View Full Version : Lucian's Call (Solo)
I Want To Be Your Canary
The dusty upper floor of the Golden Carmi used to be a grand ball room of a modest stately home in a once glorious district of Scara Brae. Whatever glory and monumental splendour the building once had was long gone now, replaced with dusty floors, clutter, and a floor ripped from it’s innards to make a very higglypiggildy performance stage, balcony and craft workshop. As the district about it faded, and it’s occupants bankrupt, or perhaps worse, the insides slowly became the haunting grounds of a group of bards and minstrels, and over the years rooms changed, functions altered, and construction was undertaken to transform it into the Tantalum’s hideout - the Prima Vista.
The great glass circular roof let the sun shine bright onto the stage, and cast an eerie dust tainted glow into the room. Light wasn’t needed in the day, even in the balcony or under croft, and at night, when their was performances to the group, or a debut of a new actor of play, candles and cantrips from those fortunate enough to have learnt them would cast a light blue, icy glow across the dry wood and brittle floorboards. It creaked with an ‘undeniable charm,’ as Ruby, the former mistress, had once said.
It was about noon, the young lad tinkering with a saw and a broken section of the balcony’s frame hadn’t’ looked at a clock in hours, but he’d been up since about five, and no doubt the time had flown through what had been a busy morning of last minute preparations. It was Lucian’s Call, the celebration of the first formation of the Tantalum nearly a century ago, and on this day, every year, for the last seventy years the troupe as a whole brought itself together to put on a grand and surprise performance of the most famous play they’d ever performed, and one which the citizens of Scara Brae had come to love. It was known to most common folk simply as ‘I Want To Be Your Canary,’ but it’s longer title was ‘Let Me Lay My Crown Down, I Want To Love, I Want To Feel, I Want To Be Your Canary,’ and Duffy, the current troupe master was it’s biggest fan.
In between rehearsing the opening scene he scribbled the odd thought or line down on a piece of paper that was on the table next to the tools he needed to fix the balcony. It wasn’t a very good repair, that was for sure, and he hadn’t the time to varnish it to make it blend in with the rest of the wood, but it was one more thing he had to do. Putting down the saw for a moment, he fleshes out the opening paragraph of a solo piece he was working on, reading it out loud to himself as he did so.
“It’s hard to hear yourself think sometimes, but you get by. Although silence is something you wish for, you rarely get it, so learn to cherish those moments like gold, myrrh, miracles and love. There is no such greater moment of silence than the split second before you walk out onto the stage, the anticipation of performing, the greatest playwrights of the age have all universally said, is much greater than the deed itself.”
“Duff?” A voice drifts into the large echoic upper stage, the cold still air reverberating and resonating with sudden activity. “Are you in here?”
That’s Pete. He’s a young scamp but his heart is in the right place, kind of like I was way back. Now I say way back but what I actually mean is a decade or so, apparently I’m ‘real old’ to the younger troupe, something that I get stick for all the damned time. “Hey Pete, I’m up on the balcony fixin’ the screens, hop yoursen’ up here!” Duffy returns briefly to his thoughts, “Now where was I…ah yes, the stage. Those few moments as you breathe in and out and try and remember your lines are what most of us, us bards, playwrights, artists, dancers, singers, whatever have you, that’s why we’re here - those golden moments.”
A young head pops up past the ladder, hair dishevelled, nose running, and clothes askew. “Hey, I’ve,” he grunts and shuffles over the edge, not quite able to step up off the last rung due to his height, “got this - letter, huff huff from, Miss Ruby.”
Ruby? “Oh!” Duffy returns the quill to the ink pot and trots over to him. He picks him up with an underarm scoop and plonks him upright. “That’s great!” He holds it out with an innocent look, he’d obviously been fighting with the other boys again, “Thank you very much, now, are you all set for this afternoon - hmm?”
“Shure, everyone’s downstairs finishin’ off. The props are already over at the square, can I have a cookie?” He prods about his nostrils and wipes it all away on his sleeve. Great…
“Sure you can, only one mind, and remember to wash your mouth, we can’t be ‘avin you looking’ like the tramp on Bakery Street now, off you trot - I’ll read this and be straight down, we isn’t got long before we start our performance.” Duffy sighed and ranted to himself, It would be really nice, for once, if I could get to actually finish writing a scene to a play in one quick swoop. You know, just hammer it out, quill to paper, ink to the back of my tongue in contemplation. It’d have to wait until after the performance, Ruby wanted this, so that’s what she got - she might not be the Tantalus anymore, but she still held sway…not the sort she might think… Pete waddles back off the end of the ladder.
Not much you can do about though is there…is there? Come on Duffy you klutz, this aren’t the time or the place. “Right then!” With a chipper cough he slaps his knees and limbers up, he starts reciting the opening scene:
“Princess... Wilt thou be happy, married to a lowly peasant
such as I?”
So much consideration thou hast given it! But worry not!” He pauses, stuttering a vowel or two before making a mock embrace to an unseen lover, remembering the stage direction, that was very important for timing if nothing else.
“Cast away thy trappings of royalty, and I shall swaddle thou in a gown of pure love! Never again will I part from thee! Pray, my love, make me thy canary to keep forever in the cage of thy bosom! Let us embark on the first ship tomorrow, before dawn can tell of our elopement!”
The lines were of course only his, he played the part of Marcus, and Ruby as ever would play the Princess Cornelia. She was utterly flawless with a memory as great as any of the city’s finest mages or scholars, it was a true loss for her to retire to a ‘normal’ life. Lucian Latrosse had been the first troupe master, and only Ruby since had matched him in skill, finesse and repose. Duffy tore open the delicately scribed letter and started to read:
Dear Duffy,
I hope Pete gets this to you,
The little scamp stole a cookie!
I’ll be at the square at two, as promised,
Let’s give Lucian a send off once again,
See you soon,
Ruby.
It didn’t really say much, it was just a confirmation, but it made Duffy slightly sad for reading it. He thought about what could have been, if he’d acted before Jack had done. Time was too short she’d said, and Duffy had been inclined to agree - she, as perfect as she was would only have been second to his true love - the stage, already butterflies where fluttering about in his stomach, over and over and over they went, churning up the nerves that would push him on stage and give him the vitality and exuberance needed to hop, skip, flip and jump with joy!
Depositing the letter neatly into his pocket, Duffy leapt off the balcony with agile grace and landed on the floor below in a plume of dust. It didn’t take long for him to traverse the flight of stairs that lead straight down into the large lounge beneath, it served as the meeting room and cluttered last minute entry way to the streets. The big double doors on one wall, which lead out onto the main street remained permanently closed, and two boxes had been erected in front of both the great windows, in which two mocked rooms had been placed, so nobody could see what truly went on inside from out. There was about fifteen people waiting, all moving back and forth, laughing, screaming, reciting lines. The noise wall that hit Duffy as he appeared was calming - like the noise of a crowd.
“Right then.” His words disappear into the noise. “Can I have ever-” he brings his hands together with a heavy clap and the bang brings everyone’s attention very quickly, and with a jump. “Right…sorry to startle you all,” he glances up at the old dusty clock above the front doors, “it’s midday, so, we’ve got ‘bout an hour to go before we hit the street and start our Lucian’s Call celebrations - everyone to be ready for then, ya hear? All of you should have tattooed, painted or chalked on our troupe’s symbol, preferably on your cloaks if you’re playin’ a guard, or torso if you’re a main player - I’m going over to the square now to make sure the props on the roof of the tenement block are set, and Pete is gonna wave a flag over to me once you’re all inside and ready to spring the best performance of our lives on Scara Brae!”
There was a sort of wave of brief applause and cheer, before the wall of sound and business returned. Satisfied that he’d gotten his point across, Duffy grabs his belts from the cloak table, buckles up, and scoots out of the side door into the alleyway that served as the real entrance to the Prima Vista.
“Not if I can help it! Now is my moment of vengeance! For my
parents, and for my love, Cornelia…” He pulls a dagger from his belt and waves it with a Z shape traced through the air, skipping out into the street, “I shall cut thee down!”
Opening Scene, Act 1.
The square that was at the heart of Bakery, Lombard, Loveless and Holmsgrove Streets was a simple yet understated place on the edges of the docklands. A fountain was all that occupied it most of the time, with the exception of once weekly markets, where stalls of all varieties would congregate here from the poorer trade districts to share their wares, their gossip, and often their wives. Leaving the Square via Loveless Avenue, the way was book ended on the left by the Harbour Land Inn, and on the right, the much, much taller building, consisting mainly of rooms, apartments and various hovels of a poor quality, but much used and loved rooms nether the less. From here, Duffy could see into the top floor attic window of the Inn, and the faint trace of shadows running back and forth inside.
Every year they adapted I Want To Be Your Canary to suit the modern day themes and fit in recent events or changes to monarchy and the like. This year, a comet was being portended by the madmen on the streets. There was more than likely absolutely no truth in it whatsoever, but a good troupe, especially the Tantalum, knew how to milk controversy. The front of the apartment building Duffy was glancing down from held a great clockwork clock front, a hundred concentric gears turned and ticked and ticked and chimed away the days and night in plain view of all, he could feel the movements of it’s great pendulum reverberating through the roof beneath him…he used it to time himself. All he needed now was the sign, and then the performance would begin.
“Oh where are though, Cornelia, my Canary Grande - my sweet riposte!” he recited a random line plucked from his skull to break the monotony, he was most impatient, bubbling and desperate to be doing anything other than standing. A gentle breeze whipped up dust, and birds scattered from the sporadic trees on the edges of the square in a silent flock, their beating wings drowned out by the torrent of footfalls, conversations and haggling from below.
A little face appears in the fourth floor window, waving a small blue flag with a faint white symbol. Duffy beamed a broad smile of over-enthusiastic connotations and stoop upright, tensing his legs, stretching out his arms and bouncing once or twice for good measure. “Well!” Talking to himself might not be the surest sign of sanity, but he did so to re-assure his movements, and he runs towards the ledge with all his gusto. As he brought his right foot up onto the ledge he plucked a memory that caused him to push with the right force and pose to pounce upwards and outwards. He landed with both feet on the end of the flag pole and, somewhat comically found himself flung up even higher and forwards and ultimately down…
The plan was, to use the Tinder Gear prop to cause a trail of lingering flame in the air that went downwards, a bit like a comet’s tail. As soon as he brought his arms up and began a semi-bothered spin he felt…awkward. He was going down far too fast, weighed with the heavy flint gloves and fuel pipes. Still, he ejected the liquid in a light spray as he went and just as he crash landed onto the balcony of the fourth floor of the Harbour Inn, he let off an almighty clap - a single spark caught the vapour trail and flame licked up into the sky. Had Duffy been upright at that point, and not in the middle of a very awkward and flailing tumble into the room, across the floor and headlong into a pile of rather fetching pink dresses, he would’ve certainly heard people in the street scream with shock.
Getting straight to work the other performers of the troupe flung bags of flour off the balcony and out of the windows, some threw, very carefully trying to not hit anyone as they did so bits of wood and cloth out as well, to give the impression that something had fallen and crashed into the inn itself! There was a lot of coughing and mock screaming and crashing from inside as the younger performers slammed chairs down onto the floorboards and the youngest, Zack and Joe jumped up and down and ran to and fro to create a fake commotion.
Duffy came to his senses a minute or so later, removing a scarf and an umbrella from his belts and dusting himself off with a blush. “That dint go so well,” he chuckled, but could see everyone was too busy, except for Ruby, who was trying very very hard not to laugh - very unlady like! The silence outside drew them both very cautiously to window to peer out at what was going on. People from all over the square had dropped whatever it was they were doing, fish, apple, book, child (and apparently literally, from the faint crying at the back of the crowd) and slowly approached the dusty inn. The paranoia and curiosity was almost tangible in the air, the young scamp didn’t even need to look at Ruby, or anyone else that matter to see they all thought the same. This was it!
