Posthumous Posting On the Pheonix's Door
Jul 31, 2016 23:12:12 GMT -5
iangallowglas, fisheyes, and 6 more like this
Post by smacrasmacrasmacra on Jul 31, 2016 23:12:12 GMT -5
*Toot, the Insignificant Heap, gallantly fought back her tears as she flew down onto the roof of the Phoenix, her atrophied legs drapping sidesaddle to the crown of an eave. She clutched in her tiny hands a cobbler's tack hammer and a scroll. Ensuring the coast was clear, and masking herself in pixie illusion, she drifted like a dandelion to the door of the theater in dark of night and tacked the following before flying away to mourn in the starry skies.*
The Phoenix Theater crowned Arabel's rebirth in scintilating triumph with the debut of Sons of Sembia. This sparkling event was brought to fair Cormyr by her directoral staff and benefactors, Vennis Haler, Valera Serena, Caerwyn Arn, and Osecian Lyre-Chant. The region breathed a welcome sigh through the inspiration, distraction, and expression of these thespians.
The Theater itself is cleanly and tastefully adorned in Arabael's mode, located in the presence of fine taverns, clotheries, and an open park festooned in flower and frequented by Arabel's fine folk. As one eats first with one's eyes, one experiences a theater first from outside. The first impression is soon challenged by the balance of opulence and restraint within its walls. The decorations are richly appointed but far from distracting. There are fine fixtures and conversational pieces, none out of place in a noble estate of aged coin. Not the least of these is the alcove, itself a microcosm of the proscenium within the theater proper, housing the statues of the directorial staff. Refreshment was served, a brief introduction given to the directors, and soon the attendees were shown their seats.
Upon entrance, a broad stage of adequate depth and robust wings envelopes the view. So well engineered is the stage that spoken whispers carry through the Phoenix's fourth wall and to the back row with ease. It was well lit, boasting an able spot light and a few clever mundane effects. A lone negative critique shared by many is the tight proximity of the audience benches. More than a few fine shoes scuffed, a few important knees bumped; this should be addressed before further performances. A charming piano leitmotif and brief dedication settled the audience in for the dimming of the lights.
The choice of play for an opening night was a masterstroke. From the opening line, the audience is immediately engaged as a character, a direct participant in the affair before them. Drawing in an unprepared public at the first showing instantly lays rails for the future, and I applaud the choice. The audience plays the main character, the Inquisitor in charge of determining the guilt or innocence of three suspects at the biddance of their jailor. As the play unfolds, we watch them jostle and boast and skite at each other.
The first segment introduces us to our suspects: a hauty arcane merchant, a mellodramatic priest, and a coarse and violent rowdy. All three were reported as absent from their posts during the Sembian assault on Immersea on the 20th of Marpenoth 1377, when the Silver Ravens were vangaurd to the brutal and devastating assault on the citizenry. In the ashes, and in the spirit of bitter vindictiveness, we seek to uncover the truth: which of these three was the accomplice to the other known traitor, found murdered in the streets.
The second stretch of the play reveals the reasoning for each character having been away from post, and the next with their links to the deceased traitor. Ably acted, with a few jitters and bumps, the company did justice to their charges and thoroughly entertained the audience. Once the lights shifted and brought about the bureoning dawn, the jailor returned and bid the audience, the Inquisitor, to cast judgment: which of the three would we hang?
It is here where the true alchemy of this mellodrama reaches boil. The audience vigorously discussed its concerns, both directly to the jailor and with each other. Again and again, the cries of the choice not being fair, that there was not enough information to damn one for fear of hanging an innocent, rang throughout the audience. The Jailor assured them that, would they fail to choose one, then all three would hang. Slowly the audience's choices became clear: the wily merchant should hang.
It is interesting to note, having consulted with a few Hoaran Inquisitors, that the desertion alone would command the death of all three. One Inquisitor laconically remarked that all three should hang, but with an extra rope for the merchant. However, this "Inquisitor" of an audience was only playing at the task and lacked the full understanding of the calling. Such are the forgivable indulgences of theater.
All art seeks to inspire thought and emotion; to move the spirit of the observer and in some way changing a small measure of the world. Art has its own wild magick to it and is often gifted with unintended force once loosed upon the world. Much as a sea voyage, one may prepare a boat with crew and provisions, but the ocean needn't always cooperate. In this particular case, the current storm influencing this play is red, winged, and brutal.
Again, and in broader scope, the people of Cormyr are tasked with ferreting out a scapegoat at the behest of a jailor. In due time, should the sacrifice not be made by the appointed hour then all will meet their end. Our jailor is Ixamarunmaughzeraph, a vast inferno of a red dragon. The condemned is a woman he claims as his property and demands returned. We, the people of Cormyr, are both suspect and Inquisitor. Presented with this choice, and after having witnessed the rage and power of this wyrm first hand, I felt the choice was clear: we cast one tiny fraction of us aside to ensure the safety of the vast remainder. It seemed prudent, simple, and efficient.
I was wrong.
At the play, I jokingly called for the jailor's execution...and now I do in earnest. I have felt the seduction of this way of thinking, that tiny forgivances forstalling greater landslides was the correct tact. Were it a reasonable opponent, this would be so. Red dragons are not reasonable--they are tyrants. They would make slaves of those they can and send the rest as ash into blackened skies. Nations are not shackled in one fell swoop. Nations are brought to heel bit by bit, measure by measure. This beast does not ask us to sacrifice a woman--this beast demands we fight or sacrifice all that makes Cormyr free, surrendering page by page, until we reach a whimpering curtain call.
