All Things Said And All Things Done (Solo)

[Duffy]

The Deeds We Transpire To Forget


A collage of fleeting visions into the machinations of Duffy Bracken's mind; hints of things to come, things potential, and things dreamt fondly of in the night.


Oh, when there’s no one else in sight
In the crowded, lonely night
Well, I wait so long for my love vibration
And I’m dancing with myself.

~Billy Idol


Duffy had not had much time to simply enjoy his own company in a long while. It was not the usual past time for a leader, nor was it the occupancy of a fool. In the latter days of the hottest month of the year he had taken it upon himself to relish in the beauty and cornucopia like state of Scara Brae’s more artistic districts, to walk amongst the flora and the fauna of the city he called home. Whilst this had resulted in a great many blisters, and three new pairs of socks, he had started to feel a little bit more connected to the earth he walked on, and the air he breathed.

Time was running short for the young thief, but not in the mortal sense of losing one’s life. Soon he would have to face up to the responsibility he had skirted around for so long, he would have to stand up to the very thing that had drawn him like a moth to flame to the theatre troupe he loved. The scrupulous attention he had paid to the pieces of the jigsaw he was slowly assembling was without peer, without equal in accuracy or anal retention. This, after all, was his one and only chance to defeat his counterpart for good.

He salivated at the very thought of witnessing Lucian’s fall. It was a long time coming, and revenge was something even the greatest paragon of mankind could not resist forever; although Duffy could hardly claim to be such. The sun started to rain down across the city as he turned a corner to start back on his daily tracks. He considered what life would be like after Lucian was gone, how much simpler it would all be. He licked his lips at the prospect of being able to finally hold an official license, signed, sealed and delivered by the royal house guard without arrest or a chase.

He passed a market stall laden with cakes and tarts and waltzed past another full of spices and exotic wares, the cosmopolitan nature of the slums churned up old ideas at the back of the bard’s mind. As he walked, dancing in his thoughts all to himself, he felt that familiar spark of creativity and pieced them together into something tangible. He took in the sights and sounds of the city, folding them into the tablet of creation as locations, names, places, loves and lusts and hates alike.

The dancing foot falls of a street performer padded by; which was followed by a wave of adoration and clapping; only bringing Duffy’s head up for a moment to acknowledge its existence. He returned to counting the cobbles beneath his feet and muttering to himself of long lost memories and halcyon weeks, occasionally rummaging in a pocket to see what treasures he had abandoned in the blur that was the day to day. It all formed part of the research process to garnering a new title, to creating something that would excite the citizens of Scara Brae as much as Lucian’s Call or Lysander’s Flock had done not months before.

Duffy tingled with immature glee. Something was abounding, dancing, cantering and in the limelight, The Aria began to sing of a new hero awakening at the back of Duffy’s mind – of a new virtue and prince to leap from the quill onto the page of destiny.

[Duffy]

The first question you had to ask when devising a new play was one of heroics and propagandistic motions. Who then, would be the lead, and why would you cast someone as such an iconic figure? Would you write an anti-hero, to jar the course? Would you partake in a little gender manipulation, and lead your armies of old to battle as a woman of proud and ample figure? This was always the most important question, as the rest of the cast and lines, the play itself, ultimately followed.

Duffy had played many a hero, for he was undoubtedly the male lead, even in plays he did not cast and performances he did not arrange. It was tradition as the Tantalum, as was the tradition for Ruby to be the female lead. Of course, this made the decision somewhat simpler, as type casting was both a boon and curse to the productive influence. He did what he did best, and she did the same, with the occasional deviation in form coming from a particularly heavy night’s drinking, or an impish mood to take a flight of fancy into another realm, or a tighter set of heels.

With a quickening pace, he entered the inner sanctum of the Numarr slums and was taken aback by a wave of sensations, some he presumed were smells and some he hoped. The buckets of sluice flying from windows and the dodgy hand to hand dealings of the street runners made their way into a dark and mysterious opening scene, set in a port in a far away land; perhaps...perhaps Dheathain, or perhaps more further afield still. He side-stepped two lovers with an ample spin who were making out in a wagon of hay and chuckled to himself. Whilst there was little sun between the tall buildings built on buildings that formed either side of the road, the heat and thus the romance still lingered.

“Ladies and gentlemen, cast your gaze back a thousand years to the Port of Andrassy, the once fabled heart of the Red Lamina’s flag. Let me take you on a perilous sea journey to distant shores, treasure coves and the monstrous Leviathan; behold in wonderment the story of the Red Cutlass King!” His boisterous self voiced narrative caught a whiff of what he hoped was a fish pie, and he smeared onomatopoeia and aquatic stage direction over the notebook. This amounted to a small note which read:



Get Pete 'n' comp'nee t'throw fish guts-around t' audience’s feet, for au-then-tikat-ticity.

