Solo A Tale of What's to Come

[Aislyn Leavold]

3rd of Winter, 515 AV

Aislyn needed to relax.
The past few days, from the moment she’d awoken on the first, to the present, she had been on edge. Jumping at the slightest sound, flickering at the smallest distraction. It had been two- three days since the Speaker’s announcement, and she had already gone over one-hundred-forty-seven what ifs. What if the Nuits were Speakers as well? What if it was Ionu speaking, and the Speakers were just the vessels? What if that wasn’t a warning, but a threat?

They are coming.

Who were coming?
When?
Why?
Were they in danger?

Aislyn had gone over every single possibility she could think of at least thirty times in the last twenty-four bells. She would have written them down, were she actually able to formulate a comprehensive list. But she wasn’t, so the ideas remained in insect form, buzzing around her mind until every thought was accompanied by a dull hum. She needed something to distract her, or at very least create something else to focus on. If she had any waiting commissions, she would have done them, but unfortunately, she did not. And she was in a complete drawing rut. Everything she drew seemed so flat and fake. Falsified, and not in the way Alvadas’ illusions were. A tacky sort of fake, not an imaginative, never-before-seen sort of fake.
Gods, it was exhausting.

That morning, Aislyn had decided she would take a walk. A very, very long walk. Around all of Alvadas, if she could. Perhaps further. Perhaps not. It all depended. On what she saw, who she saw, what happened… Anything and everything could change. All she really knew was that she needed to find something. Whether or not ‘something’ explained the events of the Speaker’s festival, that was still up in the air. But she could hope.

As the artist had walked, she had tried to really look into things. See where she usually overlooked. Notice things that she wouldn’t usually notice. If the announcement from the Speakers was like any Alvadas riddle she’d known before, the answer would be right before her. Hidden in plain sight, most likely. Just very, very easy to disregard.
So she just needed to look closer.

”Come one, come all! The Mischief, the Mischief, in all its glory, the Mischief has arrived!”

That was hard to miss.

[Aislyn Leavold]

”Come see, come see! The crew of the Mischief, in a brand new performance, right here at the Playhouse!”

A man with an unnecessarily loud voice was standing atop a box, announcing the details of what appeared to be the Crooked Playhouse’s next show at the absolute top of his voice. Aislyn pitied those standing beneath the man. They didn’t need their eardrums, did they?
No, surely not.

Working her way around the procession, an idea struck the woman. She was looking for a distraction, was she not? And she wanted to investigate every avenue, every possibility, for answers. The Mischief was no stranger to Alvadas. Perhaps the answers to her questions was not in the unnoticeable, but in what was advertised as distinct and unique as possible. What was more conspicuous than a theatrical act?
And had they said new?

Aislyn was not exactly the number-one fan of acting, especially since the majority of her thespian career was spent playing roles that were her everyday life. Maya and Thief were just characters, at the end of the day. But that didn’t mean they were any less real.
Well, perhaps a little bit. But they were real enough. But that meant that every act- every performance- was real as well. Thus, she had a certain respect for actors, but she didn’t exactly attend every show.

So what was stopping her?

Pulling herself towards the theater, Aislyn entered the stone tunnel that led beneath the earth, towards the Playhouse. The dark hallway was deserted, lit only by the occasional torch. It was quiet, too; strangely so. One would think a stone tunnel would echo, but the walls seemed to absorb sound. It was suffocating.

At the base of the steps, the amphitheater emerged. A half circle of a stage, built from both wood and stone. A beautiful patchwork of curves and crooked lines, an asymmetric masterpiece that Aislyn found wonderfully Alvad. It was a relief to be out of the tunnel, especially to emerge into a place like the theater. Everything seemed to be in order. Or rather, out of order. And that was perfect. Abnormality was the norm when it came to Alvadas, and thus, it was reassuring to see that at least one place was untouched by the sense of foreboding that seemed to affect the rest of the city.

Working her way down the rows, Aislyn found herself to the side of the theater, near the front. Pushed just out of the way, but still in full view of the stage. Perfect.

From where she sat, the illusionist would be relatively unseen from the crowd, and unnoticeable from the stage. A combination she had always been a fan of. Not seen, not heard, not even thought of. An observer in every sense of the word.
That was Aislyn, alright.

