Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here with the first official chapter of Illyrian Madness! The numbers at the start of each section correspond to the act/scene numbers, so you will notice the order of the first two are inverted—this is based on the production I was privileged to be a part of, as I agree with our director the story flows a little better when you start with the shipwreck.
Disclaimer: The plot and characters of Twelfth Night belong to William Shakespeare, the dialogue (in bold) is from Spark Note's No Fear Shakespeare series, and the production I base my descriptions on was the 2012 Cornerstone Youth Theater Program version. The only things I claim to own are the backstories I invented for these characters, and the words with which I narrate.

~*1.2*~

This is the first picture: a burly sea captain in a torn and water stained uniform crouches over a small, pitiful form of a young woman, bedraggled, soaked and storm-tossed. His gruff, bearded face is a picture of concern, a gentleness that contrasts sharply with his intimidating size and rough appearance—red hair in disarray, ruined uniform, and scars that speak of obvious military experience. The girl's dress, once well-cared for if not elaborate or expensive, is ripped, saturated, and covered with sand. Her strawberry-blond hair curls slightly after its wetting, some of it strewn across her soft, pretty face. Her overall slight frame and delicate appearance contrast her greatly with the sea man.

The two are on a desolate beach, with no human habitation insight, under a weak, cold sunlight appropriate to our already dismal mood. A few feet down the beach is a broken trunk, among other shipwreck debris, and even further away huddles a group of other unfortunates—some sailors, some passengers, but all in the same distressed state as the two in the center of our focus.

We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life...

Viola coughed and spluttered, rolling on her side as she began retching, expelling all the last remnants of seawater from her lungs. The captain rocked back on his heels, relief replacing the worry on his face. When the girl seemed to have recovered enough, he slipped one large, rough hand behind her back, gently helping her sit up.

Viola sat silent a moment, her gasps gradually settling into a regular breathing rhythm as she took in her surroundings, looking around with wide-open pale-blue eyes which reflected the grey skies and bleak light, her expression a mixture of shock, confusion, and grief.

When at last she could speak, Viola voiced the first question that came to her mind: "What country is this, friends?"

"This is Illyria, lady."

The girl shook her head, slowly at first, but with increasing vehemence as she stood, shakily, but refusing the captain's aid. "And what am I supposed to do in Illyria? My brother—" Her voice broke a little, and she closed her eyes, but she managed to finish her statement, "—is in…heaven." Her head bowed with grief for a moment as she remembered the last, angry words the siblings had shared. If those were to be the last things said between them before death separated the inseparable…No, she wouldn't—she couldn't—accept that. "Or, maybe there's a chance he didn't drown." Eagerly, with hope approaching desperation, Viola whirled to face the huddled group some distance away. "What do you think, sailors?"

The men glanced at each other, then their captain, unwilling to voice what they all thought. Their captain took a deep breath, then said, all at once, "It was a total fluke that you yourself were saved." The moment the words were out of his mouth, the captain regretted it. His plain-sense sentiment seemed to hit the girl like a hammer blow, and she turned away, fighting madly to keep back her sobs. He glanced at his few remaining men, who stared back silently, each glad that they hadn't been the ones to have to give such news, but each privately convinced that he could've said it better than his captain.

The officer looked from Viola to the sailors, then back again, and when he next spoke, his voice was gentler, less assured. "When our ship was wrecked, and you and a few other survivors were clinging onto our lifeboat, I saw your bother tie himself to a big mast floating in the sea. For as long as I could see him, he stayed afloat on the waves."

Any experienced sea person could've told Viola that didn't mean much—one couldn't see far in a storm, and knots tied in wet rope with cold, inexperienced fingers had a dreadful tendency to fail when needed most. Nevertheless, she seemed to cheer up immensely at the slightest hope, and the tension on that bleak beach was greatly diminished as, for the first time, she smiled.

The captain smiled back, less certain than she, for he knew the hope he'd given her was only a few degrees from a false hope, but he couldn't stand the look of grief on her delicate face.

A stiff breeze whipped across the beach, causing the sea-soaked girl to shiver in her torn, teal dress. Gently, the captain led her to the broken trunk, pulling out a thick blanket and laying it across her shaking shoulders. Viola recognized it, realizing the trunk belonged to her brother, but determined not to go down that road—that way led to tears, and though there would be time enough to grieve later; now she had to make what plans she could.

"Do you know this area we're in?" Viola looked hopefully at the large man, and was rewarded to see his nod.

