Requiem for a Revolution

[Rainfire]

Belthoen motioned for the others to move across the dark alleyway, before sliding his hand through his black hair to move it away from his lime green eyes. This was his specialty -- espionage and being quick-witted. It was why his special weapon dealt with creating illusions. Then again, everyone in "The Players" had a special weapon that dealt with helping them in some way. They were a group of expert musicians that had been additionally trained in combat, so that they could protect the Palace and its former inhabitants while appearing as nothing more than the court orchestra.

That had been changed tonight. Belthoen knew that there were some of those warriors out here in the streets, chasing them down -- a few had unintentionally circled around in front of them, but they had dealt with them fast enough, and appreciated the warning of sorts. Belthoen would rather be playing cards or something else at the moment -- he was the kind of ladies man that relaxed whenever he could, but that wouldn't be available as a preoccupation at the moment.

To think, that a revolution had finally occurred. They knew who did it though -- a young man who went by the name of Bach. He was a genius, and supposedly gifted more than anyone in the world at playing the piano. They also knew that it probably had something to do with the controversial events that, five years ago, cost Bach the use of his legs. They would have to avenge the Royal family, and everyone else who lost their lives in the raid on the palace, at any cost...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A beautiful song, seemingly full of life, ended, as the pianist who breathed it into the machine bowed to the audience of twenty-or-so people who sat in the ballroom, applauding him. They were the "reason" the revolution occurred -- bureaucrats. He did have his personal reasons, of course, but it was fine hiding behind this political one -- particularly when the people would ask questions -- and they definitely would.

He motioned to the person who stood behind his wheelchair -- his bodyguard, confidant, and mostly, friend. She had been there for him, and he would never let her go if it could be helped. As they rolled away though, to meet with the guests personally, a messenger ran up, out of breath, and shaking with nerves as he handed Bach a note.

As Bach put it down, he simply smiled a cold smile up at the messenger. So the Players had survived... he would hunt them down then, even if it was required of him personally. He simply motioned with his left hand to his bodyguard, making that motion that said he was tired of this messenger. He certainly had nothing personal against him, but, he could do whatever he damn well pleased. Besides, it was always nice to have a change.

Just like the change he had enacted... and would continue, as he had The Players hunted down and mercilessly slaughtered.

 

[Swag]

Stealthily following his long time friend, Belthoen, into the now hushed midnght, Zeno scanned the area around the group with his dark red eyes. He aalways thought it was amazing that a person with blazing red and golden hair, spiked in a fashion such as his, could be so sneaky. His weapon, the snare drum, was securely strapped to his back with the drumstick sheathed at his side like a sword. With the instrument he was extremely deadly, but then again the same went for all the members of The Players.

Ducking into a shadowy alleyway, he noticed that a few of the warrior that had slaughtered the royal family had circled around in front of the group without even noticing they had done so. Zeno chuckled at this, to be warriors they sure weren't very perceptive. Leaning against the wall and closing his eyes, he listened in closely to his surroundings. You see, since he played the drum and controled earth, he had also developed the power to hear very clearly vibrations along the ground. This allowed him to hear people coming from pretty far off, usuallly before the naked eye could see them.

Hearing that the warriors had gone Zeno took a deep breath and relaxed for a moment. The revolution had finaly begun, no doubt with Bach as it's spearhead. The genuis young cripple had orchestrated this entire thing, and it was up to The Players to set things as they were. How, however, Zeno did not yet know. Opening his eyes and looking over at Belthoen, Zeno figured he'd be the first to speak.

"So, now what?"

 

[Nebula Zero]

The streets were dark, yet illuminated in the right areas. Den walked with his fellow colleagues, and perhaps friends, the Players. He couldn't help but stare at the small specks of light; Such trivial things always caught his attention. Belthoen was always cautious, which made his expertise in espionage even more trustworthy. But at times like these, it was never bad to be cautious, anyways. Hiding out, killing any that would dare try to attack them. Well, that's how Den saw it at least.