”Ladies and gentlemen, wonderful Alvads. Tonight’s tale begins like any other, with a once upon a time…”

[Aislyn Leavold]

.

The narrator onstage stepped to the side, allowing the focus to shift from them to the actors, emerging from the shadows. A singular, hulking form appeared. An inscrutable, shadowy image of a person, lit only by the candlelight of the hanging lanterns above the stage. In the dim light, the puzzling appearance of the lone character was almost unnerving. They- whoever they were- stood, staring, emotionless. Featureless.
Strange.

”In a land not unlike our own,” The narrator began, looking out into the audience with a stare that could freeze water solid, ”There was a man.”

The figure did not move. The storyteller began to move, pacing across the stage in front of the featureless giant.

”A man, half-human, half-beast, with the ability to change his appearance at will.”

The theater was silent, for all but the sound of the narrator’s soft footsteps, padding across the semicircle platform he chose as his stage. The man-beast behind him did not move, a statue in his own right. There was an air of apprehension that invaded the room, forcing itself into the lungs of those spectating the peculiar show. Something was going to happen.
What a perfect theme for the season.

”But, only at night...” The lone hanging lantern flickered, adding a rather interesting visual effect to the monster man. The flickering shadows on his face almost made it look like his features were shifting.
Hold on, no.
It wasn’t a trick of the light; nor smoke, nor mirrors. The man’s face was simply changing. An illusion. Melting into the features of something… Different.
”...only at night did he reveal his power, to take from the town’s foodstores, perform deeds in the darkness, to live a life in secrecy. In deception. A life of lies.”

That was rather harsh.
And… Familiar.

”In the day, when he revealed himself, the townsfolk would scream and run and hide,” The speaking man flicked his gaze over the audience once again as the features of the figure behind him swam and shifted, as if his face was going to melt off his head. ”The creature-”
A pause, a breath, where every living being in the room seemed to simultaneously inhale. A moment for reflection.
”-let’s call him ‘Gordol’.”

Dear Ionu, the woman knew she’d recognized the tale somewhere.
Gordol the Beast Man. The story that hit too close to home. The narrative of a bard in a tavern that Aislyn visited no more. What had his name been? It had begun with an R-, or an S-. Perhaps a Z. Clueless man, he had been, but a good storyteller.
That begged the question- how had a petty bard’s story ended up in the theater of the Crooked Playhouse?

”Gordol had a problem. Many, many problems, if truth be told. But one much more prominent than the rest,”

Shifting in her seat, Aislyn tried to recall how the story had gone. It had been quite a while since she had heard it, after all. But it wasn’t long- nor too terribly complicated- Gordol was an outcast, Gordol was upset…

”Gordol was a monster.”

That much had already been said, had it not? Gordol the nobody, poor Gordol. Where had they gotten this story? Hadn’t Zeke- yes, that had been his name- hadn’t he said the story had been of his own design? How had it ended up on the stage of the Playhouse?

”And one day, other monsters came to visit.”

[Aislyn Leavold]

.

On the stage, several other figures stepped into the hanging light. A variety of figures, tall and short, in various stages of expression. Gordol still stood motionless, the illusionary changing features of his face continuing to shift. The appearances his head took mimicked those of the bandits, now. As each actor- monster- whatever they wished to be called- joined him at the front of the stage, their face was copied onto Gordol’s, and the narrator passed behind them, momentarily disappearing into the darkness before reappearing on the other side. The calculated way he moved, and the constant shifting of the features… It all seemed very planned, very rehearsed.
Theater was a practiced art, just like any other.

”A group of terrible raiders came to town, sacking and burning everything in sight.”

All at once, the stage burst into motion. The previously statue-like “raiders” jumped into action, lighting torches to flood the amphitheater with light. From the darkness, various other people were revealed. Townsfolk, from their dress. Men, women, and children, holding farming tools. They looked… Terrified.
Not just mock terrified, either. Properly terrified.
That was worrying.

In Aislyn’s knowledge, children were not good actors. Too dramatic, and bad at remembering things. Good liars, though. But the people on the stage didn’t look dramatic, or faulty, they just looked scared.

