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[Nh'bdy]

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Darkness surrounds the onlooking crowd, for a very long moment there is no sound. After a few more long moments, footsteps are heard, then what sounds like a sliding from above.

*Tsssssssssst*

The furl of the curtain is heard, as two torches on either side of the stage ignite, a mask figured, wearing a skull mask, his entire body wrapped in a cloak, he says nothing. Pulling out the stool in front of the piano, he sits and begins to toy about, as if searching for a key.

Dun. Dun dun dun dun.

The key eventually settles low on the ivory, reverberating throughout
the hall, there is no speaking

The playing begins, words cannot accurately describe the sensation, it's alien, almost haunting, yet so familiar

Finally, a voice rises above the playing, a pleasing baritone, positivly saturated with pure emotion, a passion that leaves the end of some sentences with a quivering uncertainty as to weather the next line shall ever be heard.

[roughly, the beat is, doo-doo-doo-doo-dee. All -words- are stressed, and have falling emphasis]

Beatings in the -streets-!
Blood beneath our -feets-!
Bombings in the -sun-,
Isn't it so fun?

A regent full of -Hate-!
The downfall of a -State-!
Orchestrated by...
Well practically a -fly-!
Just another -guy-!
A farmer with a grudge?
Some senial' old comuge?!
Or is he one of -them-?
A -hawk- amongst the -hen-!

They look into the -sky-!
We're pecking at their -eye-!
They don't seem to flinch!
Sossorias in a pinch!

*rapid high to low tones, almost like harp playing=

Nooone's thinking, Nooones caring,
Some are over bearing,
and some of them are dead!
Some of them have fled!

The time has come to purse your gums!
They're all seeing red!
But what we do is love,
A passion from above!

*normal beat returns*

Vampires in the -Streets-!
Luna on it's kneeeeees!
Some are saying please!
And some are eating cheese!

The land is in -dismay-,
We will make them -pay-!
They've wronged in this way,
Too far and much to -say-!

Gather yee round meeee,
My simple bardic gleeeee
and carry thee my soooong,
the song of all done wroooong,

Gather round my woords!
My simple loaded woords!
And let it be known,
Your enemies be the throne!
British is long -dead-!
The Guardian has his -head-!
Blackthorn is dead toooooo,
All we loved and kneeew,
Fools are in the pews! *said with rising and falling emphasis*

You folly is your -own-! *sustained*
But all along you've -known-,*sustained*
That he *doodly doo*
Who lays his hand, *doodly doo*
On meeee
With Inteeeent
To Govern meeee!
Is a Ty-raaaaant,
Usurp-eeeeer,
And!!
My!!
En-em-yyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!


The playing stops now, a long silence drifts as the man stands and bows, walking off stage..but, there is no clapping, no shuffling, only a slight ticking.

Tic-toc tic-toc tic-toc


An explosion rocks the stage as the piano burst into flames, whipping around and up the walls, out into the crowd, a brilliant red fireball curls and dies in mid air. Dogs begin to bark. Any animal within earshot erupts into cries of pain and worry.

But the audience? The audience seating in the stage of New Haven? It doesn't move, it doesn't stur, a few of the figures burn and smoke from the explosion. They are dummies, each dressed like a diffrent governmental Representative or leader. Many are gone, reduced to the hay they were stuffed with, only their defining clothing is scattered about in scraps
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Work in Progress.
"What do you call a fish with four legs? A stool pidgeon! Bwuagh bwuagh bwuagh bwguagh!"
~Malorn