Twirling around on one foot he pointed at one group to his left and one to his right and waved them to the window. With some sort of wooden contraption they let fly two very long and wide blue tapestries out of the windows, each equidistant of the large entrance doors of the inn three floors down. Two on the roof tossed bucket after bucket of paper and cloth clippings, which came down like a rainbow’s glow, and the doors of the inn burst open and out came Pete and his young friends, skipping, jumping, whistling and speeding. They pull the tables off the inn together by the steps, and a great cloth hanging drops down over the front of the inn, hung from the loading cranes and rafters. In a split second, the inn was now a castle front, adorned with the banner of the Tantalum, fronted by a ramshackle makeshift stage and adorned with suddenly appearing fake bushes, trees and paper props.
The crowd stood, stunned to silence.
Duffy turned to Ruby and smiled with his cheeky little smile, “So, my Lady Cornelia, shall we?” He holds out his hand, tuts as she winks at Jack over her shoulder, and almost pulls him out of the window into a combined slide down a rope ladder.
Nobody seemed to recognise them as they landed with their backs to the crowd, but as she put on a crown of a dubious nature, and he drew a dagger and helf it aloft, they began whispering. Then two trumpets appeared in the windows of the ‘castle,’ and began to play the Scara Brae waltz. Duffy turns and drops on one knee, and mutters the immortal line to begin the tale of Marcus and Cornelia once more….
“I want to be your canary!”
The wave of cheers and applause drowned out the docklands, and news spread fast that the Tantalum where once more afoot!
Back in the safety, solitude and servitude of the Prima Vista, Duffy considered the nature of what had transpired. After every performance he was happy, but at the same time, very sad that it was over so soon. The smiles and cheers on the faces of the audience in the square had lasted for almost an hour, right up until the guard finally heart about it, and game swaying in to break it all up. The cries of ‘Stop, Thief!’ he thought were fairly accurate, given that several of the younger troupe members had been cutting purses through the second act fighting scene, but it didn’t hurt to have proof about it before you flung words about the place.
The noise of celebration and laughter rose through the floorboards from below, he’d slipped upstairs to sit on the edge of the stage, kicking his heels against the backboard and his back flat on the dusty stage edge, looking up and out through the great glass dome that was sort of supposed to resemble the sun at midday - the zenith of nature. As far as he was concerned, it looked like a very badly designed pentagon, with crooked edges and a serious need for refurbishment. They’d obtained about five gold worth of coppers and coins in donations from the crowd during the performance, and another couple of pieces from the purses they’d snipped. The crowd wasn’t particularly wealthy, and Duffy’d been given strict promises that they only took from those that looked like they were wearing more than they had in their wallets. It was very hard to be cross at such cute little things, snotty noses and all.
It’d feed the most of the them for a another day or two. It was good they all knew about their situation, and would eat what was given to them. The sort of communal ethic that a troupe needed to survive had been engrained into the Tantalum from the very first day, Lucian had seen to that. “Oh Lucian…” Not fearing himself being overheard, Duffy began to speak his thoughts aloud, asking the stars themselves for answers, “what am I doing wrong? Why can’t we be as great now as you were then…”
Not so far away in the shadows, Ruby listened to the young boy’s dreams unveil themselves so freely. She heard of the streets, where she thought she felt at home, thought she’d experienced and seen for herself, but was so naive. She heard of the laughter and joy caring for the troupe gave him, and how he’d do anything to keep them together in their common goals; love, art and romance, even if most of them hadn’t gotten to the last part quite yet. They were the same passions she had, and the same Holland, Petra, Lucian…all of the Tantalum’s troupe masters had had…
“Flawless lines…perfect recollection, charm, wit, elegance, the very modern example of the modern gentleman…” With a long drawn out sigh his feet raise and drop with a bang before falling still with exasperation. As if he’d given up on his skit.
“Oh come now Duffy…” Ruby’s voice whispers softly into the room from the darkness. She chuckles as he jumps up with a start, scrabbling and scrawling and naturally falling onto the floor in a dishevelled heap. “Everything you stand for, the Tantalum stands for…everything you are…comes alive on the stage…everything you dream for, comes alive in the words you weave and the songs you sing…keep those dreams alive, and you’ll live through the many ages of Scara Brae and the cities beyond as a bard of great renown…”
“FANTASY!” Snapping perhaps prematurely, Duffy shouts at the top of his lungs. Downstairs, several score troupes fall silent. It dawns on him very slowly that he recognised the voice… “Ruby?” mustering his pride with a meek question, he scratches his head and pulls himself upright.
“Fantasy?” She steps out from behind the changing screen, wearing a short white ruffled skirt, a taught brown brassiere, and a plethora of beads, bangles and ribbons in her hair. From what Duffy could remember, she appeared to be Esmeralda, from the ancient play Notre Damnation. “A fantasy is only in your imagination Monkey Man.” She never called him that… “A fantasy is something you make happen, a dream that might seem far too unrealistic,” her foot carry her towards the stage with rhythmic, gypsy endeavours, “but will always…” she spins and blows a kiss, but instead of a wave of love, a great wall of fire rages towards him and swarms across his skin.
---
“Agh!” Waking with a start, Duffy found himself asleep on the end of the stage, his feet hanging over the edge and a spilt and shattered glass of cheap market wine dripping through the cracks of the upstairs floor. He felt bad. Very bad. Not the guilty sort of bad you got when you dirtied your Sunday best a moment before going to temple, or the bad you got when you did something you knew you shouldn’t, but couldn’t resist doing…bad as in ‘Bad,’ the bad you got the morning after a very heavy night’s celebrations.
He caught a flashback of the day before, and remembered that it’d been Lucian’s Call - the celebration anniversary of the foundation of the troupe a century back. The performance, the boisterous crowd’s cheers, everything merged into one very fragmented memory, before being broken by the sound of footsteps. “Well well, good morning sleepy head!”
It was Laverne, the Troupe’s Mistress of Piano - a talented all-round musician and far better than anyone with a needle and thread. Costume designer, conductor, and this morning, from the contents of her outstretched hand, she’d been promoted to matron. “Ughhh…” She chuckled at his groans, “what…whatd’a do?”