Den was a strong young man, to an extent. He managed to carry his cello on his back with almost little effort, although it was quite an inconvenience when it came to hiding, or trying not to stick out. He used his instrument in a 'shield and sword' type of manner, in the sense that the bow was his sword, the cello his shield. Den wore a very formal white button up shirt, with a beige vest and blue tie to top it off, with black slacks. His shoes were made of leather, but comfortable enough to run in. His tan skin, brown eyes, and a very dark emerald hair, seemed to have a certain shine in those lights Den seemed to stare at a lot.

The small engraving of words 'Ave Maria' on this side of his cello, the instrument was related to Den's somewhat fascination of light. From the sounds of his cello, he can bend light around him or one other person, making them invisible, the ringing music leaving them to wonder where they are. Or he could collect light from ambient sources around him and create small orbs of concussive energy, to be used on his opponents. Either way, Den used whatever method to suit the situation, Den being a man that would 'go with the flow' with almost every situation.

The revolution had started, he thought to himself. He might have to work a little harder, although the sheer thought of it almost brought him to a chuckle. "I figure we'd just hide for now. And then plans for striking back, maybe? Low profiles, hum drum." he said to Zeno, the terms 'hum drum' Zeno's supposed nickname that Den assigned to him. Annoyance or not, Den made it for familiarity, with a sprinkle of entertainment.

 

[Ulti]

"I refuse to play to the rats. That goes the same for what else lingers in these shadows.."

Amadeus was in no way spoiled, despite his outburst. He would rather attack head on than creep around in the shadows like some petty thug. After a short life of power, Amedeus hated to be back in the cold, damp depths of what he called his personal hell. He brushed his long white hair, for he was in fact born somewhat albino, back behind his shoulders. His light green eyes, almost white, twitched at every slight movement that the group made. Out of everyone, he actually knew what lingered in the shadows.

When agitated, Amadeus unconsciencely tuned his flute. Music, no matter what kind, soothed his mind and soul. Footsteps. Amadeus threw himself to the wall, softened his breathing, drew his entire self into the shadows. His comrades did the same. When the warriors departed the area, he waited until everyone else was in his sight before appearing. His massive silver trenchcoat, a gift from his dear departed mother, became caught on something. It pulled open his coat, revealing another coat. This along with the layers of thick slacks protected him from the sun's harmful rays. Even his heavy combat boots were essential to his health. To his eyes, he was a mismatched clown. However, his fans loved his sense of "fashion".

The group continued onward and Amadeus continued his tuning. His flute was not special. No markings. No history. To the ignorant, it was a normal flute. But it was not the outside that mattered to Amadeus. Its mystical properties were astounding. With a few notes, he could twist water into any shape he wanted. He always made sure his performances were beautiful to the eyes as well as the ears. But tonight, no one cared if he crafted the birth of a baby bird that would suddenly morph into a serpent. Tonight was survival. The only thing the bird would change into would be a blade..

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Ah. Another wonderful performance. The sire really is improving his skills. If one can improve perfection. I give my deepest apologies for not introducing myself. I am called Kran. I serve as the sire's personal bodyguard. Do not underestimate me because I am female. I have trained with the best in the Fatherland. There has been no person, male or female, who has thus far bested me. That is why his sire, Bach, chose me. Be it only a job, I will gladly throw my life for his own life and his own goals. But I cannot die as of yet. It is too soon. There are still more who wish to harm my sire.

After every performance, I wheel my sire back to his guests for the common congrats. Or as they say in this country, the ass-kissing. Sure, they say my sire was wonderful. But I know they really wish to be saved from the killings. My sire can be quiet fickle on who he wishes to be killed. I sometimes envy his warriors. I have not tasted bloodlust in months. Yet, today appeared to be my, as they say, lucky day.

A petty messenger, shaking like a newborn foal, brought my sire a letter. I had no time to peek at the letter myself. Bach wished to have a new messenger. It was distressing to leave my sire's side, but I did not want him to see such violence. To provide entertainment, I left my sire a single sheet of paper with the request of an origami crane to be made in my absence. With his attention drawn away, I lead the messenger out into another room. In the same second that he thought of returning home to whatever family he possessed, I plucked exactly 14 inches of piano wire out of my shirt pocket. In the next second, I was draining the man's life away. In another second, the light from the man's eyes disappeared forever. I gently laid the man on the floor, snapped servants to dump his body far away from the premises, and returned satisfied to my sire. All within mere seconds. All within silence. That, I gladly say, is "music" to my eyes.