He nibbled the end of his quill as he turned another corner and appeared back out in the sunshine at the edge of Solomon Square. The fountain at its heart only served to reinforce the sound of the sea in his ears, and he went about scribbling a brief set of character traits that a captain must have. From this little kindling of inspiration, Duffy set in motion what could surely be the most daring and raucous production they had undertaken yet! Back in the upper reaches of the Prima Vista, resting on a pile of rags and dusty props, the Red Cutlass of the Red Scourge sang an ancient and very red aria of pillaging, death, and menace.

It would sing for blood once again, but the mystery of whose blood remained behind the stage curtain until the opening act.

[Duffy]

The music drifted up through the claptrap floor, it’s resistance to noise long dissipated it acted merely as a hollow shield to the lively cacophony. The sun was shining once more, as it tended to do early in the morning over the busy market trading and hubbub that was Scara Brae before lunch, and in turn, the bright rays of radiant coziness dove through the stained glass ceiling of the Prima Vista. This synthesis suited Duffy perfectly, who was sat once more at the centre of raised wooden platform, surrounded by parchment, book and quill alike, working on his scribbling, his plays, or whatever words gave him the drive to run at the day with all his heart. He flicked the feather to sign off a line with a small blot, and looked up for a moment to think on where to take his character next.

It was an uncertain creation, the character of Lysander, but from his mind it had sprung and that was all there was too it. It had been months, heavens, he had forgotten how long exactly, since the debut of Lysander’s Flock and in the time he had been away on his spurious adventures in Corone it had gained such a furious momentum that the troupe had to stop performing anything else, for fear of reprisal. That had hurt his ego somewhat, knowing that another man had played his creation, his verbal, semantic and personal homunculus; Lysander was as much a part of Duffy’s youthful little mind as he was a player in a very light hearted adventure tale. He had seen the man in the flesh to know that it was true.

With his free hand he picked up the simple wine glass, lacking in any adornment asides from smudges and dirt and took a delicate sip. There were several people downstairs that would scold him drastically for drinking before noon, but he found it helped in very sparse moderation, and he felt he deserved it after his escapades in far off lands, forgotten wars and the affairs of others. The handsome haul of gold he had somehow managed to scrabble together on his travels had not only replenished the coffers of the troupe, his own trousers, and those of their Spartan debtors, but also provided a means to fix the three broken panes in the century old roof. That alone was worth it - he could not begin to describe the annoyance of a leaky, windy, open air workspace, especially in the harsh winters.

He felt…satisfied. Not gloated, and certainly not the sort of contentment that came after far too much enjoyment at a banquet or a Wenham Celebration…no…this was more a gentle and subtle wave of sub conscious euphoria - a breeze of happiness on a sea of troubles that was ‘life’ and all its little nuances.

[Duffy]

Ignoring the space beyond the stage, Duffy expected the items lain around him. His leather bound book, which now contained the lyrics to some of the songs that had conjured manna and other things besides was there…several ageing books that smelt of damp brick too, one a copy of Grammah Fyr Chyldryn, the other a first edition of I Want To Be Your Canary. His daggers were absent, no doubt tucked under his pillow in his partisan quarters, but there rested his enigma…the ‘katarhna,’ as he wiry accent called it. He supped the wine again, a bottle he’d paid ‘a small fortune’ over four months ago in Old Man Jacob’s Bazaar, the challenge of purchasing it and not drinking it for so long was partly why he survived; he couldn’t die without drinking ‘luxury’ now, could he? There were pens and inkpots and whetstones and chalk scattered around him as well, a pair of breeches, for some inexplicable reason, had fallen from the rafters as he entered the room.

Duffy wondered what another might think about him if they could see only the things arrayed on the stage. Were they a mad man’s ramblings, perhaps? Did the wine, bottle and battered iron plate give a hint at something aristocratic, something Machiavellian? Or did they hint, as the troupe master expected, at shackles of vice and an escape to the beyond. It dawned on him eventually that the last line he’d written; ‘Of the mortal coil I am so fond, but for now, let us unravel history’ hadn’t been expanded upon in almost an hour. Wasn’t it funny… He questioned to himself with a furrowed brow and a stern stare up at the sun roof. These little distractions we suffer all our lives taking so much of our time and brilliance… Shaking his head and clicking his back he picked up the feather he’d dropped absent mind idly and refreshed it’s nib with a new ink pot’s bounty.