"Yes ma'am, I know it well. I was born and raised less than three hours from here." And it was quite an adventure, he thought, but did not say.

Viola nodded, her quick mind at work as she mulled over various possibilities, given her situation, and her family's fortunes…or lack thereof. "Who's the ruler here?" In his better days, her father had known many influential people in many lands, so perhaps…

"A duke who is noble in name and character…" That much, he could say truthfully.

As if sensing some of the captain's hesitation, Viola glanced sideways at him. "What's his name?"

"Orsino."

"Orsino…I've heard my father mention him!" She grinned at having guessed correctly, then frowned as she remembered the context of her father having brought this acquaintance up…"When I first heard about him, he was still a bachelor."

"He's still a bachelor, or at least he was a month ago, when I left," the man supplied, completely misreading the girl's thought. "But there was a rumor that he was in love with the beautiful Olivia."

There was a name her father hadn't mentioned…"Who's she?"

The bearded giant frowned. He knew little beyond the rumors, but he did his best to supply what he thought likely to be true, given what he had heard. "A virtuous young woman, the daughter of a count who died last year. Her brother had custody of her for a while, but then he died, too. They say she's totally sworn off men now, in memory of her brother. She won't allow anyone in to see her, not even the duke's messengers."

Pity that, her house sounded like a good place to hide, awaiting better fortunes… I need somewhere to think, and my family's state won't exactly allow me to go about as I am. Viola glanced at her brother's trunk again, then opened it. Sure enough, at least one of his spare suits was there, and hadn't been too badly damaged by the storm. For once, she was glad Sebastian had singularly uniform tastes in his clothing. I won't be able to pull this off alone, though.

Pulling out Sebastian's jacket, Viola turned on the captain. "You seem to be a good person captain, and I believe you have a beautiful mind to go with your good looks and manners. Please—and I'll pay you for this—help me conceal my identity so I can look the way I want. I want to be this duke's servant. You'll introduce me to him as a eunuch. You won't be wasting your time, because I really can sing and talk to him about many kinds of music, so he'll be happy to have me in his service. Only time will tell what will happen after that—just please keep quiet about what I'm trying to do."

The sea captain looked from the jacket to the girl, whose face was shining with hope, and whispered confidentially, "I won't say a word. You can be a eunuch, but I'll be mute. I swear on my life I won't tell your secret."

Viola felt a great weight ease off her shoulders. "Thank you. Show me the way."

~*1.1*~

This is the second picture: a room of magnificent build is resplendent, the floor thick with oriental rugs, the walls covered with rich tapestries, all in the brightest of colors and most intricate of patterns. The effect is almost overwhelming, and a tad gaudy, but most definitely impressive. At a piano on one side of the room sits a street musician, frozen as she waits, presumably for an order from whoever has brought her here. A couch dominates the center of the room—one on which you can easily picture ancient romans lounging—and behind it stands a well-dressed young man, obviously a high-ranking attendant to whoever own this great house.

We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as someone strides in, bringing the scene to life…

Duke Orsino, for it was he, was dressed richly but comfortably in dark colors, with none of the symbols of his rank he would wear if he left his palace. He marched purposefully to the young woman at the piano, declaring in his deep, almost affected voice: "If it's true that music makes people more in love, keep playing."

The pianist glanced at Curio, the attendant, who returned her look, but did not move from behind the couch, then began an intricate, pleasant melody as Orsino continued his dissertation.

"Give me too much of it, so I'll get sick of it and stop loving." Mentally, he complimented himself on this new idea—everyday he found new things to say and do to show just how good he was at being in love. He began to run his fingers through his curly blonde hair, when a particular section of the song struck him. "Play that part again! It sounded sad!"

Startled, the musician paused momentarily, backed up a few bars and began to play again. She glanced at the Duke who stood a few feet away from the piano, eyes closed, taking it in. Uncertainly, she played the same section once more, then again. It was a bit of an odd request, true, but despite his new obsession with love, the duke was known for his volatile temper and fickle moods.

"Oh, it sounded like a sweet breeze blowing gently over a bank of violets, taking their scent with it." That was a very good image—I'll have to remember it. Orsino leaned his head back, but soon the section began to grate on him, and he barked in quite a different tone from his previous melodrama, "That's enough! Stop. It doesn't sound as sweet as it did before."

The pianist stopped abruptly, sitting uncertainly, not sure of what to do. She glanced at Curio, but he said nothing, offered her no clue. Meanwhile, Orsino heaved a sigh and crossed to the couch, flinging himself dramatically upon it.