“According to the various whispers on the Duffy-vine, you, Miss Ruby, Pete and Jack and I think the Conley Brothers stayed up much later than everyone else and decided to drink the entire week’s supply of wine, beer and I think, from the state of the dressing room, most of the Cordon Rum too!” She plops the glass of herbal water down besides him, and hops onto the side of the stage herself. “Miss Ruby said you were singing Lucian’s Aria…can you remember?”
Duffy could not. Duffy could not remember that he was even called Duffy, never mind complicated tradespeak verses. Now that she’d filled him in, the blanks between the end of the play and the morning after were starting to fill in. He didn’t feel too bad physically, but guilt did terrible things to your bowels. “Thank god tis only once a yur,” he props himself upright and slides besides Laverne. Of all the troupe, she was the closest to him. They kind of respected each other too much to make any sort of sordid advance, but you never know - people tended to cling more to the chance of love, than to love itself. It suited her fine, and him.
“Drink this,” she picks up the glass with a delicate hand and holds it out, as it’s contents are slowly glugged down she recounts further tales of the night’s revelries. Ruby had done a fire dance, right over in the corner in the shadows, dressed as Esmeralda, and it was going well until a lick of flame caught the red ‘sunset’ curtain and the entire semi-inebriated troupe, and half asleep youngsters and sprung into collection action to douse it with water, petty cantrips and whatever came to hand. Now that she mentioned it, his nostrils did smell of smoke.
It tasted foul, but it made him feel better very quickly, “I’m not even g’na ask what’s in it…” She took the glass back and shook her head, “b‘what time is it?”
“About 11...it’s also Saturday…”
Duffy’s eyes grew like dinner plates, adrenaline suddenly taking over from his brain.
“Saturday?”
“Yes…” Laverne said that little word very sincerely, and with it came the mood and implication Duffy needed to realise he was in trouble.
“Saturday…”
Saturday was matinee day. The day the troupe performed a new play, a new-in house play, that Duffy hadn’t had the time to finish…
“It’s hard to hear yourself think sometimes, but you get by. Although silence is something you wish for, you rarely get it, so learn to cherish those moments like gold, myrrh, miracles and love. There is no such greater moment of silence than the split second before you walk out onto the stage, the anticipation of performing, the greatest playwrights of the age have all universally said, is much greater than the deed itself.”
He ran out of the room to find his book, not quite sure where his feet were going, but going there anyway. No matter how bad he felt, the show must go on! He’d never improvised two full acts before…
The sun and the sea meet on the docklands of Alva, city of commerce, travesty, fun and violence. Like any other stronghold of the kingdom of Eked, every joy and every sin can be found in the bitter sanctuary of it’s walls. Enticing young farm hands and maids from the country to a better life, only to cut them in their prime and break their climb up the social ladder. Through the artistic district, little more than a slum, the docklands, the bustling market quarter and down through the residential slums and avenues, one can hear the laughter and arguments of countless thousands, going about their business and lives in the only way they know - eternal gusto and constant energy.
A young man, older than the youths crowded around him, but not as old, wise or learned as the adults walking by twirls a dagger in his right hand, and hands out scrolls of parchment with the other, a dozen of which are tucked under his belt, into his waistcoat and down the side of his boots. He looked like an accountant who lived and breathed his work, or a man who’d partaken in one too many parties - a little unhinged. “C’mon, c’mon! Getcha tickets, tickets to the play now, here, free, come see the new play!”
The grubby paws of the youths might not have understood the finer points of the theatrical world, but the bigger audience the greater the renown, respect and reception the man’s troupe would received, if all went to plan. It didn’t take long for the crowd to disperse, leaving the ticket seller with three scrolls and ruffled hair. “Any one else? New play, see it first on the Dockside Quay!” His accent carried clearly along the avenue, a small stretch of stalled cobbles which connected the great market square and the first of many smaller streets which lead into the heart of the upper class suburb of Mandrel. All across the city similar men were banding their wares, nearly two hundred parchments were being handed out in all, enough to fill the Dockside Quay to the very brim, eager, grubby, uneducated and unlearned masses and the educated and literate few, it didn’t matter who came, as long as they did.
“Here here,” swirling on his heel the ticket seller meets the gaze of a tall, bearded man brandishing a copper coin, a very lavish azure jacket, and a large wig of grey curls and purple ribbons, “I’ll take one of those young man, for the price of love is but a garter away!” He wasn’t entirely sure what the man meant, but he took his money anyway, split another ticket and nodded politely as he slipped away. That was…disturbing, he thought to himself.
The red bricks and mortar of the nearby wash house served as a momentary rest for the young man, who leans against it with style and panache. The sort that oozed confidence, despite him not having any. With only three left and several hours before he had to return to the Dockside to perform his part in the troupe’s new fandango, he thought about what he could do to pass the time. Alva was a tremendously expansive city, one of the biggest on the Eastern Peninsula, sprung up centuries ago from the ashes of a war. The then king had chosen here, of all the open spaces left uninhabited, due to the rich soil and depth of the estuary. As industry had churned away the seabed, and the land had been drained, Alva appeared and continues to grow inland, up, and down. There was always something to do, you just had to know what it is you wanted, and more importantly, where to look if your tastes were a little more sordid than the general populous.
Kicking away from the wall he slipped a ticket into the back band of a parasol beauty, and the others into the wicker basket of a busy family mother, now free of his duties, he pushed through the stream of people rushing left and right along the apex of the street and slipped into the alleyway on the opposite side. Almost instantly the noise died down and the light began to fade, the walls of the buildings either side grew taller and taller, until the only light came from above in a thin sliver of the day. The noise faded further still, and the thin white line above disappeared, indicating that the young man had now gone either underground, or into the bowels of an ancient building long forgotten. He slowed down as he turned a corner and the corridor turned into a damp brick chamber, barely fifty feet wide and not much taller than he was.
Inside there was a central fire pit, which was dimly ablaze and churning out heat by the wave, and roughly six murky shadows on the outer edge of the fire’s light. There was nothing else in the room, no torches, no tables, no water…just a dark hovel, and the faint sound of a man’s breath. The ticket seller stepped into the room and let the grey light illuminate his figure, a subtle yet unobtrusive way of announcing his arrival. “Jack? I know you’re in here lad, you know why I’m here…dontcha?”
