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Bran Wilder {The Phantom} (lemortvivant) wrote in bellumlogs,

Bran had been playing the violin; a slow, melancholy song that was more of a work in progress than anything else. His eyes were closed, so he didn't notice that anything was wrong until he felt the instrument disappear from his fingers, weightless air replacing the comforting pressure of wood against his shoulder. His eyes snapped open and he stumbled backwards, managing to catch himself before falling backwards.

He was on a stage, but it wasn't like the ones he was accustomed to; this one was far more primitive, but even so it seemed distantly familiar. There were people in the pit below, but he was distracted from getting a closer look when he realized that he hadn't been wearing his prosthetic mask. He never did, unless there was a chance to be around people. So he was wearing worn jeans and a sweater, barefooted with the scars that devoured the left side of his face exposed for all to see.

"Where the hell am I?" He hissed, taking an instinctive step backwards and trying to cover his face the best he could.