The song from below reached its first chorus and the strings made the stage vibrate with harmonious melody; it was the piece of music that had been arranged to act as Lysander’s Theme in different scenes from the first play, but the first performance had the conductor riddled with some coughing bug or another and it wasn’t exactly perfect - he’d asked the musicians to practice it until it was beyond flawless, and driven into the realm of ethereal. On the one hand, he wished for peace and quiet to finish off the opening scene of the Blade singer’s triumphant return, but on the other, it sounded so charming, it was keeping him sedated and grounded, a balance of drunken euphoria and melancholic attention that was serving him well.

‘But Lysander…our emotions mingled in the springs of life, if we begin to disobey those primordial instructions, what manner of song will you have to sing to save the souls of the people of our town? He paused to read over the line, and did so several times, but he shook his head as something was jarring. He scribbled out words and shuffled them about, ‘But Lysander…our emotions mingled in the springs of life, if we begin to disobey those primordial-arcane instructions, what manner of song will you have to sing to savecalm the souls of the peopleremnants of our town? Speaking out the amendments in a brash but evidently female role Duffy was satisfied with it, and how it connected and felt with the previous scene. “It’ll do…it’ll do,” he muttered a self assurance. He sipped from the glass once more and then lied down forwards to continue writing in a position similar to that of a young boy sending a letter to his father on the front; with coy promises, bewildered eyes, and a great deal of uncertainty.

Something told him that the coming celebrations for the troupe’s new pirate play would be more boisterous, more worthwhile, and fuller of calamity than they had ever been. The old saying that ‘someone will get hurt’ came to mind. It was usually him, so he took another sip, just to dampen the impact.

[Duffy]

Duffy skidded into the downstairs living room like a bull in a china shop, his head beaten with sweat and his chest mimicking the exhaustion with heavy repetition of pulsating blood pumping. He hated being undermined, and he hated being undermined by her even more.

“Argh!” His boot connected with a wooden crate and caved in the side, the brittle wood long abandoned kicking up dust and splinters. “Why’s it so ‘ard?”

It dawned on him that he was not alone, and he turned to greet the shadow following him down the spiral staircase. They looked at one another in silence, both tensing their hands to punches and relaxing in a nervous cycle of uncertainty. The smell of arse-sodden furniture, stale soup and the overbearing odour of lavender perfume were swept aside by fear and the unknown. “Ermm, hello?”

Without any notion of movement or presence, the shadow stepped out from the twilight cast by the lights of the upstairs stage and formed fully in the azure and citrus glow of the living room’s fireplace. The tendrils of shadow flickered, and for a moment, terror and dread scared Duffy’s eyes and mind. “Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you were som-”

“-Someone else?” The shadow spoke, knocking the uncertainty from the thief’s lips. “I am afraid you are both correct, and incorrect.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“I am Lucian, and I am not, we were Lucian, and we are not.”

“I, I don’t understand what you…what are you saying?”

“I…have become Lucian. He has departed my mind and taken life for his own, I am what you call Wainwright, I am his Ghost – his effigy, the last trappings of his former self. I need to tell y-” a footstep broke the spirit’s concentration, and it looked nervously over its shoulder up the stairs to the light, like an expectant pensioner waiting for Time to come.

The hem of a red dress appeared, breaking the fade out with well timed steps. The ghost snapped back to Duffy and held out what appeared to be its hand. With a low and shrill voice, and a dispersing rush of black mist, it scattered to nothingness and imparted a simple command. “Open-your-eyes.”

Silence descended, and then a low roll of feet connecting with planks followed it. Ruby raised an eyebrow and rested a hand on her hip, still reeling in the uncomfortable but enlightening discussion between herself and the rest of the troupe. Suddenly, upon seeing Duffy’s dumbfounded expression and tense stance, her dreams of keeping in touch with the domineering personality she had discovered slipped away.

“Duffy, what’s wrong?”

“Oh,” he shook his head, as if to scatter the clouds, “it’s…nothing, I was just lost in thought…what do you want?”

“I just came to tell you, that the troupe is behind you…I am sorry for going against you, I just care for the others too much to go into something like this head first.”

“Head first?”

Head strong, she corrected, smiling all the same at his sudden return to cheeky enthusiasm. “Without considering the implications of our actions, without acknowledging that we’re flying blind, without a real sense of what will happen when we get there.”

[Duffy]

“When did we ever care about what would happen to us?”

“Duffy, let’s not pretend that things haven’t changed these last two years. The game, once a simple gambit with dice in the streets has become something that is far too deadly to play recklessly. We’re wagering lives, actual people now, we can’t afford to lose.” She stepped onto the last of the steps and looked over the living room, at the darkness and the murky clutter. “If we play our cards right, this place could be returned to it’s former glory – imagine a table with matching legs, real candles and lanterns, a fireplace not smothered in soot and eternally burning whatever we can spare to keep our fingers and toes from freezing. Imagine the Prima Vista on high, recreated right here – a seat of the Tantalum’s glory in Scara Brae.”

