The Mythos of Apollyon

The Ivory Institute for Fine Art's Torch Lit Amphitheatre.
Shaped like the interior of a sunken tower, this deep, cylindrical underground coliseum is bathed in the fiery glow of a thousand blazing torches. The stage itself is a large, circular slab of polished obsidian surrounded by a moat of fine ivory grit. To the east and the west are simple gateways leading out of the performance space. Heavy iron portcullises stand guard over them, with luxurious crimson silk curtains draped down behind. Towering sandstone brick walls stretch from around the performance area up to the shadow shrouded ceiling. Ornate balustrade surrounds each ring of seats: grotesque gargoyles and demons have been carved swarming over them, leering down at the stage with either manically happy or tragically sad expressions glazing their eyes. The burning torches that illuminate the area are held in the clawed hands of these statues at regular intervals. A runic totem is planted solidly in the ground. Malefic Nayra is here. She wields a small blackjack in her left hand. The Black Dragon Kinilan's imposing form looms. Droch Nafireak is here. She wields a cavalry shield in her right hand. Cleric Milenka is here. She wields a Shield of Absorption in her left hand. Blade Aspirant Varnes Fitzneale, Sentry of Mhaldor is here. He wields a dwarven battleaxe in each hand. Benedominatus Proficy is here. Cardinal Lodi Coldraven Ta'sa is here.
You see a single exit leading up (open door).

Lodi says enigmatically in a dry, age creaked voice, "Greetings and welcome my brothers and sisters of Evil!"

Lodi says enthusiastically in a dry, age creaked voice, "For three hundred years has Mother Mhaldor now lived... I never thought I would live to see it."

Lodi says nostalgically in a dry, age creaked voice, "I can remember when Mhaldor was born through blood and sacrifice as if it where but yesterday."

The Dragon Tirac thunders in from the up.

Lodi says happily in a dry, age creaked voice, "Our tercentenary should be a time of jubilant festivity!"

Lodi smiles and says in a dry, age creaked voice, "The Ivory Institute for Fine Art wishes to mark this momentous date with a new and fresh exhibition."

Lodi says proudly in a dry, age creaked voice, "But before the doors are opened proper, the I.I.F.A. will perform for you an epic celebration of music and dance."

Lodi says energetically in a dry, age creaked voice, "So, without further procrastination, I present to you all..."

Lodi says loudly in a dry, age creaked voice, "The Mythos of Apollyon!

With a flourish of his arms, Lodi bows low.

Lodi climes down onto the obsidian stage through a concealed entrance, moves to its center and bows low with a theatrical flourish of his arms. As he rises back up with an expansive smile across his face, the portcullises at either end of the stage open with a scream of chains and gears. Through the crimson curtains of each respective gateway, pours a column of Orc slaves three abreast. Each is clad in simple black military outfits.

Lodi nods in satisfaction at the Orc units. Their feet march loudly in unison, the central slave at the front (and every seven rows back) holding aloft an ornate cobalt banner emblazoned with a heraldic wheel of ivory silk. To either side of these banner bearers march Orcs beating out rolls and snaps upon large snare drums. All the other Orcs carry with them guttering torches that dance and flicker in the amphitheater's low light.

Lodi raises his arms up to all those gathered in the amphitheater's seating and laughs with joyous mirth. The two columns of Orcs march anti-clockwise around the fine ivory grit that surrounds the obsidian stage.  The drummer's pounding military rhythm mingles with the sound of marching booted feet. Having completed three circuits of the stage, the Orcs stop and turn to face inwards. Standing to attention in parade ground unison, their final synchronized boot stamp stops the drums and heralds silence. They completely surround the stage, although a gap has been left in their ranks before each portcullis to allow others to enter and leave unhindered.

Lodi claps his hands together and the air is filled with sounds of commotion, as a great many black robed Acolytes of Suffering scurry out through the portcullises carrying chairs, music stands and a simple conductors podium. Neatly and efficiently, they line them all up in numerous sections upon the outer edge of the expansive, obsidian stage. Gaps are left in front of the portcullises and the podium is positioned at the very western most point of this ring. Finally a set of Timpani drums and a range of percussion instruments are pulled on and set down to the east.

