03 | S-STAT-IC I-IN-TER-TERUPP-TION-N-N O-OC-OCCUR-RE-RENCE
[Darkness at first- no light is seen. Almost like a void. Quiet, still.
That is, until a light is seen, and the silhouette of a figure comes into view, full mask on and proving that once again, the Exile is indeed moving and has quite a story to tell.]
The game is set, the pieces laid-
And all is come to be known
What we may think is true proves to be false,
And what is false refuses to be shown
This tale we weave is but a small one,
A web of deceit, lies, and pain
One full of emotions indescribable
Yet somehow still very plain
[The Exile folds their hands, a paper flower forming out of nowhere as they continue in their poem, pacing slightly.]
The ones who rule in open sight
Are not the ones who lead
For the real ruler can never be found
His true motives different than we believe
But what do we know of the royal blood
Other than that they live in mystery?
Where do they fit in with this place
And what part do they have in its history?
[There is the sound of them blowing on the flower, even through the mask, and the paper rips to shreds and flies off in pieces, like leaves scattering in the wind.]
It is here that the melody changes tune
The story begins to unwind
Because not all that glitters is gold
And not all you view is easy to find
A woman of grandeur need not hide her face
Nor admit such humble ways,
Unless she has a secret she keeps locked
For fear of those finding the truth in this haze
And what of this is honest, you ask-
What do you know to hold real?
Since in this world of dreams things are imagined
And it is of no consequence to conceal
But I myself have proof of thought
Much more than just what is being said
So come closer, if you dare
Come see the truth lying in my hand
[At this, there is a pause, the figure slowly but surely taking out a parchment. Unrolling it, they then openly and willingly show what's written, and you can almost feel the smile beaming from behind their mask.
It's a certificate. A death certificate. For who, you may ask?
What they hold in their hand is a death certificate of one Queen Valrune, signed by Heda Genero of the Unnatural, from many many years ago.]
The death of a queen is a tragedy indeed
All of the city must mourn
But what happens to a queen who isn't thought dead,
Only handed down by name without scorn?
The question then becomes what is true
Is our queen really whom she says she may be?
Or have we been lied to all these years
In order to preserve peace and prosperity?
Can we trust what is said by the ones we love
Or is it time that they reveal who they are?
For surely there are questions that must be answered
And demands that will not go unscarred
So tell me, my dear residents of Promenade
Which is the truth, and which is the lie?
Do you believe everything to be the work of a madman
Or is there perhaps some goodness you might find?
For all that we know it will never be said
But perhaps this will bring us closer to a clue
That we ourselves are much more than puppets
And the time at hand will soon become overdue
[With a raise of the hand, the light fades, and the feed cuts. The Exile is gone once more.]
That is, until a light is seen, and the silhouette of a figure comes into view, full mask on and proving that once again, the Exile is indeed moving and has quite a story to tell.]
The game is set, the pieces laid-
And all is come to be known
What we may think is true proves to be false,
And what is false refuses to be shown
This tale we weave is but a small one,
A web of deceit, lies, and pain
One full of emotions indescribable
Yet somehow still very plain
[The Exile folds their hands, a paper flower forming out of nowhere as they continue in their poem, pacing slightly.]
The ones who rule in open sight
Are not the ones who lead
For the real ruler can never be found
His true motives different than we believe
But what do we know of the royal blood
Other than that they live in mystery?
Where do they fit in with this place
And what part do they have in its history?
[There is the sound of them blowing on the flower, even through the mask, and the paper rips to shreds and flies off in pieces, like leaves scattering in the wind.]
It is here that the melody changes tune
The story begins to unwind
Because not all that glitters is gold
And not all you view is easy to find
A woman of grandeur need not hide her face
Nor admit such humble ways,
Unless she has a secret she keeps locked
For fear of those finding the truth in this haze
And what of this is honest, you ask-
What do you know to hold real?
Since in this world of dreams things are imagined
And it is of no consequence to conceal
But I myself have proof of thought
Much more than just what is being said
So come closer, if you dare
Come see the truth lying in my hand
[At this, there is a pause, the figure slowly but surely taking out a parchment. Unrolling it, they then openly and willingly show what's written, and you can almost feel the smile beaming from behind their mask.
It's a certificate. A death certificate. For who, you may ask?
What they hold in their hand is a death certificate of one Queen Valrune, signed by Heda Genero of the Unnatural, from many many years ago.]
The death of a queen is a tragedy indeed
All of the city must mourn
But what happens to a queen who isn't thought dead,
Only handed down by name without scorn?
The question then becomes what is true
Is our queen really whom she says she may be?
Or have we been lied to all these years
In order to preserve peace and prosperity?
Can we trust what is said by the ones we love
Or is it time that they reveal who they are?
For surely there are questions that must be answered
And demands that will not go unscarred
So tell me, my dear residents of Promenade
Which is the truth, and which is the lie?
Do you believe everything to be the work of a madman
Or is there perhaps some goodness you might find?
For all that we know it will never be said
But perhaps this will bring us closer to a clue
That we ourselves are much more than puppets
And the time at hand will soon become overdue
[With a raise of the hand, the light fades, and the feed cuts. The Exile is gone once more.]