 

[Perception╘Truth]

He waltzed behind the other players, fingers moving through a hundred different notes as he walked. He hated "shadow-walking", the term he used when hiding in Belthoen's illusions. It was not in his nature to hide, he was a proud Welshman, a fighter at heart. He would rather charge a thousand warriors by himself than hide from one or two. He fingered the bow that stuck out from the case of his violin, which hung on his back much like a quiver of old. He loved the instrument, able to give his own life to keep it safe. He fed it his own blood, giving it life in exchange for more power. Each string was glistening red, covered in blood from countless playings and needs. The instrument itself was still its smooth carmel color, every grain of woods varying in their hue.

He looked down at the tunic he wore. The simple blue-grey fabric had several stains from his blood, only over the shoulder where he played his violin. The tunic fell to his waist, the rest of his covering taken care of by a pair of leather slacks he had fashioned from deer skin. The tunic had simple sleeves, only rolling to the top of bicep. The fabric was lightweight, but tough, allowing him to keep cool in the summer and warm in the winter. It was also semi-water resistant, helping keep him dry on rainy days. The slacks were fairly worn in, the leather on the inside lined with soft cotton to stop chaffing. A small hole had been ripped in the knee, but had been patched. Altogether his clothing was simple, not really out of the ordinary for a wandering bard. Maybe a little old timey, but deffinately not that strange.

His physical features spoke differently than his outfit, showing a handsome young man with regal but tough features. His skin was a medium tan, typical for one who travels much of the time. He was a small man, but strongly built, able to lift things that most people wouldn't think a man of 5 feet 7 inches would be able to. He had rocky features, but in a handsome way, catching the attention of many a lady. His eyes were a soft shade of green, much like a grassy hill from his home land. He smiled as he thought of the way girls stared at his eyes. At that moment his white teeth flashed. He was the perfect vision of a successful musician.

He laughed at that thought. "Successful musician. Ha, if being driven from your court and chased down by armed warriors is success, then yes, I'm living the life." He shook his head, his now long red-brown hair speaking contradictingly to his status. It hung down over his eyes, blocking his vision with a turn of the head or a bob down. He moved his bangs from his eyes as he turned to look at the rest of the Players. He didn't really get along with Amadeus, though many of their demeanors were the same. He had a grudging respect for Den, mostly due to his prowess with his cello. Belthoen was different, a genuine leader. Zeno was.....interesting, he wasn't sure what to make of the drummer.

"Amadeus is right, we need to get out in the open, I hate hiding in the dark. As for Bach, we can find, and destroy him." Luthier grinned in the low light, making him a little more menacing than he meant to be.

 

[Rainfire]

Belthoen shook his head a little as he stopped. He by no means could "loom" over the others -- he was only of average height, but he was in great shape physically. His black clothing seemed to almost agree with the shadows that covered him, not just merely blend. He moved his hair back out of his face as he looked at them and brought a finger to his lips.

"Now is not the time. We don't know what they're fully capable of... I mean, think about this logically: all they had to do was get into a palace and kill a bunch of civilians. They could be insanely powerful... or pathetically weak. I'm not willing to take that chance, particularly when they also had the advantage of surprise and disruption."

He turned and lead along, behind this wall and that, before he finally stopped at the back door of an old Inn. It was the Bridge and Dam Inn, named after the Bridge and Damn to the Western reaches of the city. He gave a special rhythmic knock, nothing fancy like he was sure the rhythm section of their group could come up with, but it would do to let the owner know he had an old friend in an emergency. He scanned the dark around them, sweating from using his powers to this long of an extent. He wouldn't be able to hold but maybe a few more minutes -- ten at best, particularly considering he was going on very little rest. They had been practicing almost nonstop the past week... it was actually the ideal time to make a strike; none of them would be in top form.

Soon enough, he received an answer to his plea in the form of the door sliding open. An older man, large in stature, with a scraggly red beard opened and motioned for them to come in. There were drinks at the tables, and only a couple of lanterns lit. He motioned for them to sit down, and Belthoen did so thankfully, letting his illusion fade.

