• Closed • The Play's the Thing....

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 50, Arc 721

Natalia was bored.

The entrance to The LaMont was clogged with brightly dressed patrons, eagerly chatting as they descended upon the establishment for the evening's performance of ….well, something. She was sure the production had a title – they all did - probably written on the program sheets she was handing out with a smile, but there was little desire on her part to look. 'The something of something'……or was it 'The something of somewhere and someone?'

Oh well. Whatever it was, everyone seemed genuinely excited about the premier. Everyone except 'Sophia,' and to be fair and to her credit, she played the part of excited quite well despite not feeling an ounce of it.



Spinster-like wraith women had insisted that she wear a gown of flashy color and atrocious cut to perform her duties, pushing her to fight for something less horrific. When one got old, did their eyes just stop seeing color? The dreadful purple and pink monstrosity one of the trolls had tried to shove her into was deemed the height of fashion and stylish for a modest young lady like herself, and Natalia certainly had kept that in mind when she buried it deep in the back of the costume loft, vowing to light it on fire and watch it burn sometrial.

Instead, after some world-class negotiating and just a touch of alcoholic corruption, she had been allowed to browse the costume loft for a gown of her own choosing.

There were, as there always were, conditions. Color. It had to be something other than a neutral color, to enhance the ambiance of the evening or some such silly thing. Natalia herself would have naturally gravitated towards gold or even black, but people with awful, dreadful taste had viciously ripped those options from her.

Finally, almost at her wit's end, trying to find something suitable, a miracle had appeared before her….



It was like a piece of art. None of the tailors recalled who had made it or where it had come from, but no one made a fuss when Natalia appeared in the foyer of The Lamont in the deepest of crimson gowns. Embroidered flowers floated down the sheer neckline onto the full skirt comprised of solid satin and tulle layers that floated when she walked. For one break, she stood in the masterpiece of a dress, smiling and offering the papers to theatergoers….

....and was irrefutably bored.

Once the crowd had flitted into the theatre, one of Natalia's minders relieved her of the remaining brochures, letting her know she could either go for the evening or work in the costume loft organizing. She had no plans that evening, and the more work she did, the quicker she could be done with the silly tasks.

Click, click, click. Her heels made the most delightful of sounds as she walked down the hallway towards the changing room. Natalia would have felt at ease with such a delicate creation wrapped around her body in an era gone by, but now? She felt something of a fraud. It wasn't who she was anymore, but that wasn't to say that it wasn't enjoyable to pretend for a little while. Natalia was the one who loved the dresses - 'Sophia' was a different story.

Her thoughts drifted as she turned the corner. Being in the theatre reminded her of her night with Oberan, whom she had seen a few times here and there as they went about their tasks to reimburse The Lamont for the disruption caused during the apprehension of the Whiskey Barbarian. Typically, Natalia would have argued the punitive measures with passionate fire, contesting that the minor inconvenience to the theatre was nothing compared to bringing the man to justice, but circumstances had stayed her tongue. New city, new people, and perhaps there was something to be gained from the situation – opportunity. Also, she had been very, very tired. Very.

Wait, what had she been thinking about? Oh right, Oberan. Frustratingly, they always seemed to be assigned different jobs, and her interest in learning about him seemed to outweigh any desire he had for anything to do with her. Natalia was getting nowhere, and it was rather irksome.

Moving into the area designated for 'talent' to change, she quickly stripped out of her dress and back into more practical clothing, complete with her new bodice, which featured convenient little places to store her more diminutive daggers away from prying eyes.

Lacing up her boots and making sure she had everything, Natalia grabbed the dress and hung it up in the thin vertical compartment assigned to her, then made her way out of the room and towards The Lamont's capacious costume loft.

Her eyes took in the chaos; costumes flung from one side of the space to the other. Apparently, they all liked wearing the costumes, but taking care of them? That seemed beneath theater types. Even the tailors failed to care, insisting their work was done once a costume left their workshop.

Sighing softly, she put down her bag on the floor and dug into the work. Living the exciting, carefree life, Natalia certainly was.

