Scaena- the story

A long time ago, a master playwrite had his masterpiece performed; a tragedy that claimed the lives of over 500 innocents. Now, forever damned by gods yet blessed by demons, Lemot Sediam Juste is waiting for new actors and a new audience for his latest creations. Accidentally, a few young people stumble across Scaena, Juste's cursed theatre. As they become aware of it's foul magic, they find that escape will be far from easy. Juste enjoys a captive audience, and is not planning on allowing anyone of them to return alive…

(Scaena and Lemot Sediam Juste derive from the Ravenloft books 'Domains of dread' and 'Darklords'. Wizards of the coast own both names, as well as the concept of the role-playing game of Ravenloft. Usage of these names does not indicate permission by Wizards of the coast to do so. Which means, be careful to whom you spread this to, I'm trying to avoid a painful lawsuit. This story is purely fictional, based on descriptions from the book 'Domains of Dread' People familiar with Juste may find that the story is not exactly accurate. What I would like to say to these people is this: 'Shit happens.' Just enjoy the story and forget about accuracy for a while. I did my best.)

-Martijn Jan Allon

Chapter one; a play is written…

'Damn you!' Juste cried. 'Damn you all!' Angrily, he Threw his scrapbook across the theatre. 'This is supposed to be a tragedy! So wipe that grin of your face you bitch!' Lady Elsa's face turned sad as she saw Juste's rage. His face had turned a deep color red; sweat was running down his forehead. He had his hands in his already tangled black hair and his mouth was a thin line, as he seemed ready for a second verbal outburst. 'Why the hell can't you act the way you are supposed to? I don't think you'd be laughing if your husband just confessed he committed adultery on you, so why should countess Gloria laugh? Hmm? Tell me that!' His anger was such that it almost brought Lady Elsa to tears. As Juste noticed this, his rage fell into a form of hopelessness. For a few seconds, he let his head hang, and stared out the ground. After a deep sigh, he looked upon the cast on stage again. 'Go home.' He said as calmly as he could manage. 'Read the script, again. Try to live yourself into your character. Same time here tomorrow. We'll do this scene again.' He ignored the moans of his cast as he waved them away. 'See you tomorrow. Goodbye.' As the actors and actresses made their way to the dressing rooms, Juste threw himself in one of the seats on the first row. He drew a big breath, held it in for a while, then let it go. He sat there for a while, silently, until he heard the back stage door close for the last time and he was sure he was alone in the building. His sentence began softly, but the last word exploded through the theatre; 'Why do I have to work with these AMATEURS?!' He listened to the echo. He didn't feel much better. He started mumbling to himself, staring at the ground again. 'Why can't they live into my stories? I try so hard and they just don't work with me. Why do all of my masterpieces get so screwed up by them? They'll pay for that.'

Slowly, he got up from his seat, and walked back a few rows of seats, to where his scrapbook had landed. He picked it up from between the seats, and kept his eyes fixed title that was scribbled on the cover. 'The life of Countess Gloria, a tragic play by Lemot Sediam Juste.' He read aloud. He repeated the word 'tragic.' His play was supposed to be a tragedy. But the count's apologies to Countess Gloria for committing adultery seemed so laughable when performed. It should be a tragedy, not a comedy. He could think of several scenes in which his actors would seem more funny than serious; Juste didn't want to make his audience laugh, he wanted to make them cry, and think. With the scrapbook under his arm, he began to wander around his theatre. Through the Isle between the downfloor seats, under the balcony, he stepped through the double doors from the performance area into the main hall. He looked around as if it were the first time he was there. Directly across the room were the large double doors that led outside. To the left and right of where he stood, in the middle of the walls, were two smaller double doors, each leading to a staircase which brought the audience to the balconies. In the corner left from him was the wardrobe, which was now empty. To his far right, there were two doors, one labeled 'gentlemen', and one labeled 'ladies', leading to the restrooms. There were four great pillars in the hall, reaching to the high ceiling. An elaborate chandelier was suspended up there. Large, colorful tapestries were on the walls, which on their turn were built from the finest wood available. A thick red carpet covered the floor, completing the joyful sight of the main hall. Juste hated it. Not even the building suited his whims.

