#i got free food. free clothes. got snuck into a festival by a band one time

[throwing-roses-into-the-abyss]

Ok so I've thought about it for two whole minutes but I do also think the whole beach trip is a dream. I think jaewon overdosed after the camera broke. Just, the weird dreamy lighting, the way he was acting before it, it doesn't seem quite right

[procrastinatingbardwrites]

The Bard: Before

When Cadence Harper was ten years old she lost her parents.

There was no evil warlord. There was no dramatic confrontation, no tearful oaths to avenge them. There was only a boat, a lake, and a sudden storm. There was an accident, and all at once Cadence was an orphan.

She had no other family in Neverwinter. Her father's people were scattered far and wide; word was sent out, but there was no real hope that any of them would receive it in time. Her mother's people were easier to find.

Elves generally were.

When Cadence Harper was twelve years old she left the elven city of Reitheillaethor, the name of which always felt odd on her tongue. She snuck out in the dead of night, silent as a spirit, passing like a shadow.

She had a knapsack full of supplies, a small pouch of gold, and her father's flute. She had those things, and she had a hot human anger burning inside her. She'd never fit in that place. It was so stifling, so cold. It was all stiff and formal, and she'd never be quiet enough, still enough, good enough. Not for any of them. She was too hot and fast and human for them, and they made it clear with every word and look. Those people might have been her kin, but they'd never be her family.

They searched. She hid.

Half-breed, they had called her. Never imagining that she would hear. Or perhaps, not caring.

Fuck 'em.

When Cadence Harper was twelve and a half years old she met a traveling band of musicians. She was living rough, playing her father's flute for coin. A half-orc man stopped to listen one day, nodding along with the tune, and after a few moments he turned and gave a sharp whistle. Cadence kept playing, her eyes darting left and right, marking the most likely escape routes in case this went south. But then a halfling woman joined the half-orc. After a few seconds the halfling smiled and pulled out an instrument of her own – not quite a flute, not quite a horn – and joined in with Cadence's song. And the half-orc began to sing in a surprisingly smooth baritone.

Cadence's hat filled with silver and copper and even a few gold pieces.

And when they were done, the halfling woman grinned.

"You're not bad, kid," she said. "Little rough around the edges, maybe, but you've got talent."

"Thanks," Cadence said, suspicious.

The half-orc man laughed. It was a deep rumbling laugh. It was a good sound.

"Good instincts, too," he said.

"Say, kid," the halfling said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "You wanna come with us?"

Cadence considered. She had nowhere else to go.

"I'm keeping the coin," she said, firmly. They laughed.

And all at once she had a new family.

When Cadence Harper was thirteen years old she discovered that her music had genuine magical power behind it.

That music and magic were intertwined wasn't new information. She'd seen plenty of magic from her new family whenever they performed. What surprised her was that she was capable of it. But the discovery only delighted the others. Dench picked her up in his big half-orc arms and swung her around, whooping as Bree danced around them, and Tagger, Dane, and Grif clapped and cheered.

"Knew you had it in you, half-pint!" Dench crowed. "Knew it!"

"It was just some sparks," Cadence laughed.

"Bollucks," Grif said. "That was magic, and this calls for a party!"

So they stopped at the next town, took some rooms in the inn, and had a rousing party in the tavern. Bree even let her have half a pint of ale ("But only one; you're still just a squirt even if you are a foot taller than me, and don't bother arguing!"), and they stayed up late into the night, singing and laughing and entertaining the locals.

And Cadence was happy.

When Cadence Harper was seventeen years old she lost everything again.

It happened like this:

They had come to a town called Stratford and were playing a show during a midsummer festival. One moment the sky was a bright clear blue; the next, it was a slate gray, and a wintry chill howled down the mountain.  

There was a roar.

There were screams.

The dragon fell upon them.

In the chaos that followed Cadence found herself alone, separated from her family, shivering in a snowstorm that shouldn't be there. She hurried through it, skidding on ice that hadn't been there an hour ago, calling out for Dench, for Grif, for Tagger, for Dane, for Bree. If they called back, their voices were lost in the howling wind.

The dragon found her instead.

For one hundred and twelve days Cadence Harper was trapped in the dragon's lair.

It kept her in a hanging cage, dangling thirty feet above a frozen hoard. It brought her furs to keep warm, and food and water to keep nourished.

Little Songbird, it called her, and demanded music.

For one hundred and twelve days.