Not.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Present Time
Lamont Theatre - Costume Loft

Starting to clean up the messy heaps of costumes, Natalia would soon find herself face to face with a particularly voluminous one. Measuring at least three times as large as the others, this one seemed almost designed to be ridiculously big. As if someone had purposefully thrown several racks of costumes on top of each other with the intent to create a veritable mountain of colorful cloth.

Gathering up the different pieces of the various costumes, and hanging them back on the racks where they belonged, Natalia would make progress rather quickly. However, some of the outfits at the bottom of the pile were oddly damp, and stained red. Soon enough she’d encounter a boot that didn’t want to budge from its position, the cause of which being a foot still stuck inside. Its leg disappeared underneath the mountain of costumes.

The rest of the body could be uncovered quickly after, lying still on the floor of the costume loft, surrounded by a pool of crimson. It was male, human, and dressed in a bloodied purple toga. The back of his head was slick, and if she touched it, her fingers would come back red.

His face, though nicely groomed –a stark contrast to his look during their initial meeting-- was awfully familiar.

Unblinking. Unresponsive. Not breathing.

A still-warm body, quickly hidden underneath too many costumes.

Oberan had been murdered.



Two and a half hours earlier
Lamont Theatre Bar

Soft lantern light bounced gently off polished glass bottles, painting rainbows across the shelves. Rows upon rows hung from the wall, two columns of them, separated by a tall mirror. The bottles lined up there possessed all sorts of shapes. Some were simple things, cylindrical with a tapering top. Others were a bit more fancy. Round-bottomed and dressed up with a small basket. Angular, like a glass brick with a corked neck. One was concave; wide at the bottom and top, but narrowing towards the middle.

Inside they held all sorts of liquids, most of them alcoholic and colorless. But there were vibrant shades among them too. A cool electric blue. Rich amber. Strawberry red. And even a thick golden liquid that swirled like paint.

Three of the bottles sailed through the air, tumbling in a lazy arch, deft hands catching them for a few brief moments, then sending them up again. Higher than before, almost touching the ceiling. It left the hands empty for just long enough to slide three shot glasses on the bar with much flair before they needed to pluck the bottles out of gravity’s grip. One by one they set the bottles in front of the glasses with a satisfying thud.

Awed mutterings erupted from the other side of the bar, where the patrons sat at tables or on high stools. A couple even clapped. Oberan gave a shallow bow.

Tonight he dressed in a form-fitting black and white uniform – black trousers, white shirt, black sleeveless vest, bowtie. Both his hair and beard were a lot neater than they usually were. The people of the Lamont had deemed his usual style ‘gutter rat’ rather than ‘daring rogue’, and sicced the cosmetics crews on him so he’d give patrons a positive first impression and not harm the theater’s reputation. That, combined with the crisp work outfits the Lamont provided, resulted in a rather significant glow up –though Oberan himself found this lacked the charm and je-ne-sais-quoi of his normal, more unkempt appearance. Either way, it couldn’t be denied he cleaned up nice.

“Ahem,“ a woman scraped her throat, “Our drinks?” She didn’t seem the least bit impressed, the corners of her excessively glossed lips pursed and drooping down. As she’d been doing ever since placing her order, she tapped one of her long and pointy nails on the flat of the bar. Oberan had thought that maybe, if he’d let her wait for a while, she’d make a dent in the wood.

“Of course, just a sec.” With equal showmanship he flipped each of the bottles into his hand, then poured a shot. He placed all three of them in front of her, beaming a winning smile. “There you go. Enjoy!”

She didn’t return it. In fact, her mouth seemed to droop even further. Those laugh lines on her face definitely weren’t from laughing. Neither were the crow’s feet. Probably a result of looking down her nose at everyone all day long. “Maybe next time forego the showing off and don’t keep customers waiting instead. We ordered drinks, not a juggling act.”

Oberan blinked, smile plastered on his face. He nodded almost imperceptivity. “My bad, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry. But I understand. Can’t leave the cauldron unattended for too long, after all.”