He slowly walked on, to the left entrance to the balconies. He climbed the stairs, which were also constructed of the same wood that the walls were made of; at regular distances, gas light usually gave out a bright light, illuminating the now dark stairs. As Juste arrived at the balcony, he looked across the stage The seating area was large; it offered room to an audience of 500 at most. The seats were covered with fine wool, dyed red as the carpet in the main hall. They were spacious and comfortable. The stage was well lit, after this evening's rehearsal. The decors on stage were brightly colored, to suit the house of a countess. The sight didn't please Juste. 'This is no place for a tragedy.' He thought. 'My actors, my stage…All is against me. I swear I'll get back at them all.' He looked at his scrapbook again; and an idea was formed. His face, that had been sad and angry for a while, now turned to a demonic grin. He hurried down the balcony stairs, through the main hall and back to the stage. He climbed the steps besides the stage, and walk through the stage exit, past the dressing rooms and into the prop room. Juste loved the prop room; Even so much he had reserved a part of it for his own quarters. There, he had his bed, his desk, and there, he wrote his plays. His desk was littered with paper. Some containing short stories, others just a single word, while others were merely unfortunate enough to get stained with spilt ink. Juste wiped all the paper of his desk, increasing the mess that was already on the floor. He put his scrapbook on his desk, and grabbed himself an inkwell and a quill. After dipping the quill in ink, he proceeded the cross through the word 'life' on the scrapbook. After a few more strokes with his quill, he read the new title of his play aloud. 'The death of Countess Gloria, a tragic play by Lemot Sediam Juste.' His grin drew wider as he began tearing out the pages that he had already written. Then, he took a blank page, dipped his quill in ink again and began writing a new play.

Chapter two- The Tragedy…

A week passed, and Juste's play was nearing completion. He worked all day and all through the night, stopping only when exhaustion and hunger plagued him too much to continue. As he slept, his dreams brought him new ideas on the play, and so, his story progressed. And after not much more than a week, the play was finished; a play in which every one of the cast would meet a gruesome fate. And Juste was pleased.

He had sent his cast home for the week, until he had enough copies of the script for everyone. One night, all of them met in the theatre to discuss the new play. Juste stood on the stage, and looked down upon his actors and actresses, who had taken their seats on the first row of the audience. After looking at them individually, he spoke to them. "Well, what do you think?" They remained silent for a while. The first one to speak was Sir Lamar, a middle-aged man who played the part of count Jerome, Gloria's husband. "I think it is very extreme, Juste... but I also think it has a good chance of being very succesful." The rest of the cast softly nodded, agreeing with Sir Lamar. Juste drew a small grin. "Glad you like it." He said. Roderick, a young man in his early twenties, jumped from his seat. "I've never been stabbed to death before!" He said with a smile. "I'll be happy to play my part!" Lady Elsa was the only one to express some worries about the play. "Is it really necessary to have all of us die in the story?" Juste tried to calm her. "Something like this has never been done before. Our names will be remembered a long time. This shall be our greatest performance; it will be my masterpiece." With a smile to Lady Elsa, he concluded: "You'll die last anyway." She was not satisfied yet. "It says in your play that the 'bodies' are not to be removed from stage until the play is over..." Juste got a bit angry again, but managed to hide this. "I'm experimenting, and I think it should be done that way. Have a little faith in me." He said. Lady Elsa seemed pleased. "Alright Juste, I'll trust you." Juste grinned again. "Thank you for your trust." And to the rest of the cast, he said: "I plan to have the premiere in two weeks. I want to rehearse every night, if possible." The cast did not protest, as they were looking forward to playing their part in Juste's story. "Alright, so that's how it will be done. We'll start rehearsing the first scenes tomorrow night. If there are no more questions, I wish you all a good night." The were no questions. As the actors and actresses left the theatre to go home, Juste returned to his quarters. Slowly, an insane fury began to get hold on him again. "Well well, all of a sudden my work appeals to them." He thought. "At last they actually enjoy starring in my play. But I will not change my plans for them. It'll be the most realistic performance they've ever done." He thought of Lady Elsa. "I'll have to make her suffer the most." Then, he turned in for the night, and dreamt of his upcoming triumph, which would indeed make sure that the names of his cast would be remembered a long time, as they would be carved upon their tombstones.