Time had always been a funny thing for Cadence. In the elven city it seemed to launch her forward, moving far more quickly for her than for the pureblooded elf children. In the rest of the world, time slowed, and she watched humans and half-orcs and nearly all the other races grow older faster, while she remained more or less the same.

For one hundred and twelve days, time stretched out into agony.

On the hundred and thirteenth day a group of adventurers came to the cave.  

The dragon was sleeping. Cadence was letting her voice rest. She had sung so much during her captivity; her throat was always so sore, and sometimes she worried that her voice was damaged forever. She sipped on ice-cold water (everything here was ice-cold; she had almost forgotten what it was like to be warm, to have hot food to eat or hot tea to drink), and when she saw the small group creeping into the cave, she sat bolt upright. The adventurers saw her as well, and they froze.

Cadence looked to the sleeping dragon, and back to them. And for the first time in one hundred and twelve days, she summoned her small magic.

Can you kill it? she whispered, and sent the question to the adventurer in front. He was a human, broad and armored, carrying a shield and axe.

He met her gaze and nodded once. Yes, she heard him reply.

Cadence stood up in the cage. She took a long, slow drink of the cold water.

Be quiet, she sent, and I'll do what I can to keep it sleeping.

The adventurer nodded again and whispered to his companions.

Cadence took her father's flute from her belt, wet her lips, and began to play a lullaby.

The adventurers moved forward.

The fight was terrible. It was loud and violent; the dragon's roars of rage and surprise shook the walls of the cave. Cadence threw everything she had at disabling the thing, giving the adventurers every advantage that she could. She screamed curses at the dragon to distract it from the intruding heroes; she sang songs of inspiration and bravery for the adventurers. And eventually, finally, the dragon fell. The adventurers brought down her cage and let her out.

One hundred and thirteen days after the dragon took her, Cadence Harper was free.

People deal with traumatic experiences in various ways.

Sometimes they find a way to talk about what happened to them; sometimes, they're lucky enough to find someone who will simply listen to them. Sometimes they work through it by creating something: art, music, crafts, food. Sometimes...they simply work, throwing themselves into physical or mental labor in an effort to drive the memories of the experience from their minds. The methods of dealing with the trauma are as varied as the people who experience them.

Sometimes it's impossible to tell.

When Cadence Harper and the adventuring party who set her free made their way to a town, she thanked them, and took a room at the inn. She took a hot bath. She put on clean clothing. She had a hot meal. She slept in a warm bed. She let her throat recover, speaking seldom and singing not at all, but merely sitting in a corner of the tavern and watching people. Listening to their voices, their stories. For a time, the adventurers stayed in the town, and eventually they asked if she wanted to travel with them for a while. Cadence considered, then agreed, only asking for a little time to take care of some business. Then she went to the town's only music shop and purchased a violin.

She did not play her father's flute again.

Cadence didn't blame the band for leaving. They had every reason to believe she was dead, after all. Still, it was hard not knowing where they were. It was hard not knowing whether they had survived the dragon's attack on Stratford.

She chose to believe that they had.

She needed to believe that they had.

There was a song they all used to play together. It was a song of longing, a promise to wait. The way it was structured, it would sound good if any of the parts were played alone, but it really became something special when all parts played together. Once, Bree had told her that if ever they were separated, that was how they found their way back again.

Everywhere she went, Cadence played...and Cadence listened.

One day Cadence would find them again.

She had to believe that, because otherwise... well, otherwise, she was alone again.

[californiadreaminghq]

Oh good, you made it!

Did you guys know Ky was coming? They brought Anthony Doyle, The Stranded! And just on time! Grab a drink, find a spot, and make sure you finish everything on the checklist. The band is just getting started – you have 24 hours to send in your account! We’re so glad you’re here!

 I. OUT OF THE STUDIO

NAME/ALIAS: Ky

AGE: 28

PRONOUNS: they

                                                 II. ON STAGE

DESIRED SKELETON: The Stranded

NAME: Anthony Doyle (Antonino Azzara)

FACE CLAIM: Luke Pasqualino

AGE: 27

OCCUPATION: Bassist with Violent Vale

                                               III. INTERVIEW

Answer the following questions in your character’s voice:

If you could do anything in the world for a living, what would it be?

“What, if I didn’t have the band to look after?” That made him pause, it did. Shit. What would he do? Go back and help mum and dad with the shop? Even they didn’t want that. If they were being honest about it. “Fucked if I know,” Anthony flapped a hand, cigarette smoke curling after. He’d get on with it. Somehow. “Maybe a zoo?” He threw that out there, for the hell of it. “That’s what I went on about, when I was a kid. Working at the petting zoo, with the cockatoos and goats.” Not very rock and roll. But, then again - he’d got plenty of practice with wild animals, hadn’t he?

If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?

“New York was mint. Wouldn’t mind another stop off around there, sometime.” So long as he didn’t have to be running about keeping those muppets out of trouble. Those beloved muppets of his. Anthony took a thoughtful drag, considering his options. World was his oyster, innit? “Other than that, oh…those Galapagos Islands might do. See the big, fuck off tortoises. Darwin’s finches. And your cousins, mate,” he smirked at the iguana lazing down the chesterfield from him, dozy in the California heat. “Seems a relaxing sort of place.”

What is one thing that makes you different than anyone else?

“Out of this lot? I can cook. Properly, mind, like, real food. Vitamins, minerals. And I can press clothes. Do up a tie. Fix a button, change a tire…” he counted off on his fingers, knowing he’d run out. Violent Vale had a lot going for it, but. When it came to just being able to get shit done, the little things that kept life rolling along in some semblance of order, Anthony was the one who had to step up, often as not. “Tell time.” He rapped his watch, snuffing his cigarette. Not the first interview where he’d been the only bastard of the bunch to show up when the calendar said so. Wouldn’t be the last. “Don’t you worry, they’ll be along.” He wouldn’t promise shortly. Knew better.

                                               IV. BACKSTAGE

Anthony - as his teachers at school quickly got to calling him, because Antonino was just too much of a mouthful, apparently - didn’t remember Italy, but his neighbors around Bristol never let him, or his hard-working parents, forget it. The Azzaras had left their mother country, and generations of family history, behind when Anthony was just shy of his second birthday; the future had looked too grim, in wartorn, bombed out Naples. Better to try their chances elsewhere. They got as far as England, and set about becoming as Bristolian as they could. Which, according to the locals, was never really enough. Still, they got on with it - it being a little chippy down in Temple Meads. Nothing special, but cod and potatoes paid the bills. Mostly. When the shop didn’t cover rent and such, or needed new windows and paint after the odd smash-up, Ant found ways to make ends meet. His mum and dad might frown on it, and fret, but he’d learned plenty of tricks from hanging about on the fringes. Met all sorts of interesting people, there. Fences, for one. With his clever fingers and fast feet, Anthony could make himself some good money when he needed it, pawning things he snuck off drunk tourists.

But only when he needed it. When his family needed it, more rightly. Picking pockets and sneaking unattended handbags wasn’t fun. It was risky, and he knew that. Anthony played smart, and took honest work over a quick buck, when he could find it. Was a band, a rock band, honest work? He wasn’t too sure about that, but Violent Vale wasn’t just a rock band. They were family too, childhood friends. The type who’d start your fights for you. Loyal to a fault, because they’d earned it, Anthony let himself get drawn into the dream and put those troublesome hands to better use on the bass.

They weren’t bad, neither. Not bad at all. A few gigs around town became more, became daytripping to Bath, became playing at this little festival over in Glastonbury, became a weekend over in London. Became fame. Soon, he didn’t have time to bus tables for his parents - and he didn’t even need to feel guilty about it, because the money was good. Stupid good. It only got better as Violent Vale got big, and bigger. They were riding a trend, all the way to the top. All the way to America. Mad, wasn’t it? New York City was a good time, a breath of fresh air. Well, fresh-ish. Unfortunately, it was too good of a time for some members of the band. As in England, Ant found himself acting the collie dog, shepherding his little lunatic gang around the city, trying to keep them in line and on schedule. It was a hell of a job. And, frankly, he needed to cut loose himself now and then. Now and then became too often, quickly. Predictable, wasn’t it? Those ties that bound were tight, after all. Anthony found himself dragged off course more than he should’ve been, through the clubs and rooftops and streets of the Big Apple. The bills piled up. The tabloids loved it. Their managers didn’t. Soon, it was decided - forcefully - that they’d be packing up, shipping out west. To California. Beaches, bikinis, big record labels. Sounded wicked.

So long as they got their shit in line. Ant pulled the band together for their own meeting, after management left to arrange the details. Los Angeles had to be different. More music, less party. Please? He was, well. Worried about them. The Vale were more than a headline, more than letters in lights. They were his mates, the best he had. He wasn’t trying to be a killjoy, here. Just wanted to see them survive stardom. They seemed to be listening, but… he knows them, these people of his. Not at all mollified, he threw back his gin and tonic, reclined that big American airline seat, and hoped for the best. He’s not out to change his friends, to be clear. He just… wishes they weren’t such a bloody mess. Until that day comes, though, Ant’ll be there to scrape the Vale off the floor and into the studio, anytime, everytime.

                                                   V. ENCORE

Let’s try some HEADCANONS.

He’s not a Tony. Don’t call him Tony. At least one of his bandmates - if not the whole mangy crew - has known Anthony long enough to remember when he was a weedy little late-bloomer, last boy at school to shoot up and fill out; those days left him with the unenviable nickname of Ant. It’s stuck, but whether he finds it aggravating or endearing really depends on the moment. Don’t try it if you’re not a proper, close friend. You’ve got to earn the right, yeah?

While he couldn’t say much for the Bristol school system, Ant’s an avid self-educator. He’s particularly keen on environmental subjects and history, and his letterbox is often packed with magazines like National Geographic, Time, and The Ecologist.

Anthony’s loving the California sunshine, honestly. He’s often found on the beaches, taking a morning swim - in water that’s not too bloody cold for that, what a wonder - or an evening run.

Given his love of animals, it comes as no surprise to most that Anthony’s very vegetarian. Unless he’s at home, with mum and dad. Then he eats what he’s given, and likes it. Obviously.  

Anthony can speak Italian, but not much. His parents discouraged their first language at home; faced with the prejudices of working class Bristol, the Azzaras tried very, very hard to fit the mould of respectable, urban, English family. Mum and dad were understanding when he first took up a blandly British stage name - it could only help his chances. It was sensible, but… difficult, in a way Anthony can’t quite articulate. He doesn’t have a mother country to miss, not the way his parents do. All the same, his name, his skin, his face, have been held against him for as long as he can remember. He’s sensitive to the tensions of race and culture, and even if America’s problems with all that haven’t smashed any of his windows in, Ant can see them pretty plainly.

His first fresh-to-fame personal indulgence was buying up an iguana that caught his eye in a shop window, back in London. They weren’t taking proper care of it, right - all cramped up, with sad, fake vines, wilted lettuce. Couldn’t have that. Said iguana, now known as Dennis, as in, the Menace, now travels alongside the band - frequently creating a bit of a stir in transit. Nobody’s too fond of the idea of transporting live reptiles, as it turns out. Anthony’s turned his apartment in Los Angeles into a free-range reptile habitat for Dennis’s sake, complete with some lovely lush plants he takes diligent care of.

Anthony tries - and largely succeeds - at being the reasonable, sensible, presentable face of the Vale. But if you hit the right buttons, he’ll show you just what sort of British culture he picked up along the Bristol docks. Ant breaks up more fights than he starts, and when he does, he tends to break some faces along the way. Got a mean headbutt, in true hooligan style.

And of course, a PLAYLIST! Here’s some period-rightish tunes that brought Ant to life for me. There’s some appropriately hot-blooded fling type tracks, a lot of British rock of all stripes, some rebel yelling, and bangers to blow the roof off, in truly Violent Vale style.

Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin

Baba O’Riley - The Who

Teenage Kicks - The Undertones

Jimmy Jazz - The Clash

Friends of Mine - Buzzcocks

Good Times Roll - The Cars

Hush - Deep Purple

Burning Down the House - Talking Heads

Demolition - The Kinks

Don’t Bring Me Down - Electric Light Orchestra

No More Heroes - The Stranglers

The Night Comes Down - Queen

God Save the Queen - Sex Pistols

Good Times Bad Times - Led Zeppelin

Don’t Mess Me Round - Buzzcocks

Under Pressure - Queen & David Bowie

I Know a Girl - The Undertones

Just What I Needed - The Cars

Money - Pink Floyd

Rebel Rebel - David Bowie

My Generation - The Who

Lola - The Kinks

I Told You So - The Undertones

Diamond Dogs - David Bowie

Wasted Life - Stiff Little Fingers

Real Cool Time - The Stooges

You’re All I’ve Got Tonight - The Cars

Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve?) - Buzzcocks

Should I Stay Or Should I Go - The Clash

All Day and All of the Night - The Kinks

Keep Yourself Alive - Queen