The narrator, quietly standing to the side of the stage, looked on as the “bandits” jumped after the “townsfolk”, wielding weapons far more experienced than the pitchforks and shovels. Aislyn was certainly no acting enthusiast, but living in Alvadas, she had seen enough theatrical productions to know what came next. Fake fighting, with overly cautious swings of the sword and overly dramatic falls to the “death”. Choreographed battles that always ended in the “good guy's” favor, or at least allowed some good one-liners to encourage the audience. As much of an illusion as anything else in the city.

Picking one pair of combatants to focus on, Aislyn watched as the “bandit” ran up, brandishing a sword. Then he would swing, the townsfolk would parry, be knocked to the ground…
...and impaled on his blade.

That was a turn.

The fighting did not dissolve into feigned blows and faulty steps. Instead, it turned bloody, and rather real. Real slashes, real blood, real death as the townsfolk were cut down, defenseless in their own right. Cowering men as their wives were killed in front of them, pulling screaming children to the ground. There couldn’t have been more than twenty of them on the stage, but the small band of antagonists reduced their numbers quicker than anything Aislyn had seen before.

The stage was alight with flames and fear, until the ground was characterized with more blood and bodies than wood and stone. From her seat in the audience, the woman could see very clearly the scene that played out before her. The realism, the utter lack of fraudulent tricks she had seen before. In a city of illusions, there were more ways to fake the truth than truly portray it, and the illusionist had seen them all.
But this was something else.
People didn’t actually die during plays, did they? That was no common occurrence, in Aislyn’s experience. But no one else seemed unnerved by the fact that the “special effects” were rather… Gory.

Perhaps it was an illusion. After all, one would assume the regular populous would be slightly unnerved by actual murder onstage. But maybe… Maybe the Playhouse was known for these things, and Aislyn had just never seen the right shows.

[Aislyn Leavold]

.

”Gordol saw this, from his lair on the hill,”
Finally, the man playing the monster, whose features had finally settled down into a permanent scowl, moved. Breaking his motionless persona, he turned towards the murderous rampage that had gone on behind him. Expressionless, the man-statue looked over the bandits, who were too busy defacing their victims to notice.
”And he knew the town would be slaughtered in its entirety of someone didn’t intervene.”

The Gordol actor, now facing the bandits, moved his lips as the narrator spoke, as if a puppet whose sole purpose was to provide a visual for the story. Which, in a way, he was.

”’No more will you slaughter the innocent,’ he rumbled, and he ROARED-”
At the last word, ‘Gordol’’s mouth no longer moved silently, instead joining the narrator’s voice in a screech that rang out throughout the amphitheater, causing Aislyn, along with half the theater, to flinch. The roar echoed about the underground room, eerily replaying in the heads of everyone in the room. Then, the beast-man jumped into action, pouncing on the nearest “bandit” and knocking him to the ground. One long, slender, clawed hand was then plunged into the man’s chest, causing him to sputter and cough, a dirty red liquid dripping onto the stage beside him. One last time, the body seized, before limply accepting the ground.
The next “bandit” met the same fate, a meaty hand wrapped around her throat and squeezing with a crack. Several weapons, useless against the frenzied beast, were thrown from the hands of their owners as the murderers met with the same punishment they had given to the townsfolk.

Roars, screams, and the crunchy, bloody sounds of a battle engulfed the stage.

Somehow, this didn’t seem like much of a theatrical production anymore.

When just one bandit remained- the leader, supposedly- Gordol took his time, plucking a lit torch from its walled position. Then, he approached the chief with a merciless gaze, his target in sight. In a slow, methodical movement, the “actor” swept the torch out in front of him, catching the bandit’s clothing in a wave of flames. Letting out a scream, the leader tried to run, only to be stopped by a knife, plunged into her chest.
When the deed was done, Gordol dropped the weapon, turning towards the audience in a once again stoic, expressionless motion.

From the side of the stage, the narrator reappeared.
”After the sounds of fighting died down, the remaining townsfolk began to emerge from their hiding places."