Lodi ascends the steps onto the conductor’s platform, pulling up his robes slightly as he does so. Each music stand has a small, cobalt waxen candle dripping from gargoyled holders. Once lit by the acolytes, they cast a halo of orange stars around the stage. The dirty and malnourished Acolytes bow humbly before the Cardinal and then scuttle away through the portcullis gateways, their tasks completed. Seeing all is well, Lodi turns round to face his audience and takes a low bow.

Lodi then picks up an ivory conductors baton, gives it a few quick swishes through the air and lightly taps his music stands metallic top. Instantly the Mhaldorian Philharmonic Orchestra files out of the portcullis gateways. They take up positions in a circle around the stages outer edges and the soothing music of their massed tuning fills up the air. It is a strange sort of music that this lull before the final onslaught produces. There is no order to it, yet it contains a free-flowing, liquid like quality that washes over your senses, emotionally preparing you for what is to come.

Lodi picks up his baton and taps it gently upon his music stand, indicating that the Orchestra should now be silenced. As quiet falls in a rippling decay of sound, he raises his baton up into the air and holds it there for a moment.

Lodi brings the baton crashing downwards and begins to weave a dramatic four-beat cross with it. Instantly the assembled Orchestra springs vibrantly to life, filling the air with a thumping sonic pulse in time with the Cardinal’s exuberant conducting. The bombastic sounds of the brass section take precedence, rising and falling like the marching swell of a metaphysical army in time with the percussions militant poundings. Around all this weaves the strings and woodwind sections, flowing in an out of the rhythmical attack with staccato scale flourishes.

Lodi beckons with his right hand, whilst still keeping perfect rhythm with his left. At first the effect of this gesture is not apparent, but soon the faint sound of distant singing can be heard. Drawing ever nearer with each passing bar of music, the singing becomes more and more audible. As the choral element draws close, so do its orchestral compatriots intensify their declarations. The music evolves subtly, swelling ever darker with each passing bar. Soon, a pounded swell of structured dissonance fills up the amphitheater.

Lodi‘s hands fly powerfully through the air. The Orchestra's musical marble is chiseled to ever finer perfection by the Cardinal’s razor witted baton. The tempo quickens as a distant apex draws nearer, - “Left, right, left-left, right, Left, right, Left,” sings forth the Mhaldorian Philharmonic. The rich voices of the Ivory Institute’s Choral Society march in perfect time with the music.

Lodi beats the Orchestra through one last crashing bar and then silences them with a slice of both hands, as the front rank of the Choir come singing through the southern gateway. Their tongues raised loud and clear through the vacuum left by the Philharmonic’s silence, the air is laden with rich voices. Dancing up and down scales unnervingly arranged in major sevenths, their dissonance at once forebodes and tantalizes. Garbed in paneled robes of dark cobalt blue, these Priests to Apollyon all sport red felt patches over their right eyes in homage to the Lord of Struggle’s Ultimate Wound.

Lodi keeps rhythm with his ivory baton perfectly, illustrating the Emotional aspects of the music unto the Choir with theatrical facial expressions. The Priestly Choir takes up their positions around the very outer edge of the obsidian stage, between the circle of Orc soldiers and the Mhaldorian Philharmonic. Air grown thick with rich and well trained voices, a stream of Dancers pours forth from the northern gateway. Completely naked Satyrs with bodies and fur stained deepest black, flow out down the eastern section of the stage. To the west fly forth beautiful golden haired Sirens in a similar state of undress. Their athletic bodies have been daubed with the intricate patterning of abstracted flames. They dance allegro in cavorting leaps and bounds.

Lodi conducts the Choir with his baton, right hand raised before the Orchestra in indication of their imminent entry. Some of the Dancers expertly weave fire or smoke around their bodies with blearing poi. It is the men who wrap themselves in quickly dissipating looped black clouds and the females who orbit their bodies with blazing satellite comets.  This horde of Flame and Void pours forth over either side of the obsidian stage. An abrupt pause in the Choral singing causes them to freeze in set poses - the Void Satyrs physical position represents greed, whilst the Star Sirens illustrate loneliness.

Lodi sweeps upwards with his left hand, causing the Timpani player to strike up a steady four beet marching rhythm as the Choir comes screaming back to life. Stepping out of the southern gateway’s shadows come two large Orc slaves dressed in simple black habbits. They carry on their backs ornate bamboo cages with dark cobalt paneling. Precisely what is inside said cages is hidden from prying eyes by luxurious ivory silks draped from the inside of their bars.  Hauling their mysterious cargos to the center of the stage, the Orcs deposit them side by side.