Just as the Phoenix caps the rebirth of Arabel, this critic hopes the ideas within its walls bring a rebirth of freedom in this kingdom. Let us not shy from the flames but challenge them and find our will tested and tempered. Let us overcome our fears and soar.
Diggum Gobbledeegook
The Phoenix Theater crowned Arabel's rebirth in scintilating triumph with the debut of Sons of Sembia. This sparkling event was brought to fair Cormyr by her directoral staff and benefactors, Vennis Haler, Valera Serena, Caerwyn Arn, and Osecian Lyre-Chant. The region breathed a welcome sigh through the inspiration, distraction, and expression of these thespians.
The Theater itself is cleanly and tastefully adorned in Arabael's mode, located in the presence of fine taverns, clotheries, and an open park festooned in flower and frequented by Arabel's fine folk. As one eats first with one's eyes, one experiences a theater first from outside. The first impression is soon challenged by the balance of opulence and restraint within its walls. The decorations are richly appointed but far from distracting. There are fine fixtures and conversational pieces, none out of place in a noble estate of aged coin. Not the least of these is the alcove, itself a microcosm of the proscenium within the theater proper, housing the statues of the directorial staff. Refreshment was served, a brief introduction given to the directors, and soon the attendees were shown their seats.
Upon entrance, a broad stage of adequate depth and robust wings envelopes the view. So well engineered is the stage that spoken whispers carry through the Phoenix's fourth wall and to the back row with ease. It was well lit, boasting an able spot light and a few clever mundane effects. A lone negative critique shared by many is the tight proximity of the audience benches. More than a few fine shoes scuffed, a few important knees bumped; this should be addressed before further performances. A charming piano leitmotif and brief dedication settled the audience in for the dimming of the lights.
The choice of play for an opening night was a masterstroke. From the opening line, the audience is immediately engaged as a character, a direct participant in the affair before them. Drawing in an unprepared public at the first showing instantly lays rails for the future, and I applaud the choice. The audience plays the main character, the Inquisitor in charge of determining the guilt or innocence of three suspects at the biddance of their jailor. As the play unfolds, we watch them jostle and boast and skite at each other.
The first segment introduces us to our suspects: a hauty arcane merchant, a mellodramatic priest, and a coarse and violent rowdy. All three were reported as absent from their posts during the Sembian assault on Immersea on the 20th of Marpenoth 1377, when the Silver Ravens were vangaurd to the brutal and devastating assault on the citizenry. In the ashes, and in the spirit of bitter vindictiveness, we seek to uncover the truth: which of these three was the accomplice to the other known traitor, found murdered in the streets.
The second stretch of the play reveals the reasoning for each character having been away from post, and the next with their links to the deceased traitor. Ably acted, with a few jitters and bumps, the company did justice to their charges and thoroughly entertained the audience. Once the lights shifted and brought about the bureoning dawn, the jailor returned and bid the audience, the Inquisitor, to cast judgment: which of the three would we hang?
It is here where the true alchemy of this mellodrama reaches boil. The audience vigorously discussed its concerns, both directly to the jailor and with each other. Again and again, the cries of the choice not being fair, that there was not enough information to damn one for fear of hanging an innocent, rang throughout the audience. The Jailor assured them that, would they fail to choose one, then all three would hang. Slowly the audience's choices became clear: the wily merchant should hang.
It is interesting to note, having consulted with a few Hoaran Inquisitors, that the desertion alone would command the death of all three. One Inquisitor laconically remarked that all three should hang, but with an extra rope for the merchant. However, this "Inquisitor" of an audience was only playing at the task and lacked the full understanding of the calling. Such are the forgivable indulgences of theater.
All art seeks to inspire thought and emotion; to move the spirit of the observer and in some way changing a small measure of the world. Art has its own wild magick to it and is often gifted with unintended force once loosed upon the world. Much as a sea voyage, one may prepare a boat with crew and provisions, but the ocean needn't always cooperate. In this particular case, the current storm influencing this play is red, winged, and brutal.
Again, and in broader scope, the people of Cormyr are tasked with ferreting out a scapegoat at the behest of a jailor. In due time, should the sacrifice not be made by the appointed hour then all will meet their end. Our jailor is Ixamarunmaughzeraph, a vast inferno of a red dragon. The condemned is a woman he claims as his property and demands returned. We, the people of Cormyr, are both suspect and Inquisitor. Presented with this choice, and after having witnessed the rage and power of this wyrm first hand, I felt the choice was clear: we cast one tiny fraction of us aside to ensure the safety of the vast remainder. It seemed prudent, simple, and efficient.
I was wrong.
At the play, I jokingly called for the jailor's execution...and now I do in earnest. I have felt the seduction of this way of thinking, that tiny forgivances forstalling greater landslides was the correct tact. Were it a reasonable opponent, this would be so. Red dragons are not reasonable--they are tyrants. They would make slaves of those they can and send the rest as ash into blackened skies. Nations are not shackled in one fell swoop. Nations are brought to heel bit by bit, measure by measure. This beast does not ask us to sacrifice a woman--this beast demands we fight or sacrifice all that makes Cormyr free, surrendering page by page, until we reach a whimpering curtain call.
Just as the Phoenix caps the rebirth of Arabel, this critic hopes the ideas within its walls bring a rebirth of freedom in this kingdom. Let us not shy from the flames but challenge them and find our will tested and tempered. Let us overcome our fears and soar.
Diggum Gobbledeegook