Curio looked at the Duke, trying to pick his words carefully, a little uncomfortable with the idea of the Duke Orsino as a brooding lover. "Do you want to go hunting, my lord?"

Orsino leaned back so that he could look up at his manservant's face. "Hunting what, Curio?"

"The hart…" At his lord's unchanging gaze, the young man added hesitantly, "the deer?"

Orsino seized the opportunity for a new image and, still reclining, he began to slip back into the character of the 'master lover'. "That's what I'm doing—only it's my heart that's being hunted." He paused a moment, but saw from the corner of his eye that neither his servant nor the musician seemed to be following his thought, so he decided to spell it out as plainly as his flair for the dramatic would let him. "Oh, when I first saw Olivia, it seemed like she made the air around her sweeter and purer. In that instant I was transformed into a 'hart,' and my desire for her has hounded me like a pack of viscous dogs ever since."

Before he could continue the analogy, another of his servants came rushing in—Valentine, a tall, blue-eyed, curly-haired young man who had served the duke long enough to know how to tread softly around his temper.

Orsino sprang upright, crossing quickly to meet his messenger, reading bad news in the man's unwillingness to meet his lord's eye. Nevertheless, the script had to be read through in its entirety—there were forms they had to complete, and perhaps Valentine had gained a since of humor and was kidding him. And perhaps the town drunk will join a monastery. "What's going on? What have you heard from her?" The duke praised himself silently for giving no outward clue, in tone or stance, that he knew what answer was coming.

The taller man took a hesitant step back, startled by his lord's intensity, wishing there was a way out of this cycle—they played this through every day, and while it was an honor to be the most trusted messenger in the duke's household, but it had certain…drawbacks, given Orsino's current obsession. "I—I'm sorry, but they wouldn't let me in; but I got the following answer from her handmaid: Olivia's not going to show her face for the next seven years—not even to the sky itself. She's doing this out of love for her dead brother whom she wants to keep fresh in her memory forever." Just like they told me yesterday…

Orsino turned away violently, barking at the room in general, instead of to any of the other three specifically. "Oh, if she loves her brother this much, think how she'll love me when I finally win her over and make her forget all her other attachments." He stood, brooding for a moment, distractedly dismissing thee musician with a wave of his hand. He turned to his two servants, saying flatly, "Take me to the garden. I need a beautiful place to sit and think about love."

Orsino strode imperiously out, and, behind his back, Curio and Valentine met each other's gaze for a half-second, rolled their eyes in almost the same instant, then followed him out.

~*1.3*~

This is the third picture: moonlight, supplemented by a few lanterns, filters through the windows of another room in a great house—not as richly furnished as the duke's palace, but more tastefully so, with a single, large rug in the center that matches the wall hangings. To one side is a chair with a vest thrown over the back and a hat on the seat, and center is a matching chair and small table.

At the table stands a man in a button-up shirt, brown pants, and once-respectable, now-scuffed shoes. Truth be told, we can see little more of him than his bald head, for he is bent double, with his head in a porcelain washbasin which stands on the table beside an old wine goblet.

Standing over him with a ferocious expression and pitcher of water is a young woman dressed like an upper-servant in a noble person's house. Her decidedly…unflattering brown-and-blue dress has a high hem, revealing thick black shoes and socks, and the whole ensemble is topped off by a hat that resembles a cream-colored pancake tied in place with a dark brown ribbon. If it weren't for the outfit, she'd be a pretty girl, what with her dark hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes.

We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as water pours from the pitcher, bringing the scene to life, landing us in the middle of their argument…

Sir Toby gasped and spluttered as the cold water splashed over his head, momentarily relieving his headache, but unfortunately doing little to clear his mind. With the pitcher empty, Maria began to towel off his head—none to gently, it must be said. When he finally had breath and space to speak, he demanded, "What's wrong with my niece? Why is she reacting so strangely to her brother's death?"

Maria viciously snapped the towel as she began to fold it, glaring at the hung-over knight's blatant attempt to head off the lecture he knew was coming. "For God's Sake, Sir Toby, you've got to come home earlier at night. My lady, Olivia, your niece, disapproves of your late-night partying." With an almost-audible sigh, Toby sat heavily, trying to causally reach for the half-filled goblet on the table, but Maria saw his movement and hastily moved it out of his reach, even as she continued to scold. "You need to keep yourself within the limits of order and decency."

