Darkness; below, percussion throbs softly. You shift from foot to foot, conscious of too much open space around you.
Ahead and on either side, the voice of the chorus rises; as they speak, the lights slowly go up.
CHORUS:
Now does the hour grow close; where feet lack time,
And Spaniards rage before the Cockrel's gate,
The condemned sinner, soul turned sick of vice,
Shall craft before your eyes most unclean magics,
Open him a gate to Hell's black womb,
Release demons, and bid them convey
Our heroes to fair France; there to signal
Embattl'd men to a final desperate measure.
The final act is begun; the play is in your hands.
A play by Alphonse de l'Entaille
For 24 Hours of Inform '04
Copyright (c) 2004, 2005
For acknowledgments, hints, and miscellanea, type "about"
The author can be contacted at alphonse.de.l.entaille@gmail.com
Release 1 / Serial number 050115 / Inform v6.21 Library 6/10
You are onstage, a wide expanse of blank floor facing onto darkness. Nestled behind a curtain's edge is the exit leading offstage.
The backdrop features an unconvincing painting of pine-covered mountains and a dark, ominous sky in which a double-headed eagle is carrying off a schnitzel.
[ To go backstage, type 'backstage' or simply 'bs' ]
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