“A gambit…?" He let the word linger between them like an electrifying spark, castrating any doubt and giving formative life to a rising hope. Something occurred to him, that he had surpassed a long time ago; the idea of Tantalum, of avatar and leader was what had caused Wainwright to deviate from the mandate of the gods themselves. Perhaps, in the best interests of all the troupe, they should make the effort to lead not as each other, but in the collective of one. They would all be Tantalum, all recite the will of Tantalus, all hear the joyous dawn chorus of the Aria in the night.

“Yes, Duffy, if you will allow me the insult of being at the helm for just a while longer, I will make sure we are ready to win this war. I have witnessed the catastrophe and destruction an ideological quandary can wreak, I will not let what I have witnessed happen again – I will not let you come to harm, nor myself, nor the troupe.”

Silence fell once more, permeated only by Duffy’s heart pounding in his chest and two distinct breaths whispering in the heat. He supposed that there was more to this situation than could meet the eye, although his judgement was clouded by the simplest of phrases. What did ‘Open-your-eyes’ mean? He was wide awake and vividly paying attention to all that transpired. If anything, he needed to close them, to shut off the horrors and the nerves that assailed him.

“Very well, whilst I have failed in finding allies to fight Lucian, I will not fail in finding a way to the Theatre in the Sky – do all you can to prepare everyone for the coming performance, I think your choice of play to perform is nigh perfect for the occasion.”

“Thank you – I have made the choice, the troupe succeeds nobility, and so will honour my decision. Now come, we must clear the stage and assign roles, the night may be turning to dawn in swift measure, but we cannot rest, not whilst so much is at stake.” With a warm smile that could tinder even dragon scales, Ruby held out her hand to Duffy and he skipped over to embrace it.

Together they ascended the staircase, two little drumbeats announcing the Phoenix and the Bard to the theatrical world. Behind them, in the comfort of shadows and abandonment, Wainwright Jones watched his last hope for salvation disappear into the musical majesty of his former family’s bustle – he watched them rejoin the world he longed to experience once more.

[Duffy]

Duffy did not know what to do with himself anymore, if anything, he was trudging on to the wonders of Radasanth in blind hope and spurious fear. He was tired, bedraggled, and lost, not just physically, as in the here and now and the not knowing where, but mentally - the incident in the Ranger’s Guild had made the young buck question his allegiances, origins, and even his shoe size.

As the forest faded from view and the damp trail turned into a wide and flat and dusty walkway through rice fields and grasslands, the scenery became a tapestry of confusion; these were strange and unfamiliar places to the Scara Brae born and Scara Brae bred, so much so that he had to stop and inspect every new plant, animal and sign he encountered, just to circumvent the sense that he was very much out of place. The sun kissed his nose and forehead with a heady mid-afternoon delirium that didn’t make the journey any easier, coupled with a very gentle but almost non-existent breeze; the grass moved just enough to flutter, and the birds sang their dozy chatter in the distance. “These blissful occasions in which nature boons happiness to us are oft missed, oft misunderstand, and oft misplaced if ever a memory does form -” he paused to take a deep and ironic breath of the crisp and pollen laden air, which smelt of peat and peaches, “what a nuisance! To be unable to remember that which mankind most loves, and to destroy it as part of our nature; woe!”

He continued to ramble on, quoting lines from the misogynistic playwright Embray to pass the vacant hours that paved the road. He refused to walk in a straight and normative manner, instead injecting flourishes of dance to carry him on, flourishes and spins and arm waving abound, he resembled a performance artist who simply could not stay still - a recombinant child who knew too much. In one respect, that was the truth. He had almost slipped up and done exactly what his predecessors had done, and every other common vagrant for that matter - he had nearly put the troupe second, such a hideous crime had a punishment far worse than death - rejection.

As the road approached a more forested and mountainous region, and became damp and more humid, Duffy unbuckled the clasp of his travelling cloak and rested the hood on his shoulders, letting it hang open and flow behind him with inelegant sways and in inelegant patterns. The white shirt, red waistcoat and lose fitting trousers and belts that made up his travelling attire clashed with the grey and green surroundings, even more so with the olive pastels of the grasses, and the deep stone of the rocks that peppered the ailing farmlands as he progressed further and further along the road to his destination. Somehow he had managed to stay relatively clean, his leather soles were starting to crack, but otherwise, his white was white and his brown, well… brown. A passing farmhand or buckwheat flower might’ve mistaken him for a merchant or for someone who’d not long left for far flung reaches…already it had been two weeks, Duffy hoped the message he had returned to Scara Brae reached the troupe safely - things…weren’t going to plan.

