Post by Acteur de la Noir on May 11, 2010 2:35:30 GMT -5
The Castle of Nowhere was a vast and mysterious fortress--befitting those who lurked in the darkness. Since the arrival of the dark queen Maleficent and her associate, and the Heartless sorcerer Atticus, it had become a lair for those who walked that sinister path...and just as its residents hailed from the shadows of many worlds, the castle boasted a variety of locations, each tailored to the myriad methods and purposes of those individuals.
Thus it was that the Castle of Nowhere's distinguishing features included a great theater, reflecting the ingenuity of Richard Wagner and worthy of Shakespearean performances. A wide stage built from fine ebony and emblazoned with the black-and-red symbol of the Heartless, curtains of deep black cloth, a host of ornate braziers that burned with ghostly blue flame, and two rows of audience benches, separated by a long carpet of dark purple velvet...these were some of the distinguishing features that were boasted by this theater. The only thing that equaled its elegance was its state of dilapidation and disuse--the curtains and carpet were tattered along the edges; a fine quantity of dust caught the light of the torches as it drifted through the air; and spots of mold and decay were visible along the edges of the benches. And yet, all of these things lent a peculiar sort of quality to the theater--a sort of dark decadence which suited the shadowy nature of the Heartless perfectly.
And none more so than the solitary figure on stage at the moment, illuminated in the pillar of a lonely spotlight.
Much of this individual was hidden by a tattered black cape that had been wrapped artfully around his(?) body, and his face was hidden by the low-tipped brim of a dark purple hat reminiscent of Victorian-era nobility. However, to those with keen eyes, some noteworthy details would be noticeable--the way the cloak hugged the figure's body suggested an unnaturally lanky physique; from under the hat, tangled curls of silvery-gray hair spilled to the man’s(?) shoulders to obscure any trace of scalp or ears; and while his(?) face was concealed by the dark shadow cast from the spotlight striking the wide brim of that nobleman’s hat, the darkness was broken by a pair of keen yellow eyes—piercing orbs that glowed with their own eerie radiance, betraying the true nature of their owner. For those who were gifted with the ability to sense such things, the figure’s identity was even more obvious…for that dark presence, that sinister void which seemed hungry to engulf any light it could find, could only belong to a Heartless.
But the eyes that broke through the shadow of the hat were not those of a feral, instinctive creature—something that many Heartless were known as. No…within the depths of those piercing yellow orbs, there were signs of intelligence—a sinister cunning and a wicked wit, mixed with the learning and creativity of a poet. Even now, the figure seemed to be in the process of contemplating something—a single hand, sheathed in a white theatrical glove and disappearing into the sleeve of a deep violet overcoat, escaped the confines of the wrapped cape and reached up to stroke his(?) chin with long, slender fingers. But whatever thoughts were running through the mysterious figure’s head, he/she/it decided not to voice them—had there been anyone sitting in the audience rows, they would have heard nothing.
But verily, this solitary Heartless had a story. His was not an origin pertaining to any one being, but rather, several...in a sense, he was legion; the result of many identities fused into one. However, even taking that into account, that which had served as the basis for his “birth” would have surprised many—as far as most knew, only living creatures had hearts to take. But there were those who would know better…those who understood that even artificial constructs—puppets, for example—had the potential for a “heart,” of sorts. All it took was the spark of imagination…the effort taken to capture the hearts and minds of the audience, to convince them to suspend their disbelief. Atticus the Fallen was one of those few who understood that…and thus, when he’d come across the tour wagon of a less-than-humble stage manager known as Stromboli, he’d noticed the unspoken graveyard of burnt wood shavings and cloth—the remains of performers who never truly were, but “existed” all the same. All thanks to the wonder they’d evoked in the hearts of the audience.
Until Stromboli had broken those "hearts," as callously as though chopping firewood.
Atticus had gathered the lingering remnants of “heart” that imagination had wrought, infused it with the power of darkness…and from that mix, a new Heartless had emerged. One who sprang from fertile soil, fictional though it might have been. The result was no mindless, feral beast, but a sentient being…one who reflected the theatrical aspects of its origin, twisted to darkness by the shadowy essence that had brought it to life. It—or rather, he—was a master performer, wielding both a talent for theatrics and the diabolic power of darkness. And when offered the chance to use them to champion the cause of the Heartless, he'd readily accepted.
There was a loud creak of hinges as double-doors swung inward, and as someone walked into the dark theater—the first real audience that this room had seen in a long while. And up on the stage, the solitary performer took notice—that one visible hand drifted upward, index and middle fingers nudging against the brim of his hat. A deft flick of the wrist sent the hat’s brim sliding up, revealing…a face? No. Rather the theatrical mask that concealed the figure’s visage—smooth and featureless, save for the angular gaps of its eye-holes, along with a wide crescent slash that depicted a leering smile. And, of course, the heart-like insignia that decorated the mask’s brow…the same emblem that decorated the floor of the theater’s stage.
As he watched the new arrival approach, the Heartless threw his cape wide, revealing a lanky figure dressed in the garb of a 17th-century nobleman— a black silk shirt with ruffled cuffs and collar, a dark purple jacket with long tails, flaring trousers of matching hue, and the pointed-toe shoes of a madcap performer. When he spoke, it was with an aristocratic accent, further affected by both a ghostly undertone and a note of melodramatic delight.