Two weeks later, the night of the grand rehearsal. Opening night was only 24 hours away. The cast were doing their best, for this was the last time they could rehearse without an audience present; they had to perfect themselves for the next night. Juste was pleased at their performance. In the past two weeks, all went the way he had planned. Theatre posters had been spread through the city, and the word had spread that Juste's new play was a unique event that one just had to see. Juste himself had spread the rumor that the play was so unique that it would only be performed once, thus increasing the demand for tickets. "There won't be much of a cast left to perform it again..." He thought to himself, with a smile. He redirected his attention to the stage, where the last scenes were being played out. In the closing scene, where Countess Gloria drank a flask of 'poison' and sank to the ground, Juste stood up from his seat and applauded his actors. "Bravo!" He called. " Well done!" the 'dead' actors got up now, some slightly sore from laying on the ground a while. "I'm very pleased with you." Juste continued. "If you act like this tomorrow night, nothing can go wrong. Now, will somebody please get the assassins down from the gallows?" The assassins were hung for killing the mayor's son. They were hung with a black silk rope under their shoulders, which wasn't visible on their black clothing, which created the illusion that they only hung by the hemp noose around their necks. A very ingenious trick. Juste had already figured out how to make it more realistic. As the assassins were taken down, Juste thanked all of his actors and actresses once more. "Now, get some rest. I want you to be at your best tomorrow night. It'll be the performance of our lives!"

Opening night. The main hall was slowly filling up with people, all in anticipation of the play. Juste was among them, talking to several people. He enjoyed that. The mayor of the city stepped up to him. "I've heard a lot of things about your new work Juste." He said with a smile. I've brought my whole family. They all want to see Roderick perform. He's been talking a lot about his part, and he desperately wanted us all to see." Juste smiled. "You won't be dissapointed mayor." He thought of what he had in store for Roderick, the mayor's oldest son. "He's a good actor, this role was cut out for him." The mayor, glowing with pride, moved on to talk to some other people. Juste forced himself not to laugh at the mayor's foolishness as he had just given away his son's fate. He thought it was time to check on his cast. He walked through the theatre doors, closed it behind him and walked to the dressing rooms. He briefly checked on his actors. "Another hour before I open the doors, people. This will be our night." Then, he moved on to the prop room.

An hour passed. Juste opened the doors to the seating area of the theatre, and welcomed his audience. As they all took their seats, Juste stepped up to the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first and only performance of 'the death of Countess Gloria.' The cast and I sincerely hope you enjoy the play. Now, without further ado; I present you my masterpiece." Then, the curtain opened, Juste stepped backstage, and the play began.

It didn't take long for the audience to be gripped by the story that was unfolding before them. Lies, deception, treachery... and murder. Juste's play had it all. The mayor's son, Roderick, was the first to die. According to the story, he found out about the count escapades, so the count sent his assassins to ensure certain silence from the one who might blackmail him. The public stared in awe as the assassins jumped Roderick and repeatedly stabbed him with their prop-knives; or so they thought. Juste had replaced the fake feather knives with genuine steel ones. None realized what was going on, not even the actors; and Roderick's blood was only the first to color the stage.

The assassins were caught and sentenced to hang. As this was done, none knew Juste had partially cut the black silk rope, which snapped as they had to support the weight of the actors, so they were suspended only by their necks. And in the next hour, all of the actors and actresses died, and only Lady Elsa, Countess Gloria, remained. As she saw her life had no meaning anymore, she grabbed a flask of poison and drank it. From backstage, Juste grinned as he noticed Lady Elsa was quickly having trouble breathing; slowly, her face turned black as she choked upon her swollen tongue. The last of Juste's cast fell dead upon the stage. The audience remained silent. Then, Juste stepped on the stage, and took a bow. Still, no one said anything.

But then, from the back of the audience, came the first response. "BOO!" Juste was astonished. And even more so when all of the audience began to make this disapproving sound. Within seconds, the entire audience was booing him. They had expected more from a master playwrite than just a series of violent deathscenes. Juste stood upon the stage, motionless. He listened to his public in horror. His masterpiece had been ruined. Anger took a hold of him. Anger turned to fury, rage, and it was then, that Juste collapsed totally into pure madness. He jumped off the stage and ran toward the main hall doors. He slammed them shut and locked them. Then, he tore one of the gaslights from the wall and threw it upon the red carpet. It quickly caught ablaze, and the fire spread fast. With a laugh, resounding with madness, he ran out of the building and barred the doors. He took refuge in a nearby alley, and delighted in listening to the screams of the people trapped in the theatre as they burnt alive.