The six figures moved, but not in any discernable way, or with any recognisable shape. They simply shifted, hinting at movement, like a flickering ghoul in the night, and the sudden tenseness in the air sent a tingle down the man’s spine. “Come on now…there’s no need for that, I only came for what’s mine, right?” No reply came, a moment passed, and then the fire pit came to life with a small pop of air.
The six figures slowly merged into one huddled shape on the opposite side of the regenerated fire. The man was almost certain he heard the sound of metal scraping, and bone breaking as the shape turned into one that he finally recognised. “It is good….to see…you…Duffy…” The figure spoke, a whispery and haunted voice cut the air, as if tongue were knife and intent was diamond. “Why…are…you…here…?”
Memories of their last encounter swarmed his mind, he’d been very reckless then, he didn’t intend to be so hasty this time, so much was at stake on this encounter. “I have come to offer you a gift, the last ticket to the troupe’s new play - the Tantamount King,” he whipped the last scroll, one he’d been saving from view, and handed it out. There was no way the figure could reach, but some people did not need arms length to take what they desired. With a hiss the scroll flicked through the air, as if the shadows had snatched it from the man’s hand. The shadow spoke, the sensory deprivation of hearing such an unearthly voice began to make Duffy nauseas, as if he’d heard this before, or a moment ago.
“I…cannot…thank…you….enough-” the fire grows momentarily and then dies down to embers once more. “Do…they…know?” Duffy frowned, thankful that it was too dark for his discomfort to be revealed, at least visually.
“Know? That you’re here? No…I don’t think so, I would hope that you’d keep your end of the bargain Lucian, the troupe admires you, holds you on a pedestal as a martyr for the stage and they would be crushed and defeated if they knew what you’d done…what you were…” If it wasn’t for his position, Duffy was certain he’d have a dagger through his throat there and then, he was speaking utterly out of turn.
“I…would…expect…no…less…Duffy…”
Dropping to his haunches to poke the fire with his dagger, Duffy thought very carefully for a moment, a wave of contemplation washing aside his insecurities. He wasn’t sure what had made his feet drag him here, he could’ve gone to the gambling houses, a tavern, heavens, he could’ve simply gone back to the Prima Vista to hammer out a practice run of one of the play’s trickier acts…but no, he had to make everything more complicated as ever. He wondered why he did it, why he asked for trouble. The events of the party the night before for ‘Lucian’s Call’ might’ve played their part, seeded their doubts in his mind and made him come here for resolution sub consciously…
“Why did you do it? You had the troupe, you had the city ablaze with the legendary performances you put on…the city loved and respected the theatre…now look at it! We’re forced to a life of petty crime and secret, spontaneous and hurried performances. The guards come, break us up, and we run for our lives to our bolt holes! Everything you built, you destroyed…why, why’d you do it?” The cheery enthusiasm that usually occupied Duffy’s voice was slipping away to reveal a more sincere and troubled edge. This wasn’t the same anguish that crushed him whenever Miss Ruby waltzed into the room, it was a more deep-seated qualm. “Why do you insist I lie to keep a false memory of you alive, whilst you rot here in this…retched form?”
The shadow smiled and it’s teeth glinted in the crimson light. Born Lucian Lacrosse over a century ago he’d quickly rose to prominence as a playwright, entertainer and general vagabond. In his name, stead and wake the Tantalum had bonded and made a name for itself in every true noble household, and gained the favour of the Royal House; duty bound to perform the royal plays and ballads, as well as plays of their own devising and of the people themselves, the troupe had enjoyed two decades of fame. Lucian, sedated one day by the constraints that had been placed on him by the favour of the queen, took a dagger to a guard’s throat, and tore his own love down, brick by brick, word by word. It was fortunate that only Jackson had seen the event, and rather than tell the troupe the truth, he made out that the guard had been drunk, assaulted Lucian, and he’d not seen their master since.
Driven by the guilt and anger, Lucian lost all sense of himself and retreated to his small holding. As the decades passed, Lucian’s spirit, for that was all that remained of him now - a shadow, a daemon, a remnant, remained as bitter as ever in his own four walls. The city grew around his house, for it resisted all attempts at demolition, and within fifty years the house disappeared from sight. The theatre district became nothing more than a ghostly empty place, and people forgot the joys of the written word and the street troupes. One last gestalt wish from Lucian’s shadow spoke to Miss Ruby one night, and drew her to the secret home beneath the streets of Pollack Row. Lucian’s Call, an anniversary of Lucian’s disappearance and remembrance of his talent swiftly became about the glory alone, and in ten short years any memory of the mystery of his disappearance faded. The secret was entrusted to the troupe master, who would pass it down to their successor, and continue to do so until the theatre district could be restored, until the song and dance and love of the Tantalum troupe could be returned to the queen’s favour.
“They did not deserve that…they…did…not…deserve…me…” Lucian’s voice was loosing it’s haunted edge, forming sincere expressions in the dark, Duffy began to feel as if he was talking to a human. “I…was…selfish…”
Young Duffy Bracken nodded, waves, and left. Leaving the bitter old man to his solitude. All these years he’d been groomed to return this relic of jealousy to the stage, and for the last two years, he’d made sure that anything but that would happen. The Tantalum would indeed be accepted once more, and the queen’s favour would rest on the troupe, to perform in the royal house and to show the city the ancient tales of Scara Brae’s past once more. But it would be the troupe, not it’s master, that would gain such glory - he would not fall for the same trappings of power as his once ‘glorious’ founder.
Lucian’s Call would become a festival to remind the world that fame was the true evil in the city, that people became gorged on recognition for their selfish deeds, and that ultimately, the words of the play, not the speakers, were what truly made a man great - the writer was the master, not the troupe’s leader.
Swaying out onto the sun kissed street Duffy stretched and yawned. Today would be a good day, the matinee was a once in a lifetime chance to introduce more people to the stage, and to drum up support for the return of a theatrical way of life to the city streets. No longer would the Tantalum be forced to steal to survive.
You Hung Me Up
Listen to the tantamount frivolities,
Your ironic gestures, your idiosyncratic melodies.
These are the death knells of man,
You crush others to feel alive, to feel at one.