Having said her piece, Maria turned and stalked over to the other chair, picking up Sir Toby's hat and vest. The knight glared in her direction, but not, it must be admitted, as ferociously as possible. Nevertheless, he felt he had to get the last word in, so, putting his feet on the table with an audible 'thunk,' he said belligerently, "Keep myself? The only thing I'm keeping myself in is the clothes I'm wearing. They're good enough to drink in, and so are these boots. If they aren't they can go hang themselves by their own laces."

Maria was behind him again, pushing lightly on his legs. Like a sullen toddler, he removed his shoes from the table, leaning forward as she helped him with the vest, wishing he could shut out her sharp, scolding tone. Such a pity, she's not a bad girl when she's not being so shrewish…

"You're going to destroy yourself with all this drinking. Lady Olivia said so yesterday." Then, with a subtle shift in stance and tone, Maria shifted topics as she unceremoniously plunked Sir Toby's hat down on his head. "She also mentioned some stupid knight you brought in one night as a possible husband for her." Her contempt for the idea was evident in the incredulous tone that crept into her voice on the word 'husband'.

Less cross now, feigning confusion, the knight turned to regard the servant. "Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?"

Maria crossed her arms, shooting him a glare that clearly asked 'who else?' "Yes, that's the one."

Hastily scrambling for something positive to say about his fellow knight, all Sir Toby was able to come up with was: "He's as tall as any man in Illyria!"

She had to concede that point, mentally contrasting the awkward, gangly figure of the knight in question with the compact figure of the one before her. But still… "What does his height have to do with anything?"

Sir Toby grinned roguishly, detecting Maria's usual sarcasm replacing her pique, and he admitted, "Why, he has an income of three thousand ducats a year."

"I'll bet he'll spend his whole inheritance in a year." Especially if you keep convincing him to pay when you go out drinking. "He's a fool and spendthrift."

The knight shot to his feet, afraid she might find some way to cut off his supply of free liquor. "You shouldn't speak of him like that! He—he has all of nature's best gifts." He managed to keep a straight face, but not sound convincing or convinced.

Choosing to ignore his interruption, Maria continued. "Moreover, he gets drunk with you every night."

She was beginning to slip into 'shrew mode' again, and Sir Toby knew he had to act fast, or she might make good on her threats to go to his niece. "We only drink toasts to my niece. I'll drink to her as long as there's a hole in my throat and booze in Illyria. Anyone who refuses to drink to my niece is scum." She began to storm past him, but he caught her by the arm, pulling her back to face him, speaking in a more gentle tone, "Come, girl—"

Maria began to soften, just a little, and Sir Toby stooped, about to kiss her hand.

"Sir Toby!"

The two stepped apart, Maria stalking towards one of the small, casement windows, Sir Toby crossing to the door to greet the new arrival, saying in forced cheer, "Here comes Sir Andrew!"

Indeed, it was. As the knight in question stumbled into the room, he seemed to be all arms and legs, his thin, weather-beaten face plastered with a wide, somewhat dazed smile. He was dressed, as he usually was, in a magenta suit, black shoes, white shirt, paisley vest, and blue tie, which matched the blue band on the black top hat which covered his sandy-brown hair. It was clear he fancied himself a dashing figure, but the full effect was simply…silly.

"How are you, Sir Toby Belch?" With that cry, Sir Andrew rushed over to embrace his fellow knight.

Conscious of Maria's penetrating glare at the back of his neck, Sir Toby forced a small laugh, extricating himself from the…enthusiastic greeting. I thought I ditched him an hour ago… "Sweet Sir Andrew…"

As dense as he was, Sir Andrew did catch something in his friend's manner, and turned to see Maria glaring at the both of them. Hastily, he tipped his hat to her. "And hello to you, my little wench."

Sir Toby flinched at the unintended insult, but said nothing, for he could tell form Maria's lifted chin that she planned to handle it herself. Her, "Hello, sir," came out in such a sharp, tight tone, that any man with experience around women would know trouble was coming, but Sir Andrew was no such man, and he only smiled.

"Chat her up, Sir Andrew, Chat her up." Hopefully, if the matter was resolved quickly, he could get on with winning Maria over to the idea of his late-night revels.

"What?"

"This is my nieces maid…"

Realization dawned on Sir Andrew's face, and he tipped his hat to Maria once more. "My dear Miss Chat-Her-Up, I look forward to getting to know you better."

It is actually quite hard to maintain a high-level of anger when confronted with such blatant idiocy, and the girl found herself settling around the level of contempt, evident in her patronizing tone as she replied, "My name is Maria, sir."

