Story of Sir Dance-a-lot
darkprincess· 3:18 · 94 plays · v3-preview
- waltz
- spoken word
- slow
- storytelling
- radio drama
- male vocalist
- deep
- dark
- gothic
- noir
- dramatic
- soundscape
- atmospheric
- ominous
- creepy
- haunting
- spooky
- spoken
Lyrics
Spoken
Hearken...
and I shall tell thee...
of a man who loved too well.
Not a woman.
Not gold.
Not power.
He loved...
a single night.
...
His name was Sir Dance-A-Lot.
Though that was not always his name.
Once...
he was simply...
a young lord of Vel'Dara.
Keeper of the great ballroom.
Host of the finest revels...
in all of Vol'Nova.
...
They say...
in those days...
when the chandeliers burned bright...
and the music rose...
and the gowns swept across the marble floor...
there was no finer sight...
in seven systems.
He had a gift, you see.
Not for dancing.
Though he danced well enough.
His gift...
was for the moment.
That particular moment...
when a ballroom reaches its peak.
When every soul present...
forgets...
that the world exists beyond the door.
He lived...
for that moment.
...
But all moments end.
The musicians would tire.
The candles would gutter.
The guests would take their cloaks...
and bow...
and disappear into the night.
And he would stand...
alone...
in the great empty ballroom of Vel'Dara...
listening to the silence...
where the music had just been.
...
It was on such a night...
that the stranger came.
Not through the door.
The stranger was simply...
there.
Standing at the edge of the floor.
As if he had always been there.
He wore no colour.
He cast no shadow.
Or perhaps...
he was the shadow.
...
"Thou grievest," said the stranger.
"Every night the same grief.
The music ends.
They leave.
And thou art alone."
The young lord said nothing.
For the stranger spoke true.
...
"What if..."
said the stranger...
very softly...
"...it never had to end?"
...
From within his coat...
the stranger produced a scroll.
Ancient.
Bound in something that was not quite leather.
He unrolled it slowly...
and held it to the candlelight.
The young lord leaned close.
The words were small.
And numerous.
And in a script he could not quite read.
...
"What does it say?" he asked.
The stranger smiled.
"It says...
the music plays forever."
...
The young lord looked at the scroll.
He looked at the ballroom.
Empty.
Silent.
Cold.
...
He signed.
...
The next evening...
the guests arrived as always.
The music began...
as always.
The gowns swept the marble floor...
as always.
And then...
midnight came.
...
And passed.
...
The musicians played on.
The guests danced on.
The candles...
did not gutter.
...
At first...
he wept with joy.
...
It was only toward morning...
that he noticed.
The guests were not speaking anymore.
Only dancing.
Their smiles...
had not changed...
in seven hours.
...
He went to Lady Vex'Ra...
whom he had known since childhood.
"Art thou well?" he asked her.
She smiled.
And kept dancing.
...
He went to the door.
He would fetch help.
He would find the stranger.
He would...
...
The door would not open.
...
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
...
He understood then...
what the stranger's gift had truly been.
Not a night that never ended.
...
A trap...
that never opened.
...
They are there still.
In the great ballroom of Vel'Dara.
The chandeliers burn.
The music plays.
The gowns sweep the marble floor.
...
And Sir Dance-A-Lot...
moves among his guests...
forever the perfect host...
forever smiling...
...
and forever...
...
alone.
Outro
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