Lodi nods at the First Violin Section, who add their own distinct lamentations to the dissonant soundscape’s cosmic march.  Bowing low before the gathered spectators, the Orcs shuffle backwards through the southern gateway – their humbled forms dissolving into its darkened depths. Two of the Dancers (one from each sex) back-flip towards the boxes, reaching them in perfect time: cloven hoof and delicate foot touching down with practiced symmetry.

Lodi activates the Second Violins and the Violas in unison with the two Dancer’s foot-falls. Arms and bodies weaving back and forth to the music, the Satyr and the Siren open two of the cage lids and rip away the silks in rhythmic swirls of fabric and painted skin.  Out of the right hand box flies forth a fiery yellow Sun, from the left a smoky black one. Each have been masterfully whittled from soft wood, their detailed tails rapping tightly around the cleverly hidden black ropes that run from the cages up to a central foci point above the stage. The two dancers must have skillfully connected the ropes whilst opening up the crates. Clock-work mechanisms with small toothed wheels drive the two carvings up along the rope, causing them to cork-screw smoothly upwards in mirrored unity.

Lodi indicates for the Woodwind section to creep gently into life, the small Piccolo player taking point with a snake-charmers weave of scales. As he does so the Timpani drummer is joined by his other percussionists, whose off-beat rhythms cue a warm tribalist dance element to burst into abrupt musical dominance. The Choir’s singing brakes into low guttural chanting, interspersed with a Dancer's occasional trill yelp and animalistic scream as the divide between the male and female dancers dissolves. They start spinning and leaping, rolling and flipping chaotically amongst each other. As the two clock-work devices ascend ever upwards with growing speed, so does the musical attack intensify its primitive ferocity.

Lodi has lost himself in the Struggle of Creativity, he sores on the shear imaginative momentum of Existence itself. The two Dancers that stand before the cages begin to stride with pointed toes towards each other. The Void Satyr's movements are lecherous and sneer filled, whereas the Star Siren's are cautious and hopeful. She soon takes note of the peril and turns to flee, but it is too late and Abbadon grasps her trailing left hand, spinning her back into his dark embrace. With a silent scream the Sun brakes half free of the Void, as the music takes on an even speedier tempo. But the Satyr only uses the inertia produced to spin his Siren back around his body, down under one of his goatish-legs then back into the air to catch her more securely in his muscular arms. Horned head flung back in laughter, Abbadon leans down to kiss his reluctant bride just as a huge white blossom of sparks erupts twenty foot in the air above them.

Lodi wills the Orchestra and Choir into a final calamitous bar, and then brings them to a crashing silence. For at the moment that Abbadons lips get their dark desire, the clock-work celestial bodies collide simultaneously, disappearing from sight behind the huge explosion. Bright white sparks cascade harmlessly down over the performer’s ranks, deluging them in torrents of fiery rain. All the Dancers turn and point fearfully up at the blossom of sparks, before hastily cavorting away in terror through the northern and southern gateways respectively. As the last sparks rain down, the Guardsmen’s torches are extinguished. The area would have been plunged into near darkness, if it where not for the small constellation of candles flickering away from the orchestras music stands.

Lodi lowers his baton and re-captures his breath. A beam of light is projected forth from a mirrored lantern concealed in the amphitheaters eaves. It illuminates a cobalt blue rope that now descends from the ceiling to the very center point of the stage. It skims back upwards to focus upon a ballerino as he slides down to the ground. Accept for a plane pare of shorts, he is completely naked. However, his skin has been painted to represent the rugged garb of a malcontent youth in obvious new-born Apollyonian depiction. Lord Apollyon begins to dance Adagio, his smooth enfolding movements sweeping him mesmerizingly around the stage.

Lodi brings in the Oboes, their low gasping voices rippling up and down seven bar scales in subtle trickles. A second rope (this time tipped with red) tumbles down to the originals right. Clambering headfirst down it, comes a fresh male Dancer daubed with red and black flames in depiction of Shaitan. He too joins in the dance, mimicking then leading Apollyon in their intensely demanding ritual. The pace quickens, and soon they are dancing in quick allegro with complex batteries of jumps and turns.

