These are the protagonists. The people who are going to play out the story of Antigone for you. That’s her over there. Antigone. That thin little girl, not saying a word. Just sitting, looking straight ahead… thinking. What’s she thinking? That any minute now she’ll have to become “Antigone.” To somehow break the bounds of what she was, the rather pale, withdrawn girl who no one in the family really takes seriously, and become Antigone. Who must rise up and face the world, and face Creon who is her uncle, who is the King. She’s thinking that she’s going to have to die, that she’s young, and that she’d rather not. But there’s nothing she can do about it. She’s Antigone and that’s the part she has to play. And she has to play it to the hilt. Ever since the curtain rose she’s been feeling, what, a sort of distance. A distance growing and growing at a giddying rate, not just between her and her sister Ismene (that’s Ismene over there, chatting and laughing with that young man), but also between her and us. Between her and those of us who are quite content to sit here, and watch her, quite content because we don’t have to die. Well we do, but not necessarily tonight.
[attr="class","basicp"] No one has seen the Empress of Shara since the zeppelin attack. Some doubt she is alive, others choose to believe that she is dreaming up an immaculate attack plan. Many think she's still mourning the loss of her brother.
But tonight, she emerges. she speaks, she apologizes, she mourns. She doesn't want to be your emperor, she wants to be your warrior, your guardian; she wants to be your mind. And, as she says, she wants you to be her hands and feet.
An empress appears in a mask and cape and tells you that she is ready for war and that you attack tonight.
[attr="class","basich2"]FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
Your Sharan character may be high-born enough to attend to the ceremony in person. Ordinary folk will have to make do with listening to the news broadcasts from the criers or the local newspaper. Irkallans may have their own news sources. Qualifying characters may make one post in this thread with their initial reaction.
You are encouraged to thread out longer exchanges in the boards. Future formal events will follow.
Post by HECTOR GRIMOIRE on Jan 30, 2015 4:34:56 GMT
Mourning is human, but an empress is not permitted to mourn in public. In times of crisis, the Empire requires a face of resolution, one that will instill reassurance in the crowds.
Everything is under control, and if it isn't, then they will pretend.
Hector's eyes are not fixed upon the Empress, but instead, they flicker to and fro, between all the nooks and crannies that a well-placed assassin might be lurking. She is vulnerable out on the balcony.
After all, zeppelins aren't the only things that can fall from great heights.
Post by SOPHIA ROSENBURG on Jan 31, 2015 19:31:51 GMT
sophia had rushed to bring a candle when the thunder had knocked all the electricity out. she sets the candle on the table, illuminating a sharan newspaper that she had been subscribing to recently. the flame flickers. the proclamation of war does not.
"please flee the city, father." her voice is desperate, but his silhouette does not move from his chair. he's already told her his answer. he's her rock, grounding sophia to this doomed city. "i...i wish you would."
she finally has something important to lose. she has him. the realization is bitter in her mouth. being civilized means creating weaknesses for herself.
(her strength had been a void, and she doesn't know if she can say that she had been better off for it)
she has to become that void once again. sophia will never allow another to dictate her fate, not ever.
she walks behind his chair and sets her chin against the top of his head. she puts her arms around his shoulders and breathes in calmly.
That was her first thought, trembling and staring down at her shaking hands, listening to the cries of the city outside of her home. She was safe here, alone, hiding in the dark and mulling over her options.
She wasn't any help yet. Not yet. She needed more time. More time--
she didn't have it. They were coming. It was happening. It was happening, soon, if not now. She took one deep breath, two, three. Stumbling feet made their way to the case at the back of the house. It took a few moments of beating at it but it was soon opened, Eden reaching inside and pulling out the thing her mother made her promise she wouldn't dare touch outside of emergencies. (Well, mother, this was an emergency.)
It was a gun. Nothing more, nothing less. It belonged to her late father, Goddess rest his soul, and was preserved by her mother, Goddess rest hers as well.
The air was heavy, maybe suffocating, but it was quiet. The only noise was the various shouts of war drifting in through the window panes.
That, and the cock of the rifle held in the girl's hands.
She hears the word on the lips of criers, their declarations causing an eerie quiet to settle on the streets of Shara. People stop shuffling vegetables back and forth, they cease their crowing and haggling. Then, like a tide, they begin to wail, their collective despair and the fires of patriotism mingling into an ugly roar.
They are tragic, they are angry, they are determined. Their emotions are too complicated for her to understand, but her lips curl back into a vicious smile. She tastes blood.
War. That is something she understands. Destruction, she laps it up. Cobblestone streets running red and choking smog flash behind her eyes. War is when men become monsters, she knows.