dramatispersonae | RUBY + CARNELIAN + TURQUOISE

RUBY + CARNELIAN + TURQUOISE

[you find yourself standing in a group, crowded uncomfortably close together under an enormous, leafless dead oak tree, in the middle of a courtyard with high stone walls and a floor of hard-packed earth. while ivy and grass grew in profusion here once, all of it that you can see is charred and dead as well. the sun is high, as it has always been in Firebird’s realm, and the shadows are deep.

all of you are wearing circles of black iron chain on your wrists, ankles and necks. though they do not constrict your movement right now, they are bitingly cold and uncomfortable to wear, and cannot be removed.

there is a wide white oblong of canvas hung on the air in front of you, rather like a movie screen. you can move freely in the space otherwise, but you cannot pass or look behind the material.]

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[players can hear Koschei's voice here, deep and sneering as always.]

Once upon a time, a prince met a songbird, in the middle of a sorcerer’s kingdom. The prince captured the songbird in his hands; the songbird allowed herself to be captured. When she cried to be let go, he acquiesced, and in doing so won her heart and her allegiance. She would help him from that day forth, and gladly.

However, neither her heart nor her allegiance were things she was meant to give to any living creature, and they bound her more surely than hands or chains ever would have, complicating her role with unnecessary desire and emotion and planting the seeds of its downfall.

Who played the lesser part in the role’s ruin: the meddlesome prince, who imposed what was never meant to be upon the songbird; or the songbird, who allowed him to do so?

[as Koschei speaks, the silhouettes of the Firebird and a tall man dressed in furs move across the canvas to enact his words. the Firebird hovers in place; the man sneaks up behind her and puts his arms around her; and she beats her arms and struggles to get away. he lets her go, and she flees across the screen -- but then turns back, to offer him a shadow shaped like a heart.

you find yourselves jerked about by the chains you wear, in a crude parody of one character’s actions; you have no choice about which one you enact and must go through the motions.

(ghostly images flicker behind the shadow-play as well, fragments of memory from Aather: the Firebird snatching an apple from the hand of Knife from Emerald; blushing when Canary from Coral offers her clothing to protect her from the snow; crooning along with Elliot from Sterling as he plays the piano; hesitantly leaning forward to accept embraces from Apple from Sapphire and Tavros from Ruby; and many more . . .)]

For this round, Leto, Loki, and Sora are bound to the role of the prince. Comet, John Constantine, and Eruption are bound to the role of the songbird.

Edited 2014-09-21 00:39 (UTC)

Please answer individually. All answers are public and can be heard by everyone in your group.

[for a moment everything is a whirl of light and heat and noise. pressure squeezes upon you from all sides, a terrible compression, and for a long moment someone else’s thoughts pound in your brain, leaving room for nothing else.

who am I W?HO Am iWHOAMIw ho a m I?? ? ?? ?]

[The group feels dizzy and lightheaded, and starts to have some trouble breathing. They feel intensely anxious, jumpy, unavoidably high-strung and paranoid of everyone else in the room with them.

Eruption has vanished.]

Edited 2014-09-21 01:49 (UTC)

[you find yourself standing in a group, crowded uncomfortably close together under an enormous, leafless ḑ̘̭̣̜e͎̤̗a̺̣̘̫̟̼d̰͎́ ͏̯͙̖̱o̠a̮͕̲k̻ ͓̹̩̀t̮̹r̛̤̩̮͉̞e͎e҉̰̬͎͕͎͉͈, in the middle of a courtyard with high stone walls and a floor of h̷ą̩̗̠͙ͅr̺̘̺̱͓d̼̯̗̙̞̘-̲̩͔͍̹p̶̗͇͖͓̪a̱͘c͓̺̹̖̯̝͠k̴͓̹͓͙̯̺e͈͕̩̩̱͉ḓ͇ ̘͚̲̩͠e̴̘̭̻̹a͎̭̝̻͠r̥͕͙̼͓͙̲th̵̥̠͉̻.̫͕ while ivy and grass grew in profusion here once, all of it that you can see is charred and dead as well. the sun is high, as it has always been in Firebird’s realm, and the s̫͓̞̦̮̳h̡ad̟͞ò̞̟̰͓w̦͠s͝ are deep.