As the constabulary arrived, they could do little more than to try and put out the fire. It was clear there wouldn't be any survivors to this inferno. From surrounding buildings, people ran out to help form a fire chain. Passing buckets of water from a nearby well, they did their best to quell the blaze. Juste, still hidden in his alley, realized this was the time to make his escape. He knew just the place to go. As he fled through the alley, he did not notice the thick mist that began to rise from the ground.

The name of the building was 'Scaena.' Juste knew it well, for it was the theatre owned by an old friend of his. Inside, a small comedy was being performed. As Juste walked into the building, the play had already begun, so he simply took a seat and watched. The story didn't interest him. Slowly he nodded away, and slept. And while he slept, the mist surrounded the building.

Chapter three- The revelation…

Juste awoke with a shock. He did not know how long he had slept. He looked around. The theatre was empty. Yet the lights were still burning. Suddenly, after examining his surroundings more closely, he jumped from his chair. This was not the same theatre anymore. His seat, as all others, now had a dark blue color, it did not have when he sat down in it. The stage curtains were blood red, not like the brighter red they had been before. Juste didn't understand what had happened. He decided to leave, he had to get out of the city. When he stepped into the main hall, he was struck with fear. Scaena had taken on a completely different form; it now closely resembled Juste's own theatre, though only in appearance. The four pillars were still standing. The chandelier still dangled from the ceiling. But the carpet, which used to be red, had now taken on the same dark blue color is the seats of the audience. The tapestries were no longer bright and colorful. The patterns had turned dark and twisted, giving the hall a completely different aura. Juste thought he smelled a hint of charcoal in the air.

He shrugged the emotions off. Getting out of town was the only thing that mattered to him right now. He quickly strode toward the exit. As he opened the doors, he saw the strangest thing yet; a thick mist swirled around just outside, but didn't pour into the building. Juste frowned. Although the fogbank was unusual, it couldn't hurt him. With that thought, he stepped into the mists.

Immediately, a strange feeling came over him. It began as a slight unease, but quickly drew stronger. His heartbeat quicked and he got cold sweat as memories from his childhood began to come back to him extremely vivid; All the years in which his talent wasn't recognized, while the children at school teased and tormented him in the nastiest ways, and the savage beatings of his father; he felt it all as if he was going through it all over again. The magnitude of these memories was too much for Juste; with a scream, he hurled himself back into the building. He had only stepped out a few feet. His breath was short and his head pounded as he was lying there on the ground. He didn't dare enter the mist again. And as it seemed they were blocking every possible exit, Juste knew he was trapped.

Two days passed. Juste had made no other escape attempt. He was just wandering around the theatre, incredibly bored. But, he had found out one other strange thing. In his quarters, there was a small pantry. Juste expected to die of starvation if he would eat all the food in there. But he found out, for some unknown reason and by some unknown way, all the products he took from the pantry were miraculously replaced. Juste knew he wouldn't die from starvation unless he would starve himself. But he knew he wouldn't do that when he made yet another discovery...

He didn't know what caused him to do it. The boredom, the frustration, or just the artistic need to write another play. For this is what he decided to do. From his quarters, he grabbed some sheets of paper, plus his inkwell and quill. With this, he sat down on the stage, to write. Because he was so bored already, he didn't want to remain in his stuffy quarters for long. After a brief period of thinking, he wrote his first lines.

'Night falls in the forest. The full moon is out, though hardly visible through the trees. There is a sound of wolves howling. The wind is cold...' At this moment, Juste felt a sudden chill that made him look up. His eyes widened. The theatre was gone. Around him, all he could see were trees. They reached high into the air, blocking the light of the moon. Juste heard howls and barking as a pack of wolves seemed to be drawing closer. He screamed, quickly getting on his feet, and ran. As he did so, he suddenly found himself back on the stage. The trees around him were merely stage props. There were no wolves, and no cold wind. Juste looked at the little bit he had written. The place he had seen was exactly what he had described there. His mind began to wander. Carefully, he picked up his quill where he had left it. Then he crossed through the first lines.

He hadn't really expected it to happen, but it did; as he crossed through the lines, the forest decor vanished without a trace. Juste grinned. He started to write again; this time it was a description of a medieval castle. He drew a madman's smile as his wish came true; though he was not as gripped by the transformation as he had been before, he felt really pleased as the props and decors appeared out of nowhere to form the castle he had just described. Juste's laugh resounded through Scaena. He had a lot of experimenting to do.