Lycopod: Planting the Seeds
By: Taraus Posted on: March 31, 2015
Lycopod: Planting the Seeds
Written by Taraus Bravi'os
[A coming of age story of the flourishing of strength and determination found in those who would dedicate themselves to His service.]
Act I
Players: Odibren Corten, Elder Corten
CURTAINS OPEN
Backdrop: Carefully handpainted foliage blossoms and blooms in neat rows, marching backward to give the illusion of an expansive nursery. Wooden planter boxes have been arranged to the left and right, and a handful of dirt has been scattered across the stage. Tucked in the corner is a singular wilted lycopod; though the plant is obviously in poor health, the sapling struggles on, faint tendrils of green betraying determined strength.
Scene: A grown man clad in cuffed overalls wanders on stage, chewing a piece of hay as a bright-eyed lad trails in his wake. In a rambling soliloquy, the villager rattles off a list of plantlife, attributing each with their various uses until the boy interrupts with a curious outburst. Tugging anxiously at the elder's wrist, "Grampa Corten, that one, what's that?" Lifting his free hand, the boy points towards the lycopod sapling, his head cocked to the side.
Scene: Grampa Corten stares at the withered plant for a long moment, a scowl colouring his countenance. "That, Odi, is a lycopod. Plant what's been tainted by those western Evildoers and their blasted fog." He slowly shakes his head, attempting to urge the boy onward. "Don't you mind yourself with that now, son. It's twisted, and wrong, and you've got more important things to worry 'bout than those abominations."
Scene: Though the boy reluctantly begins to follow the man's footsteps, his focus remains fixed on the plant in question. His brow furrows and his lips purse comically in an overexaggerated expression of consideration. The stage slowly dims until the only thing left visible is the lycopod in question, lingering in the light for an extended, silent pause.
CURTAINS DROP
Act II
Players: Odibren Corten
CURTAINS OPEN
Backdrop: Roughly hewn timbre and bare wooden walls create the interior of a sparse bedroom, its singular window affording a hinted glimpse of a forest beyond. Centrestage, a desk takes the position of interest, the surface piled with teetering stacks of journals and manuscripts. To the left of the window is a small planter box filled with flourishing lycopod saplings, nearly obscured by one of the tattered curtains.
Scene: Young Odibren, now an adolescent, bends over an open journal on the desk, seemingly lost in concentration. Somewhere offstage, ambiguous shouts of joy and laughter ring out in celebration. Odibren glances up with a scowl, shaking his head before dropping back to his studies. Cold judgment is laid down in a mumble: "Undisciplined fools."
Scene: Several moments pass and the scene repeats itself, Odibren growing more and more visibly frustrated with each passing. Finally, with a loud huff, he pushes himself away from the desk and strides to kneel near the window. Shoving the curtain aside, he stares down at the plants, offering his definitive assessment. "We need to get out of here, go someplace where we can actually -grow-."
Scene: Conviction in every step, he sweeps up the box and strides across the stage. He stops at the desk, retrieving a singular tome from its surface, before continuing his determined step. He pauses to cast a final, disdainful glare over his shoulder before he finishing his dramatic exit, leaving the bedroom dark and empty.
CURTAINS DROP
Act III
Players: Odibren, unnamed gatekeeper
CURTAINS OPEN
Backdrop: From east to west, the black gates of Mhaldor tower over a desolate landscape of dark stones and rust-coloured soil. The painted landscape stretches to reeveal a fortress city, dominated by the raking claws of Baelgrim. Upstage left, a haphazard sprawl of boulders mimics the hewn rock pathway that leads to the city.
Scene: Silence reigns for several moments, the stage deserted. Just visible in the dim light of the theatre, wispy tendrils of sanguine smoke drift from behind the drawn curtains, an unseen source providing the notorious red fog of the western isle.
Scene: His cloak fluttering behind him, Odibren ambles onstage, still toting the boxful of saplings. Pausing alongside the path, the fog swirls around him as he drops to his knee in dramatic fashion, upending the box of lycopods and arranging them carefully, miming the act of replanting.
Scene: As our hero finishes arranging the last, the smallest of the carnivorous flora lashes out, piercing the flesh of the governing hand. Crying in surprised rage, Odibren draws back with a flourish, sending an arcing shower of crimson to spatter across the audience. He rises swiftly, bootheel raised to crush the offending lycopod, his glowering countenance freezing before undergoing a visible change: a semblance of understanding dawns and he cedes, resuming his unfaltering footsteps to the gates of Mhaldor.
Scene: As if standing sentinel just out of sight, a hooded figure dashes onstage, barring the mortal transplant's progress with a barked query. "Who goes there!" Odibren halts in his step, drawing his frame upright. In a smooth gesture, he unfastens his cloak and casts it aside, the thick, crimson haze quickly enveloping the green. He draws in a deep breath, and offers, "I am Odibren Cor--"
Scene: Collecting himself, the actor squares himself to the audience, gazing out as his voice rings as clear as winter starlight, 'I am Odibren, come at last. Come to stay.'
CURTAINS DROP
Act IV
Players: Odibren, unnamed Dominion
CURTAINS OPEN
BACKDROP: Wickering torchlight illuminates the bare flagstones of these personal quarters, little more than a straw mat and a writing desk. A tapestry adorns the wall, swords locked together in silver thread, clashing beneath the ever-stretching radii of the Mhaldorian escarbuncle. The singular window is open, streaks of red and black hinting at the scorched, barren landscape beyond.
Scene: Odibren, now well into the height of his manhood, is settled at the desk, his head bent over a journal as the exaggerated scratch of a quill resonates through the theatre. Suddenly, a raucous offstage: the sound of swords, the crash of rubble, and a screamed yelp of pain. Shortly after, a sharp knock resounds. The actor glances up with hyperbolic annoyance, barking his command. "Enter!"
Scene: An armoured figure dashes onstage, breathlessly declaring, "Enemies at the gates, sir!" Odibren rises in a smooth motion, revealing what the desk had hidden: his own glistening, glorious fullplate, clearly emblazoned with the arms of the City of Evil. "Then gather our forces and engage. Beat the snivelings like the dogs they are."
Scene: The entrant nods and turns on his heel, preparing to leave, and is stopped with another sharp, "Dominion!" Pausing mid-step, he half-turns, his expression quizzical. "Yes, sir?" Odibren's gaze slowly rolls across the audience, a sneer twisting his countenance. His cold declaration rings loud and determined, accompanied by the sibilant ring of his sword being drawn. "Make sure you leave General Corten to me."
Scene: "Your will be done, Tyrannus." The Dominion vanishes, and Odibren moves to assume centerstage, his fist tightening on the hilt of his sword. His robust voice carries, washing over the auditorium in rich, baritone waves. "What was called twisted and wrong was simply the drive for greatness, the will to power," He strides centre right, and his determined sneer bends towards an arrogant smirk. "It's a shame, Grampa, that you could never recognize the forest for the trees."
Scene: Moving with the unmistakeable rigid step of a soldier, Odibren marches offstage, leaving the office empty. An unseen struggle rages on: commands are shouted and obeyed, weapons and armour carry on a familiar, musical argument. Then, a single cry of fear and alarm - 'Odi! No, don--!' The plea is cut short; an agonized shriek breaks beneath the weight of a triumphant roar that tears through the auditorium, vibrating the chairs and stones beneath.
DROP CURTAIN
- finit -