From the shadows, the townsfolk appeared, more “actors” to investigate the scene. They all looked terrified. Aislyn remembered this part; the ‘happy ending’. The townsfolk, having seen how Gordol had protected them, put aside their fears. They saw the ‘kindness in his heart’, and welcomed the beast-man into their community. The cliched ending they all deserved.
...Right?

"They had seen what the monster had done.”

One by one, the townsfolk came forward, fearful and… angry. A terrible combination.

The “actors” swarmed the creature, succeeding where the bandits had failed, incapacitating Gordol out of sheer numbers and the advantage of surprise. The beast-man had obviously not expected to be so easily betrayed by those he had protected; understandably so. And he did not fight back. Apparently conflicted by the fact that the innocents he had so steadfastly saved from slaughter were now going to slaughter him, he simply stood still, either too shocked to move or already accepting of his face.

Eventually, a rope managed to make it’s way around the beast-man’s neck, and, still facing the audience, Gordol’s features again began to fluctuate, this time mirroring the faces of each of the “actors” as they pulled him to the ground. The fluctuation continued up until the moment a blade was thrust into his torso, and the stage went dark.

[Aislyn Leavold]

There was no applause. There was a sort of stunned silence, followed by perhaps one or two adventurous patrons that managed a hand or two of applause. It seemed Aislyn hadn’t been hallucinating the rather graphic scenes; the rest of the viewers had seen them, too. And, it seemed, enjoyed it about as much as she had. On top of that, there was no announcement of the end. No message telling the patrons they had to leave. So, at first, no one did. Everyone just sat, and waited, as if waiting for the next scene. Unfortunately, such a scene never did come. Nor did the narrator. In fact, the narrator was nowhere to be scene.
That was the first thing Aislyn noticed.

When everything was said and done, there was no proof anything had happened at all. Even when the amphitheater was once again flooded with light, apparently indicating that the end had, indeed, come, the stage was clear. Clean of all marks, blood, bodies, and any other evidence that anything the illusionist had seen was anything more than an illusion. Nothing to prove she hadn’t imagined all of it, or been tricked into imagining it.

Automatically, she left her seat, milling along with the rest of the patrons. Everyone else seemed rather dazed, as well, but still somehow different. A pair behind the woman were not exempt, though they appeared to be bickering over just what it had been that had set their nerves on edge.

”I can’t believe they would show something like that. A child-!”

”A child? Zlynge, what are you going on about? There were no children in that play.”

”The small girl, surely you must have seen. The one they…?”

”There were only two people in the play. Has Alvadas gone to your head already?”

That was strange.

Quietly moving along, Aislyn began to listen more intently to the conversations of those around her. What in the name of the gods...?
That was not an act of the playhouse…
...out of the ordinary, even for Alvadas.
...didn’t make sense…

So she wasn’t the only one, then. Despite herself, Aislyn felt a shiver work its way through her body. There was a difference between a stunning, scary, thrilling piece of entertainment and something foreboding, almost in the style of a warning. That difference was that one play ended and the other did not. One was meant to be fake, an act, and the second; well, illusion or not, it was meant to be real.

Now that she thought about it, the performance had be prefixed with no name or credit of any kind. The actors were never treated to a curtain call, and there was no warning before the beginning or end. No intermission, no escape. It was short, as well. A small glimpse into something apparently tailored for each viewing patron. But directions couldn’t see into your mind, meaning this was something… Else. A performance directed by Ionu themself.

Nothing like a little bit of foreboding and a whole lot of paranoia to start the season off right.

[Kaleidoscope]

 

Aislyn

Skills

• Planning: +1
• Philosophy: +1
• Observation: +5
• Stealth: +1

Lores

• Alvadas Location: The Crooked Playhouse
• The Crooked Playhouse: Somehow knows the story ‘Gordel the Beast Man’
• The Crooked Playhouse: Disturbing illusions
• Story: An alternate ending of ‘Gordel the Beast Man’
• Ionu: Offering a warning

Comments: Despite not being skill/lore heavy, I really enjoyed reading this thread. The ominous undertones were very well portrayed, and the betrayal of the townsfolk was a delightfully vicious twist. Keep up the good work.

Enjoy your grade, and please don't forget to delete/edit out your grade request, and keep your ledger up to date! If you have any questions, don't hesitate to send me a PM.