Lodi twitches in the small triangle player, whose high pitched strikes ring forth like water dripping from icicles. Its steady notes hang just beneath the oboes tidal line. Leaping up into the air, the ballerinos are pulled into aerial dance by almost invisible black wires connected to their backs. Instantly the full furor of the Double Base and Bassoons come booming into life, punctuated with stabbed staccato alarm calls from the Flutes and First Violinists. Apollyon and Shaitan begin to elegantly swoop and pirouette through the air like raptors on wing. Occasionally one of them lands upon the seating's balustrade, running momentarily along it in front of happily stunned spectators, before once again launching themselves back out into the void.

Lodi makes the Timpani boom angrily forth on every off beat with his free right hand. Abruptly the Horns ring out a meaty hunting call as the two ballerinos leap from either side of the amphitheater and come crashing together. Each dancer must have had concealed on their person some firecrackers, for when they collide the air is filled with a flashed explosion and they are surrounded by a dense cloud of smoke. When it clears, the dancers are nowhere to be seen at all.

Lodi lifts up the Choir's voice into glorious ascendance as from the ceiling is lowered a flaming platform. Tongues of fire lick hungrily up from around its circular edges and through their hungry tendrils can be seen the silhouette of a new figure. Dressed to represent Lord Sartan, he carries in his hands a large golden tablet inscribed with the Seven Truths of Evil. Dangling from the platforms bottom are four cages. In each of them sways a male dancer. Dignity only just concealed behind bear skin loin-cloths, these muscular and chiseled specimens have been painted completely red. Their heads are shaven and have two cloven horns stuck on either side of their brows.

Lodi brings the Timpani drum back in, causing it to pound forth a steady marching four beat rhythm. The first two cage dancers carry with them simple brazen horns. They blast forth an exuberant fanfare, heralding the arrival of the God of Evil. The remaining two weave and wind serpent like in time to the heavy martial beat. In their left hands they carry flaming torches, in their right, slender urns containing special oils. Taking great gulps from their flasks, they raise their torches at arms-length before them and unleash two mighty spouts of crimson fire out into the air.

Lodi lifts his baton imperiously into the air, holds it there for a moment, and then brings the entire orchestra surging rampantly back into life. At that very same moment the air is suddenly filled by longsword wielding dancers dressed in spiked leather armor. Each carries with them a wooden round shield with a black hand painted upon it. They descend from the amphitheater's eaves suspended upon black wires and begin to swoop and cavort through the air, yelling and screaming in angry glee as they do so. The choreography of this sequence is tight: it has to be to ensure the wires do not get entangled. The suspension devises themselves are controlled by complex clockwork mechanisms semi-hidden in the roof.

Lodi sways back and forth as he conducts the Mhaldorian Philharmonic. Sweat glistens his brow and his hair whips energetically to and throw as he moves. The brass section bellows forth martial declarations of war, as the string and woodwind players merge their voices into a single unified sea of sound. A great crash of cymbal born thunder echoes through the musical composition, heralding more dancers to lower themselves down from the rafters. These new arrivals, however, are dressed in plainer leather armor, although they two wield long swords and shields. Some sport the colors of Ashtan, other's Shallam, Hashan, or Cyrene. A few wear green and brown in representation of the Forests. Instantly the two factions of fighters set upon each other, a mighty aerial battle of smooth dance filled theatrics erupting in eloquent beat with the music. Swords swing, shields clash and the cries of battle mix with the orchestra's sonic spectacle.

Lodi grins from ear to ear, rapturously lost within the music. A black rope ladder unfurls from the bottom of the suspended platform. With a clap of his hands, Sartan douses the flames around its edges, places down the golden tablet and descends the ladder through a trapdoor. Once his feet have touched the ground, the platform is slowly raised back out of sight into the amphitheater's darkened rafters. With arms spread wide, the Lord of Evil looks up at the war raging in the heavens above him and laughs with sadistic glee.

Lodi's ivory baton darts back and forth through the air, expertly forging the musical onslaught. A circular section of the stage slides back and up through it ascends a beautiful woman dressed in representation of Lady Valnurana. Cackling manically, Sartan rushes over to her and slaps her to the ground. With an evil grin he reaches down and rips out her eyes. Theatrical blood sprays forth in a great fountain of gore as the two orbs are torn from their sockets. The prosthetics used to create this illusion are most convincing.