Crave for the darker things, the joyous travesties,
Your callous misshapen truths, your taught neurotic remedies.
You created these evils, but you will not exorcise,
Behold my protégé, learned scholar, mistress.
Learn from the master of torment, of betrayal,
Your backstab pirouette cannot hurt me,
Play the world against me, oh sickly daughter,
You made your choice, you hung me up.
---
Scara Brae, The Prima Vista
Present Day
Duffy closed the small journal that sufficed as his pensieve and settled it down next to his feet. The words made a sort of semi-lucid sense to him, they'd fallen from his mind long ago, when he was angry, and when nothing more than words could sedate his pain - with the tournament, and the fortunate turns for Tantalum, he reflected on the years he spent as a thief, as a degenerate pickpocket with little more to his name than the clothes on his back and the scars on his shins...
As he grew older, he had come to understand something of life, of living, of breathing the air and feeling pain, love and joy. Heck, he might learn something more as he went on, but for now, all he had to remember, was never to trust anyone...except those who live behind a thousand masques....
Only those who hid themselves, could truly appreciate and be true to their own mien.
He sighed, pushed himself up, and trotted back to the group on the stage, they were running through the last rehearsal of 'Lysander's Flock,' his first full play, written in his own hand, and it wouldn't get any further without it's Lysander now would it?
Oh hear! You are nothing to me,
Not a scratch on the heart, or torn lung, nought.
I crumble at your presence but I know not why, I am bound, tied, tested.
Collect your belongings and flee, flee from the scene,.
I need you not, foul Damascus blade!
Perfect symmetry? Once, it existed between us, it is now shattered.
Like the kaleidoscope of summer, you must soon fade, spent,
I wish to see no more of you, feel no more of you, cry no more for you, be gone!
I am now my own discovery, spending dreams to trade for lovers, dead.
The rattling renaissance tone of the poem brought about a deep heart warmth, at long last he’d finished the closing soliloquy to the play - the last remembrance, the final command from Lysander to his lost love - a tingle of excitement quickly swept aside that ultimate moment of satisfaction and relief, which in turn brought butterflies and hurricanes to bear in Duffy’s stomach. A couple of the couplings and words didn’t make complete sense, but given the abstract waffling of some of the city’s writers, he didn’t think it would matter much, they had one task, to conjure the arcane, and it did the job well.
It had been a few days since his encounter with his first opponent, despite her protestations that she was victim of a case of mistaken identity. Duffy was uninjured, but still had not heard from anyone claiming to be a representative of this ‘tournament.’ Ruby was struggling to fit into her costume as he wrote on a small scrap of parchment a hasty but precise letter, addressed to the troupe as a whole.
---
Dear Troupe…
I am so sorry to leave in such mordant fascination, but these deeds I now perspire for must be done. Must be engaged, drawn upon…completed. I leave Luther in charge, he’s a good enough soul to keep the cogs of the stage grinding, and Ruby will be around intermittently to do her whiney coyote with the way of the world.
I will be back in no more than three weeks, I shan’t promise, for history has it’s way with me sometimes, one blasted thing after the other, so I may be earlier or later, depending on the speed I commit and use; but hark, it will bring just rewards for the troupe as a whole - love you all, let the words shine bright!
Duffy
---
He looked over his shoulder at the buxom lass who was adjusting her breeches and raised an eyebrow, “Did that sound okay to you? Or should I give you a minute…”
Ruby smiled and stomped her foot, satisfied that she was ready to brave the outside world, “it’s fine, blunt and feisty, your usual mode of address - but do you think leaving Luther with the reigns is better? I mean...there’s, you know…me?”
With a succinct hint of irony, Duffy bowed as if to obey her thinly veiled command, “sorry m’lady Rubeh, but you’ve given up the title and you’ve a loving husband and,” he jabs a finger at her still remarkably toned stomach, “whatever you decide to call it, to consider.”
“Well I’m pleased you decided to waylay your plans until after the first performance of your play, Lysander’s Flock will be a flourishing success and you can leave in a flurry of excitement not seen since Petra lost her knickers during the chorus of ‘How’s Your Father,’ I don’t think she could top it if she tried!”
The dusty sun kissed atmosphere of the Prima Vista’s upper floor cut the silliness for a moment, as the pair looked around and reserved themselves to a distant stance of observation - it was theirs, by all means, but some things a man possessed, he could not touch, or touch often enough to satisfy. “Yeah…those were the good old times, hopefully she’ll decide to bury her shame and take up her own handle, saying that, she ain’t exactly disappeared, considering she said, and I quote, ‘I ain’t never no coming near you lot ‘gain!’” He chuckled and tossed a scarf at Ruby, who quickly knotted it around her wrist and let it dangle. Her dress was torn, adorned with dust and belts and held up by braces and a corset a good deal too small for her.
“The whalebone princess was an inspired idea Duffy but I can’t help but feel you’re dressing me up like a lamb for slaughter, there might be children in the audience!”
Again, he brought his eyebrow up with a puzzled look, “since when did that matter? You’re dressed for battle, not for a night out on Salas Avenue - in fact you’re underdressed for the role, now” he makes a mock spinning top in the air, “twirl thine spirited backside about so I can have a gander - don’t want any safety pins giving you a Morris minor mid way through a line!” (Dubbed Morris Minor due to Mr Morris suffering minor injuries when a pin impaled him to the stage curtain…an act which literally brought down the house).
Tucking the letter into the folds of his shirt, the troupe master, Lysander, hero and villain nodded in appreciation at the quality of both their costumes. Lilith had outdone herself again, the whole troupe had. “Succinct once more m’lady, will though now come with me to the battle field, to behold and hold dearly the angels of the gods and all their hostly ilk? The bombastic increment and posh accent he put on made Miss Ruby giggle, “Halt, have I offended thee mistress of beauty?