The road sloped to the right over an hour, and the oak and pine closed in on either side so much so that the abundant greenery of the lowlands soon left the traveller behind and encumbered him with a darker road and a smattering of staring owls, high in their perches and aspirations. The path was still wide enough for a great crack to run tangent above his head like a line of solid sun and daylight that guided him on through the forestry, but the sense of being hemmed in on either side kept Duffy’s hand on the dagger at his belt.

“Hoy there!” A cheery enough voice broke Duffy’s stern and concentrated advance, so much so he almost stumbled. Something chuckled. “It’s merry meet my fellow, we mean you no harm…come up the path, take a seat by the fire!” In the darkness he’d almost walked straight past a cutting of the tree wall and a dark sliver that formed over a path, branching off to an unseen light in the distance. Ahead of him there was nothing but countless hours march, but to his left…a trap? He let his judgement pass for a moment, and turned to walk up the shadow with his hand concealed under the fold of his cloak still holding onto the weapon he trusted so much.

His paranoia caused his breathing to double and he dragged in gulps of air that tasted like damp and fetid cloth, left to rot in the basement of some long abandoned household. As he rose through the obsidian expanse, he began to taste, feel and suspect that this forest and path were far older than Corone, they were ancient places, as unexplored as the Windlacer Peaks, except by the brave, the sun, and the faerie folk.

[Duffy]

As darkness faded, the troupe master stepped out of the trees into a great clearing that was almost large enough to fit the Prima Vista into it. Although the path ended and faded into meadow-land grass and wildflowers, it mesmerised anyone into walking on. At the tree line, which was circular, various broken tree trunks and dead branches made a natural thorn hedgerow, and at it’s centre, there was a tent, a fireplace, which blazed happily away even in the sunlight from on high, and a fallen log occupied by a hunched figure. “Heaven’s, what is this place sir?”

“This, my fellow man, is a clearing and a rest stop for all who know of it, and look up from the dreary darkness around them! Ask me not how it was formed, be it through tragedy or intrigue, the fact remains that it is here, that the fire is blazing, and that this buck is ready for the partaking of, and you good sir are just in time to partake of it indeed, so come, come! Sit!” The exuberance the stranger was emitting scared even Duffy, who was not accustomed to not being the liveliest one in the environ.

“Might I ask of you your name?” He sat reluctantly, but soon forgot his reservations at the sight of the perfectly char grilled meat suspended over the fir on a slender metal rod. Whoever he was, he cooks better than Ruby does! “Or at least,” he corrected himself, “a title or anonym with which to address you?”

“Title? No no my boy, I’ve no title, titles are for those who are dissatisfied with their image, or lacking in compassion to give their title and associated partisan goods to others who are more needing. You can call me Lysander, and the Raven wearing the peculiar waistcoat in the trees, should he decide to come down and discourse with us, goes by the name of Brandybuck, so - who be you?” He looked up to smile but was cut short by surprise, the boy, who appeared more than capable of defending himself, of looking after himself, and of talking in great detail about nothing in particular was mouth openly shocked, speechless, ‘nadda from the lips.’ “D-did I say something to offend you boy?” He peered over the edge of his thin spectacles, and took a breathe of the fire’s air to show his reservations, instead of a crude sigh or shrug.

“N-no…it’s nothing…” Could this be…a coincidence?

“Gooood! Then tell me your name and let us eat, share tall tales and share company in this barren land,” Lysander rattled the spit and scraped off the dark brown meat onto what appeared to be bread, lathered with butter and a sauce which permeated lavender and rosemary tantalisations across through the smoke.

“Duffy…”

In a somewhat delayed realisation, he noticed Lysander’s spectacles, top hat and heavy travel coat after the sheath at his waist. Along time ago Lucian had spoken to him of a chance meeting with an idea born from the pages of creation - that a story character would in fact come to life through the devotion of it’s writer, not it’s readers. The resemblance was a parody of what had been scribed in his mind…but the key reflections of Lysander’s personality were all…there, right in front of him, talking in a somewhat pretentious tone with a lively grin and a sharp wit.

Lucian's warning still rung clear in his mind...

‘You will give birth to more than just a song and dance my chylde, you….will be the beginning of a great union…between magic….instrument….blade…..poem….no bard shall know your name, no bladesinger shall parry your blade, no writer, shall ever ask for your advice…but in knowing all this, you shall realise that my call…Lucian’s Call - is not a call to arms, or to learn of arts untold…

It is to live and breathe your art,

It is to sing and dance amongst your people,

Only when the words summon the writer, instead of the writer summoning the world,

Only then will you be…

The Tantalum…’

[Duffy]

The moon’s casual rays investigated every nook and cranny of the clearing, it’s search uninterrupted, except for the scant movement of hares in the undergrowth, or owls in the trees, staring at the hubbub at the fireside. Amidst the cricket’s twittering and the leaves of the oak and fir and pine assortment swaying, two voices exchanged laborious commentaries on all the many aspects of living, of their respective lives, and of the loves they shared, their common ground; the stage, and the thrill of the chase.