"Belthoen you womanizer, what brings you here so late? What's wrong?"

Belthoen thirstily drunk down the mug of ice cold water that sat in front of him. He waited to catch his breath before answering.

"Warriors... Bach's warriors... invaded the palace... killed everyone. We managed to escape of course... but they were so quiet, it was almost unreal. And we should know -- sound is our business." He looked at everyone around to take a head count.

"Is everyone here and fine? I know we lost the trumpet player... he took a knife to the head when we were trying to meet up with everyone else."

 

[Miss Murder]

Attonia moved swiftly and silently alongside her fellows -- the Players. Although she, like the others, was sneaking through the streets cloaked in illusion, Attonia still maintained her natural grace and poise as well as she could. Although not normally a jumpy sort of person, Attonia was particularly aware of her surroundings this night, which almost goes without saying considering what they had been witness to in recent events. The revolution was upon them. It was bitter sweet to her. She never really favoured fighting if she could help it, but in times like these it was quite necessary.

Holding her fife in one hand, Attonia moved through the streets, following the man she knew quite well and was pleased to call her friend -- Belthoen. Her long ebony hair hung over her shoulders, framing her considerably pale face. This shimmering hair was accented at its tips with a light blue, which complimented Attonia's naturally rich blue eyes that were rimmed with what could only be described as angelic silver or gray. Her eyes were quite sensitive to light, so even at nighttime, she could see quite well. This could possibly be paired with her given power over lightning and the skies.

Now she turned her attention momentarily to the sky above; pitch black but dotted with beautiful, shimmering stars. They are like windows, she thought. Maybe to a better place than this. She could only hope for something so wonderous. As others in the group of the Players spoke quietly and gave their two-cents, Attonia remained silent. For the time being only, of course.

Attonia had what could be described as a somewhat fragile yet lithe structure. She held a decent height and was quite thin, but not skeletal. Of course, she was by no means the strongest physically. But she knew tactics, and ways to warp her powers to better damage her opponents, for she had taken the time to privately hone her skills. Maybe to lengthen the time she could control bolts of lightning instead of rays of light, or to learn to direct the lightning better. It was a nearly uncontrollable natural force, lightning. It had taken Attonia some time to learn how to control its accuracy better, but she had done quite well in that.

Once, times had been decent. But then reality had taken its hold on Attonia's consciousness, and she had come to realize that nothing was as she had once believed it to be. There was so much cruelty in the world, directly in front of her eyes all her lifetime. And she hadn't even noticed it. But now there were people taking action against the cruelty of life, and she would do whatever necessary to assist in the cause for what had to be the greater good.

Attonia was drawn out of her thoughts as their group came to a door, on which Belthoen promptly knocked. He was equally promptly answered by the door opening, and there stood a man who motioned for their group to enter his building. Once inside, Belthoen sat down to a table, as did Attonia. Her attention was on Belthoen as he discussed their position with the man who had let them enter this building.

"Is everyone here and fine? said Belthoen after he finished describing their situation. "I know we lost the trumpet player... he took a knife to the head when we were trying to meet up with everyone else."

To this, Attonia lowered her head and closed her eyes for a moment. The trumpet player had been quite a good friend to her, possibly even more so than some other members of their group. Attonia still couldn't completely comprehend what had happened. So many had been murdered ... it brought fear to her heart and anger to her soul.

"I, the fife player, am present," said Attonia in her melodic voice that may have suggested general shyness of its owner, raising her head and opening her eyes, "But what are we to do next? Should we stay in one place for the time being, or do you intend for us to move on?" She figured the answer would be the former, but it couldn't do much harm to ask. Besides, the answer wasn't always immediately clear with Belthoen. Attonia knew that she was rushing questions, asking when clearly they all needed time to think. But she also knew that they may not have as much time to think as what would be preferred. They could be murdered at any time.

 

[Ulti]

Bah! Belthoen never was one to fight head on. But, Amadeus still respected him despite his faults. He was not sure himself if he could have lived this long without his help. The sun wasn't the only thing that was after Amadeus's life. For once, he was happy to take a breather. Belthoen lead the group to an inn owned by an old friend of the leader's. When drinks were given out, Amadeus took his to the darkest corner of the inn.

