Bilfrey's Band

Accordion resonance slammed into the Clarinet just to the right of Bilfrey, who clutched her Triangle timidly. The Clarinet keeled over on the floor next to her, Bilfrey was quickly giving in to the feat. Her once-mighty band was now scattered and wounded. With the conductor bleeding out from an unfortunate bagpipe blast, Bilfrey’s Band struggled to remain in harmony. Discordant Didgeridoos desperately failed to fend off a band of ruffian bandits. And here was Bilfrey in the back. She was supposed to ring her Triangle at the climax of their assault. But with her allies in shambles, she knew her Triangle would not be the finishing blow at the top of a momentous melody, it would instead be a weak clink of metal that would have no effect. Nevertheless, amidst the cacophony of notes struck out of tune by her band and the orchestral number of the bandits routing what few survivors were left, comrades falling at sides, Bilfrey knew that it was only a matter of time until the bandits decided to finish her off.

So Bilfrey struck her Triangle. She didn’t strike it with power to overwhelm or drown out the pandemonium. No, she struck it as a subtle note. The twang of metal echoed through the field and Bilfrey saw a deadly drummer momentarily lose his rhythm. Bilfrey’s Band still sounded out in terrible discord, but Bilfrey had a special hope. She struck the Triangle again, quiet, almost unnoticeable in the noise of battle. But her dying Didgeridoos droned an echoing resonance, mingled with the Triangle, entire octaves off-key.

Dissonance whispered from the soft ring of a Triangle with the trembling undertones of gravelly didgeridoos. The cries of the dying sang a disharmony of dread. The thumping of bodies slumping to the ground were all the drums they had. The snapping of instruments beneath lifeless masses and the snapping of bones and twigs alike spun a tale of imminent destruction. What should have boosted the morale of the enemy became a harrowing score. Gasping breaths hushed the bandits to a shivering silence. And then the Triangle rang again. This time distinct. The ghost of a band wailing a dying dirge. The terrible chords shook the bandits to their core. They had no remorse nor guilt, but the sadness in those voices and the uneven rhythm fed their irrational fear. The Violinist Skirmishers were the first to flee, soon followed by the Woodwinds. The Chief Conductor struggled to hold them together but a ringing in their ears from a vibrating Triangle made all courage go up in smoke.

As the bandits fled, Bilfrey’s band took courage and roared a cheer. But so pained as they were, there was no joy in their shout. The bandits left a trampled trail in their wake, and Bilfrey set to work attending to the wounded. Her companions promised that if they made it home alive, Bilfrey would be a hero.