Following a humorous ‘quip about the supposed ‘real ending’ to Maspeth’s Grande Opus Performance; Leopold’s Leopard Paw, the warmth of the fire died further still, and the cold from behind encroached over Duffy’s shoulders. He laughed, a long, hard, deep in the pit of the stomach laugh, before shivering slightly. “Do you…” he waited for an appropriate point to interject, rubbing his hands in the remnants of the fire’s aeon glow as he did so, “do you ever think…that we, us spoony bards, can conjure more than just elation? Can we, as it ‘appens, bring words to life?” No immediate answer came, and Duffy watched the curious man go about a grooming session. He tweaked his beard, combed back his hair, twiddled his moustache, fumbled with the buttons on his elegant waistcoat.

“That depends on your definition of life, and the mordant nature of all things that occupy that state,” the bard watched the gentleman explain a brief set of principles which he followed. Morality and governance of all things in his existence, a noble, if a little complicated set of rules. “You would do well to have a few moral compass points of your own good sir, a little footfall on the correct path, no matter the destination, that is the salvation of the soul!” Satisfied with his neurotic adjustments, the somewhat omnipresent man held out a hand to his young guest, and drew a line across it with a sweaty, porous digit. “Destiny, must be beaten on the battlefield. You draw your line Duffy, and you let no man cross it…do you understand?”

Lysander clapped, the motion made Duffy, who had leaned forwards to be enthralled by the immortal words of his ‘idol,’ leap from his seat in alarmed surprise. “Wat’in’the blaze?” The awkward silence was soon occupied with a hurried flurry of beats, which sounded like wings to Duffy, like wings very much. “Ah…” the gob smacked expression on his facial features deadpanned and disappeared. The earlier mention of Brandybuck was promised and fulfilled in the same moment that a large raven landed on the log next to him. “Well, stone t’crows, if ya pardon the expression, who do we ‘ave ‘ere?” Feeling somewhat less threatened he sat back on the coarse and splintered oak trunk, embracing the lichen cushioning and spiked back once more.

“Good sir, I would like to introduce you to the most amiable fellow, Charles Brandybuck Merewether, whose fortune it is to accompany me on the road to the fair yonder city of Radasanth. His demeanour is somewhat morose I fear, but he is deft of notions and pure of heart, if not lacking in limbs capable of solidifying your introduction,” - the raven cut off any further back scratching, cocking his salacious head to one side, and letting the moon’s glow irradiate his long beak. Duffy was too bemused to reply himself, so Lysander muttered his name and something that indicated Brandybuck had no doubt been listening to their conversation since the breaking of bread at lunch.

“Can you…speak?” The thief scratched his head as a sudden and inexplicable itch attacked his scalp. It was an uncomfortable and unfamiliar incident, that he was sure of. How does one respond and interact with a bird?

-Of course I can speak, you buffoon! I may be a feathered monstrosity, donning the finest Salvarian Silk I might add, but my ability to converse with imbeciles is as strong in me as the need to ask and ridicule is in you!- With what appeared to be flexible and dextrous wing tips, Brandybuck pulled the pocket watch from the front of his elegantly woven and sparkling attire and flipped it open with a metallic click like the swinging and ticking of a grandfather clock. Something Duffy had only stared at through the window of Old Man Jacob’s Shoppe. -Do excuse my interrupting your riveting discussion and exchange of West End memoirs, but we are not, as you may notice, presently in the theatre district of any great city - Lysander, it is time for rest, the road is long, and with this idiot and this morsel of wonderful Scara Brae intellect accompanying us, it will be even longer…- Duffy couldn’t be sure, but for a moment, it appeared that Brandybuck glared at him not with mere malcontent, but daggers of hellfire and jealousy. He’d seen that look once before, and Ruby had kicked him in his crown jewellers a moment later.

With the taint of the chilled air growing in his lungs Duffy couldn’t help but agree, even if such a decision came from a growing sense of immanent danger. Not from a bear, or from a monstrous hellion, but from the wanton attention of a small black familiar. Lysander nodded in agreement with it’s rude gesture, and accompanied the raven to the inner sanctum of their rather densely stocked tent. In the sudden silence, moth balled air and solitude, Duffy stocked the fire and bedded it down with the last of the dry kindling and the only log. That line… he began to muse, It’s from Lysander’s Flock… In fact, many of the things Lysander had said, the grandiose and verbose infractions on Duffy’s limited intelligence, they’d all been directly annotated and sprung from the pages of the leather-bound crimson book he carried in his very satchel…Lucian’s last words to him rang true, and in the darkness of the moon light sonata, the cricket song and the wolf howl aria, Duffy came a little closer to understanding why he’d brought the katana…closer to understanding what the meaning of life was. He opened the page of the book he was growing far too familiar with on the long exploration of Corone, and scribbled his thoughts in the last echoes of light, straining with tired eyes but forging on with the intent of finding an answer.

