Lucien
06-17-07, 10:43 PM
((Closed))
Characters:
A'rei Ngoyu: A former slave with a cynical wit and devious intentions at heart.
Lucien: A boy from Earth, working at the theater, who has lived on Althanas for nearly two years. Still, he has a lot of growing up left to do.
Beriadan: Manager at the Theater Avant Garde. Acts as Producer, Director, and Nazi Dictator.
Arbellason: An actor at the theater. Often kind, but too naive for his own good.
Idhrenniel: An actress with a personality as wooden as her delivery.
Gustav: An abrasive and often annoying addition to any stage production. But he's always willing to play a minor part.
Scene: An unkempt theater with worn wooden benches for seats. The predominant color is gray, somehow the wood the stage is crafted from manages to keep the drab color deep within its rings. The curtains are a patchwork job made from a menagerie of colors stitched hastily before each show. A lone boy sweeps the single aisle with a dull look upon his face, his arms heavy from the work of pushing an ill-crafted broom forward, its bristles long ago giving out. His eyes try their best to adjust to the dim light he seems forced to work with. However, whether resigned to his work or motivated by some other force, he pushes on. A knock is heard far off stage.
Characters:
A'rei Ngoyu: A former slave with a cynical wit and devious intentions at heart.
Lucien: A boy from Earth, working at the theater, who has lived on Althanas for nearly two years. Still, he has a lot of growing up left to do.
Beriadan: Manager at the Theater Avant Garde. Acts as Producer, Director, and Nazi Dictator.
Arbellason: An actor at the theater. Often kind, but too naive for his own good.
Idhrenniel: An actress with a personality as wooden as her delivery.
Gustav: An abrasive and often annoying addition to any stage production. But he's always willing to play a minor part.
Scene: An unkempt theater with worn wooden benches for seats. The predominant color is gray, somehow the wood the stage is crafted from manages to keep the drab color deep within its rings. The curtains are a patchwork job made from a menagerie of colors stitched hastily before each show. A lone boy sweeps the single aisle with a dull look upon his face, his arms heavy from the work of pushing an ill-crafted broom forward, its bristles long ago giving out. His eyes try their best to adjust to the dim light he seems forced to work with. However, whether resigned to his work or motivated by some other force, he pushes on. A knock is heard far off stage.