The woman, in the middle of distributing the drinks between herself and her two companions – a balding man one full head smaller than she was, and another woman of similar ages as the first, who was as corpulent as the first was thin—turned around with a snap. She lifted a boney claw-tipped finger and spewed hellfire from her eyes. “Excuse you?”

“Is there a problem, ma’am? You want to spice up your drink with a garnish? I’m afraid we don’t carry any eye of newt, toe of frog, or the heart of a stillborn child.” He spread his hands in an amicable gesture. “We can do lemon slices though.”

The woman’s face went from red to purple in mere moments, all the wrinkles deepening into a twisted mask of anger. “How dare--! Such rude--! That’s no way to talk to customers!” She raised a finger threateningly. “Who do you think you are? Listen here you--!” Launching spittle everywhere she transitioned in an angry tirade. A storm of words Oberan weathered unflinching, barely batting an eye.

Just a few sentences down the rant, a meaty hand gently pressed on the woman’s wrist, pushing it down. The balding man wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her gently to the side. “Now, now, darling. Let’s not make a fuss here. Let’s not ruin our night out. Just ignore it. Let’s just finish our drinks and leave.”

She allowed it, relenting with clear reluctance. “Fine.” She downed her shot in one furious swig, and placed it violently onto the bar. Oberan watched her with a blank expression. “Make no mistake, young man. I’ll have a word with your superiors on the way out. Better start packing!” She left in a huff, her husband and the other woman in tow. The latter gave Oberan the stink eye on the way out. He waved back.

People didn’t clap this time. Instead a cacophony of hushed whispering erupted.

“Ehm, can I order?” A new customer leaned on the counter, glancing at the door and Oberan in quick succession.

They received brilliant grin. “Of course! What can I get you?”

“I’d like a whiskey, please.”

“Certainly. Daringtons?”

“No thanks. Holsmann Thirteen.”

Oberan’s smile vanished. “Sorry, we don’t serve Holsmann here.”

The customer leaned sideways to look past Oberan at the bottle of Holsmann clearly displayed on the shelf. Oberan mirrored the action to block their sight. “It’s right there though?”

“Is it?” He glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows as if genuinely surprised to see that brand of whiskey on the shelf. “Oh. It is.” He reached for a bottle, placed a tumbler on the bar, and prepared to pour. The customer scraped their throat.

“I’m sorry, you’re holding Daringtons?”

Oberan glanced at his hands, which, indeed, held a bottle of Daringtons. “Oh. Now you mention it, I am. My mistake. Well, since I’m already holding it, you don’t mind me pour you one of these instead?”

A frown. “Of course I mind! I don’t like Daringtons, I want a Holsmann Thirteen, please.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but we’re out of it. That there is an empty bottle.”

“Looks half-full to me.”

Staring the customer in the eye, Oberan grabbed the bottle –the right one this time—and made it vanish. “Like I said. We’re out.”

The customer stared with open mouth, flabbergasted. “Oakside Park, then?” they stammered.

He grabbed it, made it disappear just like the last one. “Sorry.”

“Doughal and Smiths?”

Another one poofed. “We’re understocked today. Apologies for the inconvenience.”

It took the customer a few moments to process the information, then they took a deep breath through their nose. It whistled a little. “I would like to speak to your supervisor.”

“I told you not to give him jobs involving serving customers!” As if on cue, the loud voice heralded the arrival of Q'Vyn Dj'Ihadi, the house manager. By circumstance, he now also was in charge of the bar. The door to the Lamont’s bar swung open and the man himself strode in with large, purposeful strides. His eyes snapped to Oberan immediately and remained glued there.

Behind Q'Vyn, Jess, one of the barkeeps responsible for this area, had trouble keeping up. Just like Oberan, she wore a crisp black and white uniform with bowtie. “I didn’t! He said Thomas sent him to fill in for me!”

“Then you should have sent him back to Thomas to tell him to send someone else, since he isn’t allowed--”

“I know! I know! But it was time for my break and there’s no-one else on shift, and it’d be for just half an hour, so I figured--”

“—it’d be fine?” His head almost swiveled at the poor girl, resisting at the last moment. “I. Told. You. Don’t put him in charge of customers! He makes sport of them. He enjoys getting under their skin.”