For once, he knew it wasn’t the stage.

[Duffy]

Gods.

They come and go.

No sooner has their faith dissipated, and the people’s resolve faded, another steps up into their place. An eternal cycle of eternal love and damnation; religion.

Some gods, they simple sleep, falling into stasis until whispers of the arcane flood the ether and they come back to life in a thunderclap of brilliance. Be they gods of summer, of war, of hate or love, there is a god for everything, and everything beyond that. They are born through belief, or through an object or pastime becoming a transient part of the fabric of a civilisation. When swords clash, War is born. When songs are sung, Aerial commences, when cooks cook, half-line lords spring to life. But when a song was sung, three centuries ago, something altogether different came into existence.

They call him Tantalus, if gods truly have genders. He is the god of the theatre troupe, the bard, the brigadier songtress, of entertainment, dance and stage bound romance. Where words are spoken and acting acted, his aria is heard by the greatest and the lowliest of literature folk. He came into being through the adoration and legendary love of an old troupe, started in the slums of Scara Brae five centuries ago. The Tantalum still very much exists today.

When he came into being, into the world, Tantalus formed as a man of modest appearance, modest wealth, modest endowment and modest talent. He was humble, jovial and kind; the very modern epitome of manhood. He proclaimed his arrival in the form of a play, a tale bound in song and bitter regret, of a prince’s love for princess. Such a tale became known as I Want To Be Your Canary. The Queen’s favour for the troupe swiftly followed, and all through the city, people whispered amicable things for fear of becoming too excited at the prospect of the next performance.

Temples of theatre, great opera houses rebuilt, loving shrines of song and dance formed in honour of Tantalus, magic itself formed into being. As belief in him grew, his ability to maintain human form waned and he passed on his boon, his will, to the strongest and most heartfelt honest member of the troupe; such a man, named Lucian, became the first of the Tantalum, the conduit for The Aria - Tantalus’s voice.

Lucian Lahore was born in distant lands, an elf of formidable wrath and ruin, to parents of little wealth of knowledge. Dreaming of distant dreams, he came to Scara Brae after travelling the world and learning of the folk tales and cultures of all the people of Althanas. He was struck by the beauty of a street performance in the cascading shadow of the Old Harbour Inn, in that simple moment, his fate was sealed. He auditioned for the troupe, precisely one hundred years before he became the Tantalum, and soon he was the lead role in many plays. He rose to be greater than even Tantalus was in mortal coils. His talent has yet to be matched in any part of the world, his voice itself carried power, even the simplest of comment or command controlled the very fabric of reality. He was The Bard, the greatest of poets, the strongest of performers.

But such a title, such a place of reverence in society, can only ever come at a price.

Vanity. The deadliest of sins.

The transition was slow at first. Slips on stage, forgetting the odd line and forced to improvise. Few noticed, except Lucian, who grew ever the more tired and loathing with the frustration of not knowing why, how, whom. In the world between worlds, the aria stopped, he heard the call of his patron no more.

Silence.

No sooner than he’d been ignored by Tantalus, Lucian at once flew into a diabolical, paranoid rage.

[Duffy]

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.

[Duffy]

“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.

[Duffy]

Duffy watched the world go by, and the world watched Duffy throw away his dreams. It was a simple arrangement, but one repeated the world over as the depravity and strain of living weighed heavenly on the shoulders of man. Beneath the young bard the waters of the babbling brook flowed, disappearing under a simple wooden bridge to be transformed on the other side, as if all life but he was being given that elusive and most prized second chance at a path – at a journey, a destination.

The sun beat down on the meadow, giving the stream the appearance of earth scar lightning, a great brand of nature castigating the youth from the world in a rooted prison. There was no breeze, no bird song, no insect hum, no sound reached his ears except the unquenchable passing of water and the sound of his own heart beating in its cage; this, to Duffy, was a fickle but respectable haven – his separated sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the city.

He was awash with productivity, their battle to prepare for the coming attack on Lucian’s very heart was taking its toll on all the troupe – Ruby, Blank, Lilith, even the little scamp Pete had pulled their weight and then pulled their muscles, they’d gone beyond the call – now time was running out, and no amount of visitation to strange havens or earthly paradises could sedate the fact for long.