"Too bright over there. You rather have a living fluter than a dead one right?"

Death. How long was it when he saw the death of the trumpeter? The blood even managed to get on his trenchcoat, creating an awful stain. Amadeus felt his stomach turn whenever he happened to look upon it. But it was not because it was ally blood. It was the trumpeter's fault that he died. Idiot got too cocky and forgot to open his ears. He was not about to moan over the loss of someone who forgot where he was. Who he was. Amadeus knew one day, he might be the next one to fall. Or his comrades. It was no use crying over death. It was revolution. Death was as common and predictable as the rising sun.

The fluter found himself tuning his flute again. It was getting annoying for Amadeus. He must have tuned the damn thing six times since they left Bach's palace. He turned his fingers around, took a small breath, and played a small tune he was working on. It was soft, slightly high pitched, but easy to follow. The music assisted the other background noise that flowed throughout the inn. The liquid in his mug began to stir. A fist sized bubble floated from the mug, carrying wisps of foam. What to form, Amadeus wondered. Suddenly the inn owner's dog, old as his owner but as frisky as a pup, took interest in his magical beer bubble. The idea struck Amadeus so fast that the bubble began to take shape before he finished his thought

A small dog took the bubble's place. It was almost identical to the inn dog, save a few details ( no one is perfect, not even Amadeus despite what he might tell others ). The beer dog pranced around the inn dog's paws, wagging its foamy tail about. The inn dog followed the beer dog all over the inn. The little dog only fell apart once or twice, to the inn dog's amazement, when Amadeus couldn't stiffle his chuckles anymore. No harm in having a bit of fun. Even Belthoen couldn't scold me for 'practice', Amadeus mused.

 

[Rainfire]

Belthoen sighed slightly as he listened to everyone talk. After everyone said their piece he nodded. They were all here and accounted for. He would miss Soren though -- he was quite the trumpet player, and his weapon's power over the weather was quite interesting. It had proven useful in many missions, particuarly those years ago when...

Well, there was no use reminiscing at the moment. They had something to accomplish.

"For now we just need to catch our breath. We will stay here for the night, and get some rest. I'm pretty sure if they're like anyone else, these guys will think we skipped town as soon as possible... I won't bet on that, so that's why we'll take shifts. I'll stay up first. You guys, go on upstairs and Brant here will show you where you'll bed down. That is all."

He pulled out his harp and laid it upon the table. He pulled off the tattered long coat he always wore when on a mission, revealing his simple clothing -- a pair of black pants and a black cut-off shirt that fit nicely against his upper body, allowing no drag or resistance. It was necessary in some cases, particularly when your clothing might get caught on a snag or something. He also laid down his two knives, tuning fork, and the case of poisoned darts he kept, just for emergencies.

"I... I'll have to think up something... just let me worry about it, alright?"

 

[Nebula Zero]

Den walked into their refuge. The feint smell of liquor exuded from this place, making an almost surreal environment for the cello player. The hardwood counter for the bar, the wooden chairs, wooden everything. Den had a penchant for wooden items. There was something about being able to grasp a refined piece of nature, to watch as it is able to harness its' true beauty. Whether it be glimpsing or hearing it. His cello, was made by his father, from a beautiful oak tree from long ago. So much memories..

But he couldn't dwell on them now. With the many sweet, he also had his pains, as well. One of those pains, in fact, drove him to where he was now. Things were to be had, things to do. Belthoen decided to keep watch, and that they would cycle shifts amongst ourselves. Doesn't seem like too much of a chore, he thought. Well, as long as he got a pint or two when his shift arrived. He lay on his bed, cello nested on the corner of his bed. He just lay there and closed his eyes. He didn't feel like dreaming; Not in their current situation. Last thing he needed was having his throat slit in the heat of the night. If he was needed for a lookout, a simple nudge would do.

"If man could dream a simple dream, that they could dream forever, it would be war. Because nothing is more sweeter than fighting your enemies for the rest of your life. Struggles keep us sane. Without it, we would be otherwise." he said to himself, talking to the walls, hoping for an answer. It grew silent, which racked away at him for a little while. But a serene melody filled his head, and he was peaceful, staring into black.