“Well, they deserve it,” Jess mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

Q'Vyn sighed. “If you have to put him in, don’t give him a uniform. It makes us look bad. Have him dress in his tights instead, then people at least tolerate a certain level of tomfoolery. Ah... Bert is going to kill me when he finds out...”

They arrived at the bar then, Jess flipping up the bar flap to slip behind the counter. Q'Vyn was immediately accosted by the customer who’d been trying to order inferior whiskey, and interrupted before they could advance beyond ‘that rude barkeep’. “Yes, yes. My sincerest apologies for this fool’s behavior. Don’t worry, Jess here will take your order properly. Jess? It’s on the house.”

While Jess busied herself gathering up a collection of whiskey bottles from the floor, putting them back on the shelves, and fulfilling the customer’s order, Q'Vyn led Oberan out of the room. They headed for the employee only hallways, and entered an empty break room.

Looking as innocent as a dog who’d just eaten something it definitely shouldn’t have, Oberan waited for the earful he was sure to receive. Only it didn’t come. All he got was an exhausted and exasperated expression.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Oberan raised an eyebrow in response. He definitely could.

“Should I even ask what--”

“Enforcing quality standards appropriate for a prestigious establishment. Also an impromptu juggling act to heighten customer interest.”

“And how does insulting people fit into that description?”

“Conditioning customers to be respectful of serving staff by applying the basic principle of civil interaction. Do unto others, et cetera.”

Q'Vyn let out a deep sigh that seemed to age him a full decade. He waved a hand. “Just get the fuck out of here. Change clothes and go to Ladrian for a different task. Preferably something far, far backstage.”

“Maybe I should be handing out flyers in the street?”

“NO!”

“I’m quite good at advertising. I’ll do flips and stuff, it’ll be fun.”

“No, it’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be punishment. You’re supposed to reimburse us for the disruption you caused weeks ago, not cause even more chaos! At this rate you’re just adding more work hours for yourself.”

Oberan smiled. “Oh well, if you decide I need to serve a longer sentence here, I’ll happily oblige. I’m sure I’ll be having a blast.”

Q'Vyn paled. He steadied himself on a chair. “I need to get you out of my hair. Push the supervisor role onto someone else. Otherwise this’ll be the death of me.”

“Just switch me and the girl,” Oberan said. “She’s a great with customers. Does what she’s told. And I’ll do her job of handing out flyers.”

“Hmmm. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” He stared absentmindedly at the wall, thinking of what could be.

“Or better yet, put me on stage! I can do the eh… what’s it called… the opening act!”

“Absolutely not!” Despite the instant rejection, Q'Vyn seemed to be considering it. Perhaps he just imagined a world where he didn’t have to deal with Oberan’s nonsense. Where he hadn’t volunteered to supervise him, thinking that he could use him to solve the understaffing. Suddenly, he perked up, eyes glinting. A grin spread across his features. “Say, do you like costumes?”

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 50, Arc 721

Turning her attention to the oddly immense pile of costumes first, a rhythm developed as Natalia sped through the sorting, perhaps even a little meditative in nature. There was something to be said about the relative peace of being left with one's thoughts sans distractions.

Soon, however, her fingers registered dewy moisture of some sort on the material touched, prompting a scowl to appear. Delightful.

Surmising that there must have been a water leak of some sort or that someone used the outfits to clean up something, the brunette rolled her eyes and began looking around for one of the large bags used to haul items destined for the laundry facilities.

It was then that she noted the curiously placed boot half-buried. What was that doing there? She knew that shoes were over in another part of the loft, but if people couldn't get their costumes hung back up, shoes had no chance whatsoever.

Kneeling to grab the boot, Natalia tried to pick it up but unexpectedly encountered resistance – it wouldn't budge. Curiouser and curiouser.

