RE: MORITURI TE SALUTANT!! [S!4]
06-21-2016, 05:52 PM
A bonfire of blacks.
Out of them all, the stagehands had the worst time adjusting. The urge to hide when confronted with bright colors was not an easy one to overcome. The same went for silence on stage, and for never talking to anyone not in black.
The hallways and tunnels behind the scenes seemed less labyrinthine and eldritch every day, as the last traces of the False Angel bled away. Soon enough, they were just ordinary places, like anywhere else. Some enterprising ex-stagehands put their scenery-painting skills to good use, creating breathtaking murals in the once black and dreary passageways.
Other ex-stagehands reignited old relationships, no longer forbidden, and still others began new ones. Some, like Jofranka’s frankly ancient father, only wished to see their lost children again.
A burning reminder of what they had almost done: a bonfire of blacks.
Some stagehands felt the need to atone, for the destruction they had almost wrought. They and other stagehands stayed working behind the scenes, though now in more mundane and at once more complex things. Some of them simply couldn’t conceive of not being a stagehand; it was all they knew. Some simply had nowhere else to go, or nothing else to do.
There were even those that tried to be players. Some of them ended up quite talented. It goes to show that you never know.
The bonfire of blacks collapses into white ash, revealing a marble monument: a statue of two women embracing. ‘To Dianne’ is carved into one side of the plinth. ‘To Marcella’ is carved into the other.
All is forgiven.
Out of them all, the stagehands had the worst time adjusting. The urge to hide when confronted with bright colors was not an easy one to overcome. The same went for silence on stage, and for never talking to anyone not in black.
The hallways and tunnels behind the scenes seemed less labyrinthine and eldritch every day, as the last traces of the False Angel bled away. Soon enough, they were just ordinary places, like anywhere else. Some enterprising ex-stagehands put their scenery-painting skills to good use, creating breathtaking murals in the once black and dreary passageways.
Other ex-stagehands reignited old relationships, no longer forbidden, and still others began new ones. Some, like Jofranka’s frankly ancient father, only wished to see their lost children again.
A burning reminder of what they had almost done: a bonfire of blacks.
Some stagehands felt the need to atone, for the destruction they had almost wrought. They and other stagehands stayed working behind the scenes, though now in more mundane and at once more complex things. Some of them simply couldn’t conceive of not being a stagehand; it was all they knew. Some simply had nowhere else to go, or nothing else to do.
There were even those that tried to be players. Some of them ended up quite talented. It goes to show that you never know.
The bonfire of blacks collapses into white ash, revealing a marble monument: a statue of two women embracing. ‘To Dianne’ is carved into one side of the plinth. ‘To Marcella’ is carved into the other.
All is forgiven.
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime