Eight Doors, Three Vials: Act 1
a play by Daphne
Eight Doors, Three Vials: Act 1
a play by Daphne
Cynella - Rebellion Lieutenant, Bearer of the Stone
Gléad - Rebellion Soldier
Simon - Empirical Soldier
Eristád - Empirical Squad Leader
Commander Járgoon - Empirical Commander
Coporal Valéfánt - Empirical Corporal
Captain Markum - Empirical Cavalry Captain
Belfor - Empirical Champion
Scribe Rekert - Empirical Scribe
Gentry - Empirical Nobel & Scout
Mirabel - Sorceress of Hollow Hills
Act 1
Scene 1
Forest. A Brook.
Enter Cynella and Gléad
Cynella: Go fast. Make some quickness with your drinking. That party’s chase was fleet footed before and after our course fractured from the rest. By my sightings it felt as if a thing to know, and from our pursuer’s course and cannon alone; it is myself who they seek. I cannot fathom we’ve yet earned our chance loose of them.
Gléad: I’m less than worried—so forgive me—we’re only two.
Cynella: Yes, we are two. But I am me, and they are coming. That brightly lit monstrosity caught with my eyes to its own on the field. It knew of me, and my insignia seems the curse. I’ve no time to argue with a soldier who barely holds in tow.
Gléad: What falsest sense you imagine of yourself, Cynella. You’re not that important, you know. And like I said, as well, we are two of a thousand.
Cynella: Get your knees into the mud and fill yourself with that bloodstained water as you wish. Your murk is waiting. If you waste more than a youthful hare’s breath of the time I need to catch my own I will leave you to die on that sword they surely have seeking my throat, of which you profess yourself to deny.
Gléad: Will you now?
Cynella: How little do you think of these soldiers who have decimated our kind? One to one they had us beat, and to the soldier. Which leaves unmentioned their supports held back in plain sight, and we are outnumbered; our hundreds; three-to-one. How little do you think of your own self and class and station amongst our companions? I am your Lieutenant, Gléad. I carry the sparked diamond hidden in sheath beneath my sword and you know this. I command you to hurry while shutting your insolent mouth. I will not be coaxed to leave my kind to die for anything but purest idiocy, and you are tempting me. Do not become that first. We must get to the sorceress beyond the highland. She dwells beneath the Hollow Hills.
Gléad: Tell me, what is it you truly believe a fool taking story peddler can do for us now? We have been slaughtered this day.
Cynella: You have not seen what I have seen. Speak down upon Mirabel’s gifts and I might cut you down an inch.
Distant horns wail, hounds’ barks emerge from the tree line, and men can be made out shouting.
Cynella: This petty argument of your lesser mind is over unless you wish to be left behind, as of now.
Gléad: I cannot believe this. How could they know what you carry? How could they believe such superstitions?
Cynella: Our ranks have been defiled, and you are fleeing with a renown demigod. Regardless of belief, they know what it means.
Gléad: Okay. Alright.
Cynella: We must hurry to the hills. Something foulest has gone awry, and more than your odor. Springs nearby our quarry will claim us good fortune, but only if we make haste. Hurry now, Gléad. I want to see your smile amongst our people once more.
Gléad: I’m with you, sire. It wasn’t my intention to befuddle into despair. I saw too many of my kin die today.
Cynella: When you meet Mirabel you will see. You will know. She can still win this war for us—or save our people in the least. For every one of us who fell today, so will fall ten of them.
Gléad: Yes, yes. I may only hope that is enough.
Scene 2
Highlands. A Plain.
Simon and Eristád walk the plain.
Simon: Say, Eristad. What did you think of that woman’s breasts?
Eristád: Which one? The giant one or the saucy one?
Simon: Oh, yeah, I was talking about the one carrying the melons.
Eristád: I don’t think those were melons, Simon.
Simon: Humph.
Eristád: Where do you think she would have gotten melons from?
Simon: Well, yeah, I guess don’t know. Maybe we missed a storehouse, is what I was thinking. They were like—down here.
Eristád: That was an older lass, Simon, a giant. And those certainly weren’t melons.
Simon: Yeah, I’m just hungry, I suppose.
Eristád: You don’t think too great. Do you, Simon? Are we moving too fast? You want to slow down?
Simon: Yeah, that sounds nice. I really hate this place, Eristád.
Eristád: Who wouldn’t?
Simon: I just miss being home. Who was the saucy one?
Eristád: Oh, you would’ve known if you’d seen her. She was perfect; just round enough, but short too, if a bit long in the tooth.
Simon: That sounds nice. Where are we going?
Eristád: Simon, I’ve had a feeling. I told you that. Can you trust a fellow who saw you this far?
Simon: Yeah, I mean, I guess. Aren’t we deserting though?
Eristád: It’s called surviving. We’re only surviving, Simon. This is about our lives and mostly having a say in how they end. It’s about getting real chances at what we deserve. Rank shouldn’t matter so much. There’s not a chance our cavalry makes it back in anything but pieces—that far behind enemy lines—so deep into the muck.
Simon: Yeah. I hope not.
Eristád: I’ll watch after us. You just stick with me, Simon. I’ve got plans for us and this land.
Simon: Well, okay. What do you think Captain Markum will do if he finds us out?
Eristád: We were captives, Simon, captives. We were fed well, playing it low down, and bedding our enemies’ women while collecting logistical information. I’m keeping it all up here.
Simon: Yeah, well, if you say so.
Eristád: Tales will be told of us, Simon, tales.
Simon: I hope not.
Eristád: What do you mean? What kind of fool doesn’t want to become a legend? I’m going to be a legend of this war.
Simon: Yeah, okay. Say, what did the saucy one look like shape-wise?
Eristád: Oh, don’t you wish you knew. I won’t forget her, not ever.
Simon: Well, damn.
Eristád: Maybe, just maybe, Simon, if we come upon some holding with a quill I can ink her for you. Would you like that?
Simon: I suppose I would. That sounds quite nice.
Scene 3
Encampment. A Tent.
Enter Commander Járgoon & Corporal Valéfánt
Commander Járgoon: I feel good. This is going better than was expected. We may need to cull our own numbers so we might justify our victory to The King at this rate. I’m quite eager to hear news from Maléfor’s detachment—on the hunting of that wretched fortune seeker half what-have-you.
Corporal Valéfánt: I suspect we shall hear back soon, some victory on their behalf, undoing that uprightness, and maybe just in time for me to clean off the wizard princess loving scum blood from my blade.
Commander Járgoon: Were you counting again, Corporal? Could you even keep the count? These simpletons seem not to produce bespoken soldiers in the least, except those few their squirl’s formations cling to who likely foisted into these lands from afar. Where is my scribe? Where’s my scribe?
Corporal Valéfánt: Scribe. Your commander has returned from battle.
Enter Scribe Rekert
Scribe Rekert: Sire. Sire. Apologies. There has been much regaling—much rejoicing.
Commander Járgoon: Sit.
Corporal Valéfánt: Yes. Sit to do your work, then do it well. Ink your quill and shut your mouth.
Commander Járgoon: Write this for the record, Scribe: here, on the fifth day of battle, the final day of Spring, Empire’s great victory became fastened to fate upon the routing of the rebellion’s limpest yet maximal mustering. Their singular formation fell, dismayed, by the vicious battalion sent into head-on combat by the ingenious tactics of Commander Járgoon. The resisting rebellion forces were weakened and sullied for days ahead, by siege upon their fortress walls, from spies grafted within, and by his lord Commander’s grace then fell with ease. Losses were few. Deaths taken were many. The former rebel stronghold was then razed by flames, pillaging, and demonstrations of glory’s right upon their unfallen. Retreating parties were destined, terminated where-all possible, and those who were marked yet protected have been tracked. Further resistance to the rebel’s general defeat was all but assured to fail—their numbers falling to less than a hundred strong.
Corporal Valéfánt: Have you gotten all of that?
Scribe Rekert: Yes sirs.
Corporal Valéfánt: I am your corporal—asking you directly, Scribe. Have you gotten all of that?
Script Rekert: Sir. Yes, Corporal. I have.
Corporal Valéfánt: Excellent then. Know that is what is required of you, along with being present at your post the very moment you are needed.
Scribe Rekert: Yes, sir. Understood, Corporal.
Enter Sir Gentry
Sir Gentry: Permission to enter, sirs?
Corporal Valéfánt: Granted.
Sir Gentry: Sir, sir. Sirs. We have word from Belfor’s detachment.
Commander Járgoon: What have you, Gentry?
Sir Gentry: Belfor tracks the marked one into the hill lands of the East—beyond the forest. He requests a folding force roused, for his striking of her down, noting the possible staging of both soldiers and sullied beyond his knowing.
Corporal Valéfánt: What madness it is to consider this nonsense.
