Ravenhill Keep: A Fan-made Owl House Story

I: The Vanishing of the Lone Rebel

     To the brick walls of the Spastic Flea club in Mistview Grove, Washington, the light drizzling rain was carried by the wind. Inside, a mixed crowd of people mingled in the large main room where the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke stuck to the walls. Some came to hear the bands that had been booked for the night, while others came only to indulge in vices.

     At this moment, the amateur thrash metal band Locust were up on the stage playing covers with their instruments tuned a whole step down to achieve the elusive ''heavy''. Though amateurish in most aspects, their performance was energetic and passionate, complemented by flawless playing from weathered musicians. Somber songs of grim themes rather than shallow, simple ballads filled the environment when they took over.

     Kieran Idzikowicz, Locust's vocalist and rhythm guitarist, commanded the stage at 5'11'' from the middle behind the microphone, dressed in a black-and-white long-sleeve shirt layered under a black sleeveless denim vest, paired with black cargo pants tucked into black leather combat boots. Strands of his jet-black hair hung ahead of his blackish-brown eyes, somewhat obstructing his line of sight on the rosewood fretboard of his black Gibson Explorer. The guitar, sporting dings and nicks all over as scars earned in combat, hung from a worn leather strap, also black. From under Kieran's black-wristband-laden forearm, the finish and paint of the guitar had been worn off, revealing the grain of mahogany wood that told of its owner's aggressive technique and constant use. As most could tell at first sight, Kieran liked the color black.

     To his right was Rebecca Thornton, the bassist, clad in an old, ragged white t-shirt obscured by a ratty studded brown leather vest that hung stiff over her frame. The bright, circular buckle of a studded belt gleamed with pride over red tartan pants and worn brown combat boots. The vibrant colors of her clothing stuck out from the darker tones of the rest of the band, but who among them was gonna tell her to change, being the oldest of them at twenty-three? Whether the songs on the setlist were about crimes against humanity, false prophets, or nuclear devastation, it mattered little to her. Throughout her performance, a vixen-like grin adorned her radiant shoulder-length red hair and charming green eyes, born of sincere enjoyment of the music and the thrill of playing on-stage. From pale-skinned, freckled arms hung the heavy weaponry of the band: a Fender Jazz Bass plastered over with stickers of a hundred punk bands, their names faded, but their influence enduring. Its metal parts were corroded with rust, the strings encrusted with grime, and the cavity of a missing pickup hidden under a strip of duct tape. Rebecca's excuse for the blatant neglect of her instrument? It gives it character, mate, she'd say with a shrug. At least she was up-to-date on her tetanus shots...

     In the back, under a swaying mane of long, curly brown hair, was Jason Laskaris, carrying the tempo of the song without flaw from behind a battery of drums and cymbals. Drumming, the most physically demanding activity of the band's duties, called for attire that allowed him to stay cool and unencumbered, so he wore a dark blue tank top with plenty of space between camouflage cargo pants and black sneakers. Dents and splinters blemished his sticks, but they still had force to deliver before breaking, Jason insisted. They would be pushed to the last sliver of utility he could wring from them. Curated throughout the years, his drumkit contained everything he needed to drive the powerful, tight percussion of the band. There was nothing he didn't need; only the essentials. Cymbals, toms, a snare, two bass drums, gotta keep it simple. Nothing more, nothing less. They were thrash, not prog, come on. No need for anything fancy.

     Valentina Cárdenas, the lead guitarist, reigned on the left corner of the stage, fearless despite being the shortest and youngest of the bunch. Her black leather jacket gave a defiant flair to the military green t-shirt she wore atop light-gray slim-fit jeans and off-white high-top sneakers. A scratched-up Jackson King V protruded in three different directions in front of her like a medieval weapon, the tips of the horns and headstock wrapped in duct tape to prevent further damage, both to the instrument and to those around it. Though the youngest at eighteen, her energy not only matched, but often surpassed that of her bandmates. A passion for the music, burning so hot it could melt steel, evident in every single moment of her performances scorched the stage with her ferocity. Hairsprayed collarbone-length dark-brown hair was her burning crown. Intense in her movement, skilled in her playing; both traits put together made this musician a virtuoso by nature and dedication.