"Oh." The knight deflated a little, processing this, then brightened, saying, "Miss Maria Chat-Her-Up—"

With a sinking feeling of 'this could conceivably go on forever,' Sir Toby stepped in to intervene. "No, you've got it wrong. When I said 'chat her up,' I wasn't saying her name. I was telling you to go after her, woo her, confront her."

"Good heavens!" The taller knight turned to his companion, his face a picture of disbelief. "I'd never do that with people watching! Is that really what you meant?"

Maria rolled her eyes, gathered up pitcher, washbasin, and towel, calling out as she left, "Goodbye, gentlemen."

At her almost-mocking tone on 'gentlemen,' Sir Andrew seemed to deflate even further. His companion turned to him, handing him the goblet of wine Maria had left behind in her hasty exit. "Sir, you need a drink. When has anyone ever put you down like that?"

"Never. I've only been that far down when I've drunk myself under the table." He stared at the goblet in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. He placed it back on the small table with a heavy sigh, as he complained, "Sometimes, I think I'm no smarter than average. I eat a lot of red meat, and maybe that makes me stupid."

Sir Toby concealed a small laugh in a cough, and he replied with a smile he couldn't hide, "Absolutely."

"If I really believed that, I'd give up red meat totally." The tone of finality used in this declaration was decidedly lessened by the conditional phrasing. "By the way, I'm going home tomorrow, Sir Toby."

This time, there was no acting—the alarm in Sir Toby's voice was genuine. After all, he'd gotten used to Sir Andrew had been paying for the drinks. "Pourquoi, my friend?"

"Sir Toby, your niece is refusing to see anyone," Sir Andrew began, turning a face made almost laughable by an expression of dejection and pain, "and even if she saw me, ten to one she'd want nothing to do with me. That duke who lives nearby is courting her."

Thinking quickly, Sir Toby began spinning reassurance, based on what he'd told the foolish fellow when he'd first duped him into coming there. "She's not interested in the duke. She doesn't want to marry anyone of higher social rank than her; I've heard her say that. So cheer up, there's still hope for you, man."

Sir Toby waited as his victim considered carefully, face screwed up in the effort of thinking—an effort Sir Toby was of the private opinion did not come naturally to the other knight.

"All right, I'll stay another month." With that decided, Sir Andrew's mood improved drastically and suddenly. "Ah, I'm an odd kind of guy. Sometimes all I want to do is see plays and go out dancing."

"How good are you at those fast dances?" Sir Toby asked, sensing an opportunity for a laugh.

Eagerly, the other knight replied, "Believe me, I can cut a caper."

He proceeded to demonstrate…but it must be admitted, it looked less like a dance, and more like an imitation of what would happen if someone crossed a clumsy, long-legged cat with a frog, then got the resulting creature drunk. It was not a sight for the faint at heart, or the dance enthusiast.

Sir Toby only laughed, declaring, "Why do you keep these talents behind a curtain? Why don't you go off to church dancing one way, and come home dancing another way?"

So saying, he seized the arm of his drinking companion, and the two attempted something that perhaps vaguely resembled a dance, roaring out an off-key, bass version of a nonsense tune that any sane and sober person would be hard pressed to deem a 'song'. They broke apart, and Sir Toby continued.

"You're a born dancer—look how shapely your legs are!"

"That's true." So saying, he lifted one up to demonstrate, nearly kicking Sir Toby in the chest, and the other knight found himself holding the offending limb. "They're strong, and they look pretty good in brown tights." With a cough and a pained expression, Sir Toby dropped the leg he was holding, and Sir Andrew stumbled until he got his balance back. "Should we throw a little dance party?"

"Why not?" This time, though, Sir Toby did not join in, and observed the drunk-frog-cat routine again, laughing as he egged Sir Andrew on. "Let me see you dance. Ha, higher! Ha-ha! Excellent!"

The foolish fellow dashed out, and Sir Toby dropped his act, shaking his head. As if to remind himself why he put up with such antics, he seized the goblet, drained it in a gulp, and stumbled out after Sir Andrew.

So, yeah. Here we have the first half of Act I (the second half comes next week). Those of you familiar with the play will notice that not all lines are included—again, this is based on the production I was in and the abbreviated version of the script we had to use for time's sake. No scenes were omitted, but most scenes were at least trimmed in some form or other. Still, the integrity of the play was not and will not be compromised.
As always, if you saw something you liked, or something you think I can fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!