildings, colourful and bold. From wall to wall, from rooftop to rooftop, the music swells with exhilaration and pride that builds and builds and builds the longer she is in motion, the longer that she is in the air, her feet never touching the ground. Alone, but triumphant.

Pinks and blues dominate the sky and she stands stark but cohesive against them, a part of the world.

And then it inverts. Greens and reds swallow the stage and a shade, huge and dark and monstrous, tears through the structures and throws her to the ground.

Even fighting for her life is rendered in graceful, showy kicks and grasping arms, beautiful in a way that is discordant with the violence, with the memory in her mind. The shade flies back, hits the nearest set-piece so hard it cracks and topples and lands in the debris with a crash of cymbals.

Reds bloom across every surface and when the dust settles, the figure is so much smaller than it should have been—than it was before.

Flying leaps and artful, reaching arms replace the desperate scrambling and clutching that she remembers, cradling the ruined shape in her arms.

That, of course, is when [GEORGE] arrives.

Uniformed and uniform, he does not move with the same grace. But then, as she runs, either does she. The dance falls apart, the moves all there but the energy changed, bogged down in desperation as the stage turns black and blue.

[SPIDER-WOMAN] runs and hides and runs again, drawn back to [GEORGE] in flurries of frantic motion, spinning circles around him as he reaches out to try and grab her. He never catches her, she always slips out of his reach at the last possible second, but he keeps trying.

Until, finally, he catches up. Her back is to a wall and there is no way out, not with his arms raised, weapon in hand.

Red and pink and blue and black. The world a mess of angry, conflicted shades.

A single bullet fired toward the sky. The cacophonous CRASH of cymbals and screech of strings and woodwinds pushed to their limits piece the air. [SPIDER-WOMAN] flinches, hands up.

There is only one thing that she can do.

The mask lifts. A young, terrified face of a young, terrified girl lies beneath and she clutches the material in her fist so tight the colour bleeds into the space around her.

She looks at [GEORGE] and she knows that there will be no relief. No change of heart. Not now. Not this time.

The mask falls to the floor. And the world goes white.

[ss_buttcrack]

As he waits in the wings and watches, he is steeling himself for the role he's been cast. Wearing these clothes feels like... some kind of sick joke. Is it? He never meant to step into this man's shoes; it just happened. Crichton saw a young girl, young woman, calling out for help and stepped up.

He always will. Even if that means he must now leap out onto this stage a second time, feel his muscles move against him another time. At least, when he feels himself aiming the gun, he doesn't have enough space to care for himself when he's too worried about her. His suffering is nothing in comparison. Because, whether he meant it to happen or not, he very much feels like Gwen is his adopted daughter and that means she will always come first.

That also means that as soon as the performance finishes, he's racing to her side with one urgent question on his lips above all else, "Gwen, are you hurt?"

[Max & Erik Combined Performance - Open to reactions] cw: simulated violence/burning

[maximumcake]

THE BEGINNING
FEATURING MAX MAXIMUM & LORD ERIK OSBORNE OF THE OZARK MOUNTIAN CLAN
OOC: The following show will be done in the Japanese puppetry style of Bunraku

The stage starts out dark and silent, then, as a bell tolls 12 somewhere far away the lights come up slowly to reveal two figures on stage, both dressed head to toe in black robes with black hoods over their heads. They are both holding elaborate puppets that stand half as tall as they do. One puppet is a perfect replica of Max Maximum, though close observers might notice some slight differences such as the roundness in his face that makes him seem so much younger in doll form. The other puppet is an unfamiliar woman with long auburn hair, pale skin, and amber eyes that may seem suspiciously familiar to anyone that's looked Erik in the eyes. Ordinarily, puppets like these would require three operators each to make them move but, as the soft sounds of stringed instruments start to play, the puppets seem to move in spite of their operators, not because of them.