Days had swiftly become weeks, and weeks were threatening to become months if he did not act soon. All across Scara Brae great tears in the fabric of reality had appeared and through the slivers of magic strange songs and poetry recitals came, washing over the gentile populous like a caustic but appreciated rush of inspiration. They had had gathered in crowds to witness the tears, and watched the other worldly performers, who were unaware of their new audience, and this had dampened the reception of the Tantalus on the paved streets and the muddy alleyways – there was a new theatre in town, one of strange dreams and odious portending.

Whilst Duffy had rushed around with the necklace given to him by Lucian so many years ago in a futile attempt to close all of them before they caused their reputation, if not their life’s concern, he had been unable to do anything about it – he was powerless to stop it from happening and then, he’d foolishly looked into one such tear – the revelation had sundered his mind, and he rested against the edge of the bridge’s hand rail and watched the waters to calm his confusion. Those worlds beyond the veil, are they visions of The Aria, or of the actual realms beyond our own? He repeated the question over and over and over.

“What dreams have I witnessed, what strange revelations have I succumbed to, to be so weary of the truth that I cannot look it in the eye…” he muttered, running his finger along the mildewed pine rail and counting the stones at the bottom of the crystalline waters. “What must I do to see such a truth, if not walk into the tears of reality itself…are all these songs heard nothing more than reflections, or is The Aria something far more potent and real than I could have imagined?”

It was. Through the tears in the folds of time, snippets of every play, song and dance ever performed in any world, real, imagined or distant were appearing. The fabric of the universe was slowly, but surely, coming undone – the balance between the Thayne Tantalus and his avatar was off kilt, it’s axis perverted to the point of strain by Wainwright’s corruption – all the gods, no matter their names were joining as one to form the Final Song, to reset the balance of creativity on Althanas so that order could be restored. Duffy was no longer fighting a war against an enemy, but against being over shadowed by a greater, more talented force than he could ever hope to become…

[Duffy]

You would think that in all my years I would have come to understand myself a little better. Perhaps I have simply lost my way, agog with the white-washed and dreary palisades and the lofty regal heights of the soulless capital of this Island Nation. Perhaps I have over described my own attributes, to the extent that I am no longer a mystery, no longer an enigma in the caverns of my mind. Look anywhere in this city and the evidence of the troupe’s passing is there plain for all to see; perhaps it is this public audience, this visual feast of me that has caused my disparaging state?

Each step forward to me feels like two steps back, as if I am retreating into the younger and more innocent self. I fondly recall the times I had to myself to simply write, to envision a world not unlike our own with a dramatic hint of wonderment. Now, it is a miracle if I get the chance to scribble a fleeting verse or a stanza between dinner and assignment and changing diapers. Is this what we all aspire to be when we are older, is this our destiny carved into stone? Lysander would never have yielded to Celia’s matriarchal dominance for long, and Marcus only longed to be a canary for his true love to flatter his own ego and self-fancy – yet why do I find myself on the stone that chains my mind to an altar stale and riddled with despair?

My memory is a flashing flame of burning passion, each moment I recall brings me closer and closer to truly being able to enjoy the performing arts, I can feel it lifting me to new heights of paradoxical hope. I look to the moments I wrote, and to the moments I first discovered Lysander and further back to the first conflict with Lucian, and no longer do I dream of distant dreams, or think of what could be…

I have come to love dancing with myself, being my own deity, and loving each waking hour for what it is worth.

The Tantalum Troupe will suffer Lucian’s Call no more – we shall be free, and we will do then what we have always longed to do.

Inspire!

[Duffy]

Spoils:

Rheinholdt Spark: A spark has formed in the Aria, a crackle of something new. The personality of the Red Cutlass Captain has formed, giving rise to the potential for Duffy to take on the mantle of a pirate, in the same manner as he can manifest the personality of Lysander. Before he can use such ability, he will need to practice it more, and rehearse the pirate play he is writing, and as such, cannot yet be used in battles.

Brandybuck Wine: Lysander's meeting and the Raven in the clearing has sparked further understanding and development of the Hero of the Western Weald persona, and he can now, under duress, use the listed biography abilities twice per thread, in any combination or pair of two.

Liquid Modernity: This is an end-stop in Duffy's storyline, and that of the troupe. All threads written or ongoing will be before this, and nothing will be sat after, as the next chapter will see the battle with Lucian begin proper.


In the grand theatrical tradition,

THE END

[MetalDrago]

STORY ~ (18/30)

CHARACTER ~ (21/30)

WRITING STYLE ~ (18/30)

Wild Card (6/10) ~

Total Score: 63

Duffy gains 2350 EXP

Spoils approved, pending review in the Realm of Greeting.