“Welcome to the theater of Acteur de la Noir!” he announced as he dipped forward into a gentlemanly bow. “And how might this humble puppeteer entertain you?”
Thus it was that the Castle of Nowhere's distinguishing features included a great theater, reflecting the ingenuity of Richard Wagner and worthy of Shakespearean performances. A wide stage built from fine ebony and emblazoned with the black-and-red symbol of the Heartless, curtains of deep black cloth, a host of ornate braziers that burned with ghostly blue flame, and two rows of audience benches, separated by a long carpet of dark purple velvet...these were some of the distinguishing features that were boasted by this theater. The only thing that equaled its elegance was its state of dilapidation and disuse--the curtains and carpet were tattered along the edges; a fine quantity of dust caught the light of the torches as it drifted through the air; and spots of mold and decay were visible along the edges of the benches. And yet, all of these things lent a peculiar sort of quality to the theater--a sort of dark decadence which suited the shadowy nature of the Heartless perfectly.
And none more so than the solitary figure on stage at the moment, illuminated in the pillar of a lonely spotlight.
Much of this individual was hidden by a tattered black cape that had been wrapped artfully around his(?) body, and his face was hidden by the low-tipped brim of a dark purple hat reminiscent of Victorian-era nobility. However, to those with keen eyes, some noteworthy details would be noticeable--the way the cloak hugged the figure's body suggested an unnaturally lanky physique; from under the hat, tangled curls of silvery-gray hair spilled to the man’s(?) shoulders to obscure any trace of scalp or ears; and while his(?) face was concealed by the dark shadow cast from the spotlight striking the wide brim of that nobleman’s hat, the darkness was broken by a pair of keen yellow eyes—piercing orbs that glowed with their own eerie radiance, betraying the true nature of their owner. For those who were gifted with the ability to sense such things, the figure’s identity was even more obvious…for that dark presence, that sinister void which seemed hungry to engulf any light it could find, could only belong to a Heartless.
But the eyes that broke through the shadow of the hat were not those of a feral, instinctive creature—something that many Heartless were known as. No…within the depths of those piercing yellow orbs, there were signs of intelligence—a sinister cunning and a wicked wit, mixed with the learning and creativity of a poet. Even now, the figure seemed to be in the process of contemplating something—a single hand, sheathed in a white theatrical glove and disappearing into the sleeve of a deep violet overcoat, escaped the confines of the wrapped cape and reached up to stroke his(?) chin with long, slender fingers. But whatever thoughts were running through the mysterious figure’s head, he/she/it decided not to voice them—had there been anyone sitting in the audience rows, they would have heard nothing.
But verily, this solitary Heartless had a story. His was not an origin pertaining to any one being, but rather, several...in a sense, he was legion; the result of many identities fused into one. However, even taking that into account, that which had served as the basis for his “birth” would have surprised many—as far as most knew, only living creatures had hearts to take. But there were those who would know better…those who understood that even artificial constructs—puppets, for example—had the potential for a “heart,” of sorts. All it took was the spark of imagination…the effort taken to capture the hearts and minds of the audience, to convince them to suspend their disbelief. Atticus the Fallen was one of those few who understood that…and thus, when he’d come across the tour wagon of a less-than-humble stage manager known as Stromboli, he’d noticed the unspoken graveyard of burnt wood shavings and cloth—the remains of performers who never truly were, but “existed” all the same. All thanks to the wonder they’d evoked in the hearts of the audience.
Until Stromboli had broken those "hearts," as callously as though chopping firewood.
Atticus had gathered the lingering remnants of “heart” that imagination had wrought, infused it with the power of darkness…and from that mix, a new Heartless had emerged. One who sprang from fertile soil, fictional though it might have been. The result was no mindless, feral beast, but a sentient being…one who reflected the theatrical aspects of its origin, twisted to darkness by the shadowy essence that had brought it to life. It—or rather, he—was a master performer, wielding both a talent for theatrics and the diabolic power of darkness. And when offered the chance to use them to champion the cause of the Heartless, he'd readily accepted.
There was a loud creak of hinges as double-doors swung inward, and as someone walked into the dark theater—the first real audience that this room had seen in a long while. And up on the stage, the solitary performer took notice—that one visible hand drifted upward, index and middle fingers nudging against the brim of his hat. A deft flick of the wrist sent the hat’s brim sliding up, revealing…a face? No. Rather the theatrical mask that concealed the figure’s visage—smooth and featureless, save for the angular gaps of its eye-holes, along with a wide crescent slash that depicted a leering smile. And, of course, the heart-like insignia that decorated the mask’s brow…the same emblem that decorated the floor of the theater’s stage.
As he watched the new arrival approach, the Heartless threw his cape wide, revealing a lanky figure dressed in the garb of a 17th-century nobleman— a black silk shirt with ruffled cuffs and collar, a dark purple jacket with long tails, flaring trousers of matching hue, and the pointed-toe shoes of a madcap performer. When he spoke, it was with an aristocratic accent, further affected by both a ghostly undertone and a note of melodramatic delight.
“Welcome to the theater of Acteur de la Noir!” he announced as he dipped forward into a gentlemanly bow. “And how might this humble puppeteer entertain you?”