“Duffy! Stoppit, we ain’t on stage now - if you ‘aren’t to your lines this close to curtain’s rise I suggest you take up fishery, come’n, let’s get downstairs and help load up the wagon - and a fruitful day to you - this success is yours and yours alone!” She bows and skips out of the room, her sodden clogs clapping a mock applause as she went. In the silence that follows Duffy recites the letter, and the discussion with the messenger from Corone…was he making the right decision…leaving the city in search of treasure, to plunder, aid, sing and steal his way into claiming more gold and fame in the name of the [I]Tantalum?[/]
The elven woman on the rooftops might have been an innocent passer-by, but he was beginning to feel Fate’s pressure on his shoulders. Things were conspiring against him, not in a malicious way, not in a way that forced perspiration or fear onto a simple soul such as he…but in a way that made him stand up to the sudden responsibility. The troupe was his charge, and he had to do anything, had to do all things to ensure that it’s name, and it’s players, were kept alive not only in the songs they sung, the plays they wrote, the performance pieces they sacrificed everything or…but in the true extent of their flesh and blood as well.
He liked how things were turning out, how things were coming to pass. He drew the sword from the stone at the centre of the stage, mocking the stage direction that the age old playwright Merlinius Stonus had intended, and sheathed it under his belt. It would be the badge of office, the wand of artifice that would close the first act, an epic battle between Lysander and Lysonus, his brother at arms and treacherous devil…leaving the sun kissed borderline between stage and living quarters, he took to singing Lucian’s Aria loud enough to be heard in passing, but softly enough to calm his nerves.
So many futures were opening up before him…
Only one thing in all passing was certain.
The Theatre Was Once More Alive,
The sound of singing and of prose and passion was once more alive in the streets of Scara Brae.
Journey to Tomorrow
My head is spinning. A nightmare guilt has befallen me, all my notions have been crushed, my thoughts ill perceived...how could I have gotten somebody so wrong?
All these days I've been trying to prove myself to the Legacy of the Troupe - to show that not all the men of the theatre who've lead this rag tag group fall for Lucian's Call.
I made a discovery, whilst packing my sparse belongings, hidden behind the painting of Lucretcia Lemont, a place where I usually hide letters or documents of my own, a letter that is as old as the house itself. It appears, that Lucian did not leave Scara Brae and the troupe for the reasons I once believed...things will change when I return - Lucian will answer me with the truth, and I will break him free from his prison of shadowed longing and mordant deprivation...Lysander shall become me, Shakespire shall ascend me, I will find the canary of the ether plain, become all the titles and names this troupe has performed, just to free the greatest man alive from the trappings of a fabricated lie...
I must tell Lucian about Celia's affair....
My Dearest Celia,
I have tried to find the answers, to these many, many questions. But each step I take to coming closer to the truth, I cannot help but find myself taking two steps back. I am faced, or should I say that I believe I am faced, with an inhospitable incompatibility with the world in which I have found myself alive. I am grateful for this gift, yes, do not allow yourself to mistake this seeming apathy with nihilistic glee. I want to feel, I want to discover, but the society in which we live hinders those who deem themselves fit to explore the wider environ.
I think that I should take the steps upon the ladder of life, ensure my place, take hold of my lot and contemplate which rung I wish to settle upon. I am faced with as many choices as you, your neighbour, your friend, but where I seem to differentiate between the two, is the order of events and the way in which, so far, they have unfolded.
I wish to coagulate this seeping, aching wound. I wish to bathe and dress it so that I can move on, and the way in which I can accomplish this, I have to yet to discover. So I guess, in seeking the truth of life, I have discovered that the truth itself is not where I am at a loss, but the truth in myself. If I can discover this, then I will, or so I hope, and hope beyond all measure, find myself again.
Look at my life, and you will see no difference, except perhaps momentary weakness bound in the passing of a short lived, over-matured youth. I do not think so highly of myself to think that I am more mature in my outlook than those I have befriended, but, I see myself as more mature than I should be, giving account to that which has happened, and that which I have been witness to thus far.
I guess, in some small way, I am trying to give myself a goal in life to which I can dedicate myself. It is something we all should possess, not dreams, dreams are for fools, but a goal; a driving force beyond the mundane orientation that is the day to day. Mine, in reflection of the above, is to discover. To discover the true extent of the world, to discover science, to discover the absence of a need of religion, to discover the principles of light, love, learning and loathing.
It may seem like I simply wish to live, but that and what I wish for are two separate directions. I want to learn why, not when, and I wish to know what, instead of whom. I wish to learn the greater meanings behind the words I speak, to learn why humanity reacts to its own invention with such absconded passion. How, and how alone, can one soul create such an influential footprint, as to leave mutterings of their existence for hundreds, if not thousands of years within the hallowed halls of human existence.
Legacy. That is the word. I wish to leave a legacy, but, in light of my current tradition and moral dilemma, I wish not for a legacy of flesh, but a legacy of intellect. Somehow, somewhere and place on this Earth I wish to be remembered. Be that legacy a book, or a paper, or a conditional cure, I do not know or care, I wish for it simply to be, and to that end I will dedicate myself with such devotion, that faith can have and will not have hold over me.
I read back over this, and I well with embarrassment. Not for the pomposity, or for the emotions such angered dwellings instil in this fake, shattered weakness. But, and I shy at the thought, because I don’t feel that there is another soul I know, another one I can communicate so openly with, that will understand what it is that I am trying to say and in the way that I am saying it. Perhaps it is a self inflicted exile?
All my life I have confounded my expression into a method of ‘dumbing-down,’ and I am sick of it. I am sick of expressing myself and finding my expressions questioned, not for their semantic coil, but for their simplistic, linguistic nature. Of course, humanity is such a thing that communication is conducted on so many disparaging levels that it can only be a case of time before one level must adapt to another. But in the same why that I would not wish my friends to adapt to my morality, my methods, I should not have to bear witness to their own lack of vocabulary.
Another turn in this tale, is that I should not see myself dead with such people; that is what you were thinking, is it not? I would agree with you, if it were not for the part where friends are not chosen, they are given, and time solders such a relationship until betrayal shatters those concrete bonds. I wish that I could, and I mean no disrespect to those people I know, and on some unknown level love, just leave. Find a way, and a way that is permanent, to simply go. To make a life for myself from the ruins of my own damnation. I cannot without severing all ties, immobilising contact with my family, and severing country loyalties. This is my ultimate dream, the purest shaping of fear within the Fear that conquers all.