The scene starts with Max and the unnamed woman seated together on invisible furniture, heavy drums begin to play as the two puppets pantomime flirting and snuggling with each other. The woman stands and reaches her wooden fingers to Max who follows. The music stays light and playful, but a subtle thrum begins behind it, growing louder and louder as the puppets hop together in a motion of going down the stairs. Down, down, down…

Once they reach their destination, the drums pick up and the puppets start to mime removing their clothes. Max's puppet seems specially made to be able to take off his shirt collar, which he does by flinging it away off the stage. As the two puppets tumble together the lights suddenly flash red and the woman's face rears up like a cobra about to strike. The mask of her puppet face suddenly changes to show demon horns, red eyes, and long, long fangs. [Linked example video]

The music changes into a thrashing beat of drums. A single stringed instrument plays an alarming sting as the fanged puppet falls onto the figure of Max, pretending to bite him and pulling a long scarlet silk scarf away from his neck to represent his blood being drained. But the Max puppet does not keep still, it flails about and, wait, what's that? He suddenly seems to be holding a lit sparkler that spills real embers of fire onto his sleeve, leaving little singe marks.

Max's puppet shoves the sparkler into the woman's face and all the music cuts off as she lets out a bone-chilling howl of pain. Her doll hair goes up in flames and the entire room is filled with the acrid scent of burning hair so thick it coats the tongue. While her puppet body convulses around in pain, Max's brings out a long straight knife. The music swells as he runs at the woman and drives the knife deep into her puppet heart. She wails so loud it echoes around the theater, and then the puppeteer drops her limp form to the ground with an echoing hollow thunk.

But the show hasn't stopped yet. The puppet of Max drops his blade and the spent sparkler, before the puppeteer themself falls to their knees alongside the puppet. Together puppet and puppeteer shake with painfully silent sobs as the music slows from the chaotic tempo of before.

And then... the other puppeteer, the one who controlled the woman, reaches to their own hood and pulls it off to reveal that he is Erik.

A cymbal thrills as the spotlight locks onto the vampire. He looks somehow even more ghostly white than usual as he stalks across the stage and reaches to the other hooded figure, slowly pulling it free of their head to reveal an equally pale Max beneath. Max looks up into Erik's face with shiny tear-filled eyes with some mixture of reverence and fear. Erik offers him a hand to help him stand, and he does so, letting the puppet replica of himself fall to his side, still attached to his hand. Behind them, a second curtain lifts to reveal a flat stage piece of a house. Now Erik brings a sparker up in his hand and lights it. He tosses it to the house. With a loud boom, fire erupts through the cutout windows, blasting hellish heat at the entire audience.

Erik turns to face Max and braces him with both hands on either shoulder. There's the sense that they are speaking but no lines are uttered. Slowly, reluctantly, Max turns to the burning house and removes the puppet from his hand, with one audible sob, he tosses the puppet to the flames. One last whoosh of heat rises up then the fire goes out.

And so do the lights.

Cassandra de Rolo | for reactions only

[not_the_last]

RESIDUUM: THAT WHICH REMAINS
CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
Lord Frederick de Rolo
Lady Johanna de Rolo
Their Children (Julius, Vesper, Percival, Oliver, Whitney, Ludwig, Cassandra)
Lord Sylas Briarwood
Lady Delilah Briarwood
Cassandra de Rolo, older
Members of the Whitestone Resistance
Percival de Rolo, older
Vox Machina (Vax'ildan, Vex'ahlia, Keyleth of the Air Ashari, Grog Strongjaw, Pike Trickfoot, Scanlan Shorthalt)

Lights up on a large and ornate stage-on-a-stage. Red velvet curtains are drawn aside as a tinkling music-box melody plays, revealing a dollhouse set of a fairytale castle with white stone walls. Puppets, faceless and about two-thirds the scale of human actors, dance gracefully onto the set – a lord and lady and seven children, ornately dressed in shades of blue, gray, and lavender, the lord’s coat ornamented with a sunburst crest in gold. These are the DE ROLOS. They circle about the smallest, a little girl with dark brown hair and a slate blue dress, with gestures of fondness and care. All is clearly well.

The music grows animated as two more puppets enter from stage left, in black and purple, making pleading gestures; these are the lord and lady BRIARWOOD. The DE ROLOS welcome the BRIARWOODS; a long table slides onto the puppet stage, and a pantomime feast is served. Deeper strings join the music-box tinkling as the BRIARWOODS lift their hands as though controlling smaller puppets of their own, and one by one, the DE ROLOS stiffen and collapse. All but the smallest; she tries to waken one after another, and succeeds with only one, an older boy. The two flee together, leaping from the dollhouse set to the larger stage, but as they nearly reach the exit stage right, the BRIARWOODS point at them in unison. The music rises to a frantic pitch, the sound of arrows flying and striking is heard, and the smallest puppet drops to the floor. Blackout.