all of you are wearing c̪̰i̴̗̦̩̯̩̞r͎̫̻̙̺̗̩c̫l̼̱͓̻e̵̗̬̰͚s͓͟ ̖̲͉͚̤ͅo̷̜͕̜̹̟͉f̺̰ ̥͇̠̯͟b̕ļa̖͍͖̦c͕͈̗̫̫̺k̠̘ i̜̬͈̣͖̠ṛ͔̰̥̦̼̤͜o͉͙͘ń ̥͙c͙̼̼̭̫͎͔h͍̱ai͎͙͝n͏̲̭͕̱͔ on your wrists, ankles and necks. though they do not c̘̪͓̫̮̘͢o̵̫͎ͅn͖͔̜͖̺̝̯s̶t͍̗r̮̟ìc͖̩̹t͟ ̨͕͇͈̼y̮̺͎͢o̺͠ͅu̺͍̫r̸͉̣̗̬̪̟ ̴̜̬̫m̜̪o̯͕̮̯̺ͅv͓̰͍̹̬̤͉e͍̪̗̘̣͙͢m͎̥͉̪̟̫e͇̺̗n̨̳̞̰͎̝̹t̺̤̯̖̹̞͟ right now, they are bitingly cold and uncomfortable to wear, and c̠̥̻͚͍͟ḁ̠̞̗͈͠ͅn҉̖̹͖no̷̠̰̥̭͙̙͈t̵̙͎̠̖̱̖͓ ̠̦̙͎̳b̠e̛ ͔̺͓̫r̼̺̦͖̻̗̪e̜̣͢m̘͚̖̯̻o̢͍̰̜̜͈̥v͓̼͖̖e̻̱̭͚̺ͅd̺̮.̴̩͖̠̪̭

there is a ̧̫͙̩̱̺ͅt͢h͢e̮̗͈͙̩͈͞r̜͕̖̭͉̥e̡̹̳̺ ̧͕i̱̩͇͝ͅs̰͓̤ ̴̰͍a̡ ̴̫̭▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

no.

the piece of canvas is gone. you can see the figures behind it, which were previously making the shadows; they bear little resemblance to Firebird and the tall man in furs except in silhouette. like this, laid bare, they are badly-formed puppets, wood and copper wire overlaid with feathers and scraps of flesh. there is yet another curtain behind them, sheerer this time; you can move freely in the space otherwise, but you cannot pass or look behind the material.

something about the room is subtly wrong, overall; the air feels glitchy, and tiny tears everywhere in the fabric of the air and scenery bleed white fire.]

Koschei's voice sounds staticy but ironic. Refusing to make a choice is in itself a choice, is it not? What fine freedoms you have created for yourselves.

The scene replays:

Once upon a time, a prince met a songbird, in the middle of a sorcerer’s kingdom. The prince captured the songbird in his hands; the songbird allowed herself to be captured. When she cried to be let go, he acquiesced, and in doing so won her heart and her allegiance. She would help him from that day forth, and gladly.

However, neither her heart nor her allegiance were things she was meant to give to any living creature, and they bound her more surely than hands or chains ever would have, complicating her role with unnecessary desire and emotion and planting the seeds of its downfall.

Who played the lesser part in the role’s ruin: the meddlesome prince, who imposed what was never meant to be upon the songbird; or the songbird, who allowed him to do so?

[as Koschei speaks, the puppets of the Firebird and the tall man dressed in furs move to enact his words. the Firebird hovers in place; the man sneaks up behind her and puts his arms around her; and she beats her arms and struggles to get away. he lets her go, and she flees -- but then turns back, to offer him a lump of bleeding flesh, shaped like a heart. the puppets are jerky, wire tendons straining; sometimes a gasp like a sob emerges from a twisted throat.

you find yourselves jerked about by the chains you wear, in a crude parody of one character’s actions; you have no choice about which one you enact and must go through the motions.

(ghostly images flicker on the remaining "screen" behind the morbid play as well, fragments of memory from Aather: the Firebird snatching an apple from the hand of Knife from Emerald; blushing when Canary from Coral offers her clothing to protect her from the snow; crooning along with Elliot from Sterling as he plays the piano; hesitantly leaning forward to accept embraces from Apple from Sapphire and Tavros from Ruby; and many more . . .)]

For this round, a, b, c and d are b▓▓▓d to the role of the prince. e, f, g and h are bou?d to the role of the songbird.

they will hear you

[the group feels a dull, constrictive ache in their chest and joints; though it is still possible to move and breathe and function, it is more difficult. They feel frustrated and trapped and angry at this situation, at themselves, at their fellow losers, at the winners. Any ugly thoughts they have ever had about those in the room with them pound in the forefront of their minds. They will want to fight, and to protest their loss.

suddenly, every nerve thrills with electricity and pain. your very veins feel like lines of light, woven into the scene around you; you know that attempting to change it will cause you excruciating pain.

Ayano is gone.]

Edited 2014-09-21 02:08 (UTC)

[the room glitches, horribly, white fire streaming in from the rips in every direction--

when it clears, the manacles are gone, along with the rest of the scene. the group is in a space entirely bounded by lines of light, the underpinnings of something… the figures and space shown by the boundaries echo the courtyard they just shattered.

where the shackles were, thick ropes of light wrap around their wrists and ankles and tie them to the scene. by moving, they can drag the other lines into new shapes.

there is no sound here aside from their own voices.]

what now?

Koschei’s voice is, at the end, oddly neutral.

The tales have been written, the tales have been twisted, the tales have been told. What do you think the Firebird’s final form should be?