Lodi silences the music at the very moment Sartan raises the Lady of Dream's eyes high above his head. All the aerial dancers look down at him. Those loyal to Evil cheer and shout, whilst Evil's enemies look dramatically away in disgust. Weeping hysterically in a pool of blood, Valnurana is lowered back down beneath the stage and out of site. Through the northern gateway now sprint two new men dressed up as Lord Lupus and Lord Aegis. They run over towards Sartan, their faces twisted into terrifying visions of rage. For a brief moment it looks as if they will come to blows. But at the last second they leap high into the air, swooping up into the eaves on barely visible black wires connected to their backs.

Lodi watches quietly as the two men come flying back into sight again. However, between them they now carry a massive mountain. Made out of finely crafted paper machey, the huge structure is obviously incredibly light, although the two carry it as if it were not. Raising a defiant fist at his attackers, Sartan stands strong and proud. There is no fear in his eyes as the mountain is lowered over his form, completely submerging him. At the very moment that the sides of the structure finally touch down, all light is doused from the area. Every torch in the amphitheater abruptly splutters out. If it were not for the circle of flicking candle light in which the orchestra sits, the area would be held in perfect shadow.

Lodi sweeps the singers and all his musicians into a slow droning grind. The Eye-patched Choir members rise up deep mantras in praise, whilst the Percussion churns like forge hammers. The Horns lead the rest of the Orchestras drone in doom filled blasts. With the reinvigoration of the musical president, the Orcs around the stage re-ignite their torches. Great plumes of sparks erupt forth as they throw special powder on their flames, staining them a deep crimson. Whilst they do this, dozens of small grubby children in golden locust masks run out through the portcullis gateways and swarm amongst the Orchestra. They quickly place small open toped red glass jars over the candles there, submerging the entire area under a single unified crimson hue.

Lodi's sweeping gestures forces the heavy musical momentum forwards. Scampering back out of sight, the children’s presence in the area is soon replaced by endless streams of complexly costumed dancers. All are hidden inside wicker constructs crafted to resemble exotic monsters. Multiple limbs and claws wave and snap from the ends of clockwork appendages: reptilian eyes blink and swivel, fanged teeth gnash, clawed wings flap and boil ridden skin ripples. The blacked out dancer’s exposed legs provide the costumes movement and momentum, but their hands are kept twisting keys to ensure that the clock-work mechanisms are fully coiled and ready to move at specific moments in the music.

Lodi forces the music onwards, yet ensures that its pace doesn’t become stale by introducing subtle progressions into the composition. Gallivanting out from either gateway, come the two demonic fire-breathers once more. They pirouette skillfully through the chaotic mass of cavorting dancers, breathing spouts of cyclonic fire as they do so. Quickly the mountain's foot is reached and they bound up to its apex. There, they flick open a hidden trapdoor and pull forth a large bronze brazier. Simultaneously breathing fire into it, the contraption is ignited. Huge plumes of thick smoke start to billow upwards, stained a deep rich red by the areas crimson illumination. What smolders within it is not clear, although the smoke does smell unnervingly of burning flesh.

Lodi laughs manically, the sound of his voice drowned out by the Mhaldorian Philharmonic. Sight is severely impaired as the smoke submerges the entire area beneath its heady musk. Through all this the Monster's whirl and dance chaotically. Occasionally one or two will break into sight through the red fog (whirling spider’s legs or fluttered bat-wings trailing past dreamily in the smoke) before disappearing back in again. Their yells seethe manically in the background, even if not all of them can be seen at once. From the mountain's top, the two fire-breathers weave and wined through the mists in circled worship.

Lodi begins to increase the speed of the musical composition as the fire breather begin vomiting forth great spouts of flame in time with the Timpanist's bombastic beat. The musical tension builds steadily and methodically. Its momentum gaining in strength and fever with each passing bar. Back flipping down opposite sides of the mountain, the daemonic dancers now descend. With a mighty crash of cymbals a huge crack tares itself down the middle of the mountain as the two Dancers begin to rip it apart.

Lodi drips sweat as his ivory baton beats the Orchestra ever faster. Red smoke now slowly dissipating, a new figure is revealed to be stood at the heart of the mountain, his jaunted form at first sight is hideously disfigured and crippled. With a moment’s longer inspection, it soon becomes clear that this figure is comprised of two separate Dancers (one sat on the other's shoulders) inside an ornately crafted costume. From the savage wounds depicted in their outfit, the Dancers obviously form Sartan, the Malevolent.