Commander Járgoon: Corporal. Belfor’s superstition is based in the beyond; and that past your purview of privilege to know of. I’m placing this task in your hands and expect you see to it as well as any, providing due grace to our champion in his task alone. Until the they is slain, treat Belfor as your own liege. Once matters are seen through, it’s you who is to lead all of our people back to my ground safely footed.
Corporal Valéfánt: Sire, with all respect—I beg you to consider me worth the knowledge owed. Why are we hunting this foulest marked one? What on good Earth have we deigned worth consideration regarding these foolhardy peoples’ legends of myth?
Commander Járgoon: Honor, Valéfánt. It is honor you must hold to now. Take your pick of twenty men. Go and join with Belfor. Tell him only that my request: if from their hills they emerge with numbers beyond your own, do not engage, draw them back or leave them in wait. There is no precaution worth leaving unheeded.
Corporal Valéfánt: Of course, sir.
Commander Járgoon: You will be briefed in the appropriate measure at the proper time, Corporal. This is a matter of strategy and reason. Your strength is of the mind, and I need that steady.
Corporal Valéfánt: Understood, Commander. That fiend’s head will be yours if they move with any hint of weakness in our sight, as I’m sure they will.
Commander Járgoon: This one Belafor hunts is not a head we take. He alone knows what we have in store for them.
Corporal Valéfánt: I see. I will leave this matter beyond my mind’s grasp.
Commander Járgoon: Precisely. Now, take your leave and your pick. And pick well. But leave me Belfry. Scribe, please make for the tents. Withold yourself from regaling any further and take stock from our men’s accounts of the battlefield. Speak to as many as you might before sundown.
Scribe Rekert: Yes sir. At your pleasure.
Commander Járgoon: Scribe. Make sure the accounts are accurate. And rejoice as you will when your task is seen to.
Scribe Rekert: Yes sir. Thank you, Commander.
Corporal Valéfánt: Pleasure as always, my Commander.
Commander Járgoon: Likewise, Valéfánt.
Exit Corporal Valéfánt & Scribe Rekert
Commander Járgoon: Belfry, secure the tent’s passage.
Sir Gentry: Yes sir.
Commander Járgoon: Now, remove your clothes, and crawl to me on your knees.
Sir Gentry: Oh, sir. Yes, my Commander.
Scene 4
Small Town. A Barn.
Simon and Eristád lie in hay mounds.
Eristád: Say Simon, how’s the hay over on your side of the stall?
Simon: Well, it’s okay. Why do you ask?
Eristád: It’s only that there seems to be a littering, over here, on this side.
Simon: Littering? What do you mean?
Eristád: Well, Simon, I feel what seems most distinctively like a hardened stool chunk, or a handful, beneath my bum and legs and arms.
Simon: Oh, yeah. Is that what these are?
Eristád: I’m afraid to investigate too closely. But I believe so.
Simon: I think they are.
Eristád: I guess there are worse things, but it’s got me wondering if we owe a return trip to that bar. And if, perhaps, we’ve been had as fools by the maiden therein. She may have seen through our disguises, Simon, and she seems the type to make a fool of a man.
Simon: Well, yeah, I don’t think she would lie to us, Eristád. She seemed so keen on helping, and kindly.
Eristád: Simon, we were her customers. And your judgments surrounding the smile on a woman’s face are not something I’d trust as far as I can throw my milk. Why don’t you scoot over? I need to get off this large one. It’s going to leave me with a welt.
Simon: I don’t actually have much room, but I guess I can try.
Eristád: Good. I’m not really asking, Simon. I’m tired, I’m drunk. And I’m not leaving this barn until I sleep well, or the horses make a full nightstalker turn.
Simon: What do you mean? Horses don’t nightstalk, do they? Have you heard of that?
Eristád: I’ve read stranger tales, Simon. Especially about these lands. Did you not see the way their masses ran from our calvary? Even the old and fat ones knew the hustle. It felt practiced, moving quickly. Make space, I’m coming over.
Simon: Uhm, yeah, well, okay.
Eristád: Goddammit.
Simon: Well, yeah, that’s okay, I guess.
Eristád: That’s alright, huh?
Simon: I mean, yeah. It’s okay with me, if you need.
Eristád: It’s gon’ get cold tonight, I think.
Simon: Yeah, I suppose it is.
Eristád: I just wish I was back home, buddy. Barns remind me of home.
Simon: Oh, really, did you grow up on a farm?
Eristád: I miss my lady. Did I ever tell you about her?
Simon: Uh, yeah, no. I don’t think you ever did, Eristád. What was she like?
Eristád: She was a real special girl, Simon. Real special.
