The clouds roared with sound. The real marchers had arrived, so they thought. From the west, were mountain lakes and hill terrain made marching a true skill, came the depths from which brass was forged. The Trumpets, strong and many, became visible over the horizon. In a triangle formation, the point of the form was Cornett, the main Section Leader. The Great Ones smiled with pride as each row of the wedge snapped their horn to their mouths, each one separately together, a great chord of acknowledgement echoing from the far woods. As they each reached the field, simultaneously each trumpet lowered individually. Cornett nodded in respect to the Great Ones at the tower and returned to his section. They then formed a circle, the subject of which remaining unknown.
But the best was yet to come. A hunting's call suddenly broke all commotion, the full sound of the French Horn making each head turn. The French Horns, upon cavalry, hand one hand with reins and the other in the instrument. They were the only to arrive on horseback, being the superior race they were. The French Horn's noses had adapted to turning up a few centimeters more than normal, and French Horn freshman learned how to march quicker than any other being in Bandopia. Two white horses led their parade, upon which a female and male sat. The male, Hunter, was beloved by many female. The other, Mellody, was first to memorize her music and last to leave practice each night. Everyone gasped at their long awaited coming—they simply thought themselves as simply above the rest, and so simply, they became above the rest.
The Baritones and Trombones came nearly last, laughing and joking, instruments strung over their shoulders or carelessly swinging at their right. Their faces were smudged with soot from the volcanic ruins on which they lived. The constant rumbling of the under crust had made their sound big and warm. Burly and robust, male and female Baritones could carry their horn as easy as their tipped caps. The Trombones were of a different kind, sometimes lean and dim by themselves, but when put with those of their own, the chords were as deep and moving as the rocks they slept on.
Finally, the breed that held the band together. They were quiet, intelligent, small, but strong. It was the tuba that was noticed first and last. The person under the yellow metal was just as important. Peaceful, close, witty, and incredibly funny, Tubas added their own taste to the mix. From the mountains came the brass—the band was almost complete.