I will go, everything I am working towards now, or should I say, I cannot not go, or my goal cannot ever truly be fulfilled. I will one day, pack my bags, say my muted goodbyes, and run. I will find myself on the farthest sure, with no notion or deceit in my eyes. There I will be made, or be unravelled, and the truest test of all, for me, will begin.
That test, is to resist making the return journey prematurely. A test of will, against emotion, to erase what I have created, to not fall for the same old sordid ploys of cons and fluttering, to damn them all to hell, and make my legacy. Selfish? Yes. Puerile? Yes. But then you and I must ask ourselves, when I am ready to return, not through weakness but through revelation, will I have changed and become that which I am truly meant to, and will you all be stuck in this same corrupted lifestyle? Will you have allowed your own failings to bind, consume and utterly destroy you? Will I have evolved too much to be able to become part of this Old World once more?
Then, look in the mirror, and ask yourself, is it I who is too philosophical, open, spiritual and lust laden? Or is it you who is too grounded in the blandness of your reality…? Should I condemn myself for wanting more, in a world of plenty? Should I ignore these thoughts, only to die in obscurity? Only time will tell, and now I must buy my ticket, so see you on the dock beyond the mists of the ocean.
Love Lucian
The End
Amaril Torrun
08-29-09, 12:03 AM
Lucian’s Call
Story
Continuity 5 ; I got a lot of basis for the here and the now, but didn’t learn very much about where Duffy is coming from other than a few past plays. I did like the quick inclusions of various play titles and quick details of those plays to explain things. It was a nice way to keep up the portrayal of the troupe life as a huge factor in Duffy’s life. I just felt that there could have been more focus on where Duffy was coming from as an individual along with the well done continuity of the troupe. His desire to venture off into the world at the end of the story seemed to come out of nowhere, based on how the rest of the thread was written.
Setting 6 ; When you name off a bunch of different streets in Scara Brae and near the docklands, I feel you left out a lot of detail needed to make the city as lively as you tried to make it. You tended to repeat descriptions for various places, especially the word “dusty.” There was a lot of dust in this story. I’m not saying that is a bad thing, seeing as how The Tantalum is based in the poorer part of Scara Brae, or that dusty is the only word you used. There just needs to be a bit more variety in your word choices to take your lively world of theatre to the next level. Your use of The Tantalum’s past experiences of their plays was a nifty way to bring some moments into crystal clear description, such as the “Morris Minor” bit. Things such as that, when done right, is where you’ll start seeing peak scores. Bring in some more word variety, and use all five senses a bit more than you did, and you’ll get there.
Pacing 4 ; You maintained the same tempo throughout the story, though that tempo seemed too fast. There were a lot of different plot lines to follow and the different scenes went by very quickly. There just seemed to be too much information missing on various parts of the thread that could have been there if the story were slowed down. An example is when you mentioned Lucian as a ghoul-like spirit, but left that part of the story so quickly that I was left with more questions about him than I started out with. There is so much gripping stuff in this story, but I needed
Character
Dialogue 8 ; I loved the dialogue, and there was a good deal of it. The members of The Tantalum speak appropriately to their rugged lifestyle in the streets. Sometimes it takes a moment to figure out what they are saying, but that is true to their character. Something that struck a chord though was Ruby’s speech. She began with pretty clear language, with proper grammar and the like. Toward the end of the story however, she spoke in the same was as the rest of The Tantalum kids. There was no mention of why she would speak in two very different ways, and this was the biggest misstep of this category.
Action 7 ; This wasn’t an action packed quest of any kind. Rather, you scored high here for giving a hustle and bustle feel to the docklands and Scara Brae as Duffy and The Tantalum know it.
Persona 7 ; It is blatantly obvious that you know what you’re doing with this character. Continue to flesh him out with more in-depth looks into his thoughts and feelings about the world surrounding him.
Writing Style
Mechanics 3 ; I noticed a lot of run-on sentences, often caused by using commas when periods would be more appropriate. Sometimes reading your longer sentences aloud can help you realize where they need to end and a new one should begin. I used to overuse commas as well and was told the same thing. Just don’t do it around other people, since they might look at you funny. You switched tenses often, even within single sentences, and also changed from third to first person once. There were some misspellings and some instances of using the wrong word, such as “the guard finally heart about it” instead of ‘heard about it.’ I always try to look at writing a story as being only halfway done. There’s no exact science or magic number to figure out how many times a person must reread their work before it becomes excessive. Personally, I tend to need about five separate sessions of pure editing before I feel like I’m done, and even then I’ll miss things. I also need to go out into the sun more often.
Technique 6 ; Your style is unique and you seem to have a pretty good grasp on what is necessary to make a story worth reading. There are some things to look at in order to improve here. Let’s look at these two excerpts:
“…Swaying out onto the sun kissed street…”
“…The dusty sun kissed atmosphere of the Prima Vista’s upper floor…”
This is an example of repetition that doesn’t help add flavor to the writing. The first time you used it, it worked. That is something you should be doing throughout your stories, and you do an above average job of it. Once I got to the second excerpt, I stopped and looked for the first again. These two phrases aren’t very far apart and you used the same description for two very different things. This is another area where you need to diversify an already existing talent you show in your writing.
Clarity 5 ; There were some confusing spots, such as, “…when their was performances to the group…” I don’t know what you’re saying here. I didn’t understand what the dialogue at the end of post 1 had to do with anything going on. I had to reread and I’m now thinking that it was a part of his practicing the act before the actual show began. His practicing throughout is a significant part of what makes Duffy tick, but it needs to be clearer, so that you don’t lose your readers. The run-ons and the comma mistakes hurt here as well.
Wild Card 9 ; Despite some of the lower scores, this is what I’m looking for when I look for Althanas threads to read. There is so much freshness, so much creativity in your writing and in the world of The Tantalum that you are creating. I hope to see a lot more of this in the future. This isn't a loose nine.
Total Score: 60.
Duffy earns 610 experience and 100 gold.
Congratulations on a great story!
You know how to reach me if you have questions about my commentary.
Taskmienster
08-29-09, 12:54 AM
Exp and GP added!
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