The sound instruments filled the night. Camden the white gnoll's arms was becoming sore from conducting the band all night. The hammering of lyres rang in the dark. The throbbing of drums shook the night. The occasional sound of cymbals and whistles close the din. The band had marched for many hours through the night. All their arms and legs had gone sore from the marching and the playing. They would like to go home now.

Camden assured his players that the march was about to end. He raised a fist into the air and blew into his silver whistle. "Twiiiiit!" sounded his whistle. His instrumentalists took note of the number he raised, and prepared to change the song they're playing. With the drop of his arm, a second whistle ("Twit!") sounded, and the band changed gear and the song changed with it.

Each hammer strike of the lyrist caused the stars to twinkle. The drumming of snares, bass drums, and triple tenor drums woke the forces of the night. The wind picked and blew cool air through the countryside. The crash of the cymbals caused tremors in the air and roused the creatures of the forests and the plains. The moon so did watch their performance vigilantly, with its bright moonglow washing over them.

Foxes, monkeys, rabbits, and birds; they rose from their sleep at the prompting of the instruments. Their heartbeats synchronized by the tempo they hear, and their eyes opened wider with each high lyre note. The pleasant winds blew against their direction, and let sway the tall grass. The worms in the soil and bugs in the herbs wriggled and writhed according to their tune. The forests and plains were roused by their music. The forests and plains listen to their tunes. The forests and plains anticipated with great eagerness the score which was to be played next.

Camden raised a hand once again, but this time, a finger was outstretched. The sound of his whistle called the attention of the players. "Twiiiiit!" Anticipation and eagerness were raw in the air. The players trembled at his indication, awaiting the denouement of their entire performance. At the drop of his hand and the sound of his whistle ("Twit!"), the song changed.

At the first note struck upon the lyre keys, the first lemony sun ray emerged from the distant horizon. As the song progressed, more of the sun rose from above the horizon. Its lemony rays bathed the world with its buttery light. The lyrists intensified in hammering their instruments, and the sun followed suit. It rose and rose as though commanded by the notes of ringing metal. The quarter notes the snares were providing supported the lyres' endeavors. Their constant quick beat reinforced the power of their notes.

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With a crash of each cymbal and the beat of the bass drum, the stars in the sky one by one faded from the sky. The once dark nearly-black heavens slowly faded into yellow then a soft celestial blue. The winds blew a cool breeze, carrying the sweet scents of the morning. The clouds placidly drifted across the sky as the sunshine painted their facades with snow-white hues. The beats of the drums urged the winds to blow their way. The winds so followed the whims of the drums.

The sun had risen above the horizon. Its spherical form glowed with golden light. The creature of forests and plains were thoroughly woken by the deep drums and high lyres. The sunshine had woken their spirits, and their days had truly begun. They began to frolic and enact their morning rituals. The sounds of rousing creatures accompanied the band: the barking of canines, the rustling of grass, and the buzzing of insects. It brought greater texture to the closing of their performance.

The moon above loomed. It appraised the players with its watchful eye. Though it was an object of the night, it had not faded by the urges of the drums. Overridden by the solar radiance and painted by the heavenly hues, the moon watched the players like a pleased mother.

Then they came to a crossroads where another band awaited. Their drums slowed down, and their lyres softened their blows. The ivory pole in the middle of the road indicated the end of their march. They have played all their songs through the night. Their parade had gone on without a hitch.

Camden blew his whistle for the first and last time that day. "Twiiiiit!" He raised both of his hands in fist, and faces of joy were painted unto the band's faces. At the drop of his and the blow of his whistle ("Twit!"), the last notes of the band were played, and the first notes of the other band began.

The instrumentalists immediately crashed into the ground in relief, once the other band had begun to march away. They were terribly tired and sore. They were too tired to care that it looked rather embarrassing for them to be seen unceremoniously lying on the ground.

Regardless, it was an excellent parade with nothing major going wrong. Camden was mighty proud of how it turned out.