Lodi silences the Orchestra, but he keeps the Choir surging onwards - their tongues raised in epic adoration unto the mighty deity. The fire breathers march forwards to stand at attention on either side of their Master. All the dancers in monstrous costumes cease their disorderly displays and instead bow their clock-work heads low to the ground in Lord Sartan's direction. The upper dancer scours the area from behind his twisted mask and then nods it in satisfaction.

Lodi thumps out a single beat from the Timpani, issuing forth great spouts of crimson flame from the fire breathers stood at Sartan's either side. It is followed by a steady drum roll as three percussionists take up military snare drums with obvious relish. Chunks of the fleshy costume begin to fall away from Sartan, slowly revealing the dancers inside. How they are dressed is not yet completely clear. With steady precision the top dancer stands up on his comrade's shoulders and then flips himself high into the air.

Lodi stabs intense bursts of tension from the Trumpets in time to the Choir's glorious raptures. Whilst one Dancer is spinning through the air, the other rises up his arms to catch him. Seeing his timely queue, the top Dancer twists his flight into a well contained hand-stand by grabbing onto the others outstretched palms. By now, all the layers of costume that once hid them have fallen away. The higher one is dabbed from head to foot in crimson paint to represent Lord Shaitan and has a large mantel of black horns clipped around his head. The lower mirrors him in loin-clothed garb but has been dabbed a rich blue instead. A single splash of red paint has been expressively slashed across the foundation Dancer’s right eye to illustrate Lord Apollyon.

Lodi issues forth a final rumble of thunder from the cymbals, and silences all but the Choir, whose deep voices continue in a subdued, fugitive creep. At the same time as the percussion crash, the fire breathers bellow forth one last spout of crimson flame and exit through the gateways. Also taking his cue from the symbols, the crimson dancer pushes himself up spinning through the air and lands with feet neatly together, arms stretched above his head, facing his blue counterpart a few feet away.

Lodi smiles softly. The two freshly freed Gods bow to each other in brotherly humility and respect, then turn to face the audience. The blue dancer walks calmly to the center of the stage and takes a low bow. At that very moment hidden fireworks erupt all around the amphitheater, filling the air with bright, multi colored flashes and the heavy sonic thuds of explosions. "Rejoice, rejoice," they seem to say, "for the Lord of Suffering walks amongst us this day!" As this grand finale of light and sound plays out, the Cardinal thrashes his musicians into one final calamitous bar of music and them silences them. Incendres still screaming into detonation, the Choir sings on with epic operatic power.

Lodi eventually shuts them down in time with the last and biggest explosion. It fills the amphitheater with a giant rose bloom of blood red sparks. The Cardinal places his baton back upon his music stand and turns his attention on the gathered audience. As he does so, he is surrounded by a soft glowing rain of crimson stars. He places one hand across his chest, raises the other in the air before him and takes a deep breath.

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "All Hail unto Lord Suffering's coming!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "His flesh cast fresh from Struggle's heat!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "He frees us from our own undoing

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "To heal our fear and self-defeat!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "A box, no walls, but six strong locks

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "Doeth hang around your mortal head.

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "Within His Wound, find Key worth having

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "To free you from that soul cage said.

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "Repent not, ‘tis then are ye sinned!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "In failure, meet Opportunity's Will

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "The Sinner always fades in the end

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "But Suffering's Hero stands shinning still!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "So with song and dance, glory to Him bring!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "And of lessons learned, shout and sing!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "So with song and dance, glory to Him bring!

Lodi sings in a deep, baritone voice, "Our lessons learned, we shout and sing!

Lodi indicates for all those present on the stage to stand up. As they do so, the rest of the performers file in through the gateways. Wicker costumed monsters stand next to star Sirens, heathen warriors abreast with void Satyrs. Soon the whole stage is filled completely by the massive cast of characters that have helped enact this epic celebration of Lord Apollyon's mythos. Looking around at his gathered cast, the Cardinal nods in satisfaction. In well time unison they all bow low before the audience, happy smiles of accomplishment gleaming from every face. They repeat this three times, and then all apart from Lodi slowly file out of sight. The Orc guardsmen are the last to leave, following closely behind the orchestra who take every piece of equipment with them.

Lodi bows one final time, showing that the performance has finally drawn to a close.