Lights up again almost at once. The dollhouse set is gone, and the stage now bears a life-size set of the same castle. CASSANDRA stands where the smallest puppet fell, wearing the same dress, gaze downcast. She is not masked.

Music resumes: the same melody as at first, rendered on the lower end of a piano and accompanied by sliding strings that repeatedly bend into dissonance with minor and diminished chords. Two masked dancers enter from opposite sides of the stage, wearing the same black and purple costumes as the BRIARWOOD puppets, and draw CASSANDRA into a dance. At first she circles rapidly between them, seeming to search for some way out but always turned back. Gradually her movements slow, and begin to mimic theirs.

The music goes slightly martial in tone as more puppets enter, also at two-thirds scale, bearing weapons and flags with the sunburst crest; these are the WHITESTONE RESISTANCE. They make threatening poses at the BRIARWOODS, who move away from CASSANDRA to demolish them with casual ease. The demolishing is not stylized; the RESISTANCE puppets are physically broken or torn apart and tossed aside, appearing to bleed when they fall.

One remaining RESISTANCE puppet, moving with theatrical stealthiness, approaches CASSANDRA while its companions are destroyed. They appear to speak in hushed whispers, and the puppet points offstage, then hurries away. CASSANDRA stands still for a moment, then moves to speak to the BRIARWOODS, repeating the puppet’s gestures. They respond to her with visible affection and praise, the lady drawing her into an embrace.

A second wave of RESISTANCE puppets enters, from both sides of the stage at once. LORD BRIARWOOD draws a massive sword and attacks the ones stage left, while LADY BRIARWOOD drives back the ones stage right with waves of greenish fire and then touches each fallen puppet, making them rise as shambling UNDEAD to attack their former comrades. CASSANDRA stands motionless center stage, slightly drooping in a posture very similar to the reanimated puppets, as the battle ends and the BRIARWOODS return to her sides, each resting a hand on one of her shoulders. Blackout.

When the lights go up the third time, CASSANDRA stands far stage right, still flanked by the BRIARWOODS. A small party enters stage left, led by one human dancer with short white hair, wearing a birdlike mask and a long blue coat with the sunburst crest in gold, carrying an oversized six-shooter. This is PERCIVAL DE ROLO, and he is accompanied by VOX MACHINA, six puppets of various sizes and descriptions. Another combat-dance begins as they fight several UNDEAD. The BRIARWOODS, observing this, put their heads together in silent consultation and then gently push CASSANDRA toward the new arrivals, then retreat upstage and vanish into shadow.

An UNDEAD puppet mimes threatening CASSANDRA with a blade, and VOX MACHINA arrive to rescue her. CASSANDRA and PERCIVAL embrace, and she begins leading the group in a lengthy spiraling dance around the stage. The stage lights sink gradually as they proceed, until the only light is on the dancers, as they reach the center.

A circle of green glass walls rise from below the stage, trapping PERCIVAL and VOX MACHINA within. Light and smoke begin to swirl within the glass, very near the floor at first and gradually rising; the VOX MACHINA puppets react to the smoke with alarm. CASSANDRA, just outside the walls, stands wholly still to watch them as the BRIARWOODS emerge from the shadows to flank her again, hands on her shoulders as before.

PERCIVAL and CASSANDRA face each other through the glass. Very softly, the initial music-box theme begins to play. A spotlight illuminates a tiny area stage right, where the two child puppets are once again hurrying in slow motion toward the escape that one of them will never reach. Again the sound of arrows firing is heard and the smaller puppet crumples to the ground; this time we see the other one turn and flee, leaving her there.

CASSANDRA turns away from PERCIVAL with a gesture of rejection, and reaches out to take LADY BRIARWOOD’S hand. The smoke inside the green glass wall rises and thickens, obscuring PERCIVAL and VOX MACHINA from sight, as the BRIARWOODS lead her away.

Blackout. The curtains fall.

[ss_buttcrack]

The show hasn't even finished yet but he's already seen more than enough. So, before the curtains even start to fall he's already on his feet sprinting to the exit. He won't slow down until he blasts through the green room door. The very second she steps into view he's going to gather her into his arms.

"Cass! Come here. Come here. Let me hold you."