Sliding down to her knees, she pulled clothes aside until it was apparent there was a hairy leg attached to the boot. Natalia's motions became frantic, digging from the boots up, the scene slowly unraveling before her.

Oberan!

Panic set in as she quickly took in everything from the stained purple toga to the pool of crimson surrounding him. "No, no, no, no, no…." she exclaimed, searching his body to try and find a wound of some sort.

Natalia battled to keep her anxiety in check as she moved towards his head and slid her hands beneath it, still pursuing the wound causing the blood loss, clothing now sodden in crimson but not caring as she tried to help him. "Where the beneath is this blood coming from? Who did you irritate now? You aren't dying on me. Do you hear me, Oberan? Not happening. You do not have my permission to die. Didn't know you needed my permission? Too bad. You'll have to wake up and fight me on that."

Talking seemed to help calm her down, so the young woman kept chattering, but the rising sensation inside her was hard to explain. Her heart was racing, but Natalia managed to keep her head while she looked for a cause despite everything. Adrenaline, perhaps? Something that made her blood pump in a way it never had before. It had happened once before with Oberan during their pursuit of the whiskey barbarian, this sensation. Perhaps a mortalborn ability she didn't know about?

"Whose going to be here to tell me I'm awful at everything? Or argue with me when the mood strikes? I haven't even told you any of the interesting stuff yet. Wouldn't want to leave before that happens, would you?"

There was no head wound that she could find, rendering the blood loss inexplicable for the time being, so she started moving the material of his toga aside, starting with the chest, and the words just kept coming. "I still need to drink all those drinks from the game I owe you, ha! You can't die – we aren't even yet!"

Concentrating for a moment, the young woman let her hand gently rest against his chest while she tried something. Luckily, she was wearing her ringWhile wearing this ring, Natalia can sense the capability of another with a light touch of the hand it is worn upon. The ring grants her a sensation of what one target is capable of. Natalia will have to interpret the sensation through her own set of experiences, so it may not always be apparent what the ring is trying to tell her. Mechanically, Natalia will sense something about another pc/npc's highest skill. Should the pc/npc have two or more skills sharing that spot, the writer/moderator of the character she's trying to sense will choose which skill Natalia will sense.While it does not deliberately spell out another's skills, a learned user of this ring will be able to identify certain people by what they are capable of. Only one ability/skill will be readable per person. Natalia is able to use the ring once per trial., and hopefully that could give her the one vital piece of information she desperately needed. Natalia surmised in the heat of the moment that if he were dead, the ring wouldn't be able to tell her anything about him.

Instead, however, it came alive, showing her flashes of images for her to interpret. Sighing a bit of relief - Oberan was still in the land of the living for the moment - Natalia paid little attention to what the ring showed her, needing to focus on him instead.

Moving quickly, Natalia laid her ear against his chest and heard the faintest of heartbeats. Slow, unnaturally so, but there. Bag! She needed her bag. Surely, she had something in there that would help.

Scrambling a few feet to drag her bag over, the first thing she noted was the emerging form of a sleepy six-headed dragonet. Apollo, waking from his evening nap, chirped happily at her before registering her increasing distress. "Not now, Apollo. I've got to find…something."

Not entirely understanding what was going on, the little creature glanced around and approached Oberan's prone body. By that point, Natalia had returned, having determined that she had nothing that would help the situation. "I don't know what to do, Apollo. I can't figure out where the blood is coming from," she spoke, breathless and quickly approaching desperate.

Hopping up on the man's chest, the dragonet began jumping up and down as if trying to wake him. It was something Apollo often did when Natalia slept late and was woefully behind on feeding him, so obviously, the creature seemed to equate Oberan's state to sleep. "No, he's not sleeping. Don't worry. We will figure it out."

Out of the blue, someone chuckled behind Natalia.

Twisting around quickly, she noted the presence of a stagehand - a new one. She had only seen him a handful of times and never had they exchanged words, yet here he was, laughing at something. Whatever. All she knew is at least someone was there to help her.

"Help me. He's hurt. We need to get him down to the main floor and alert the others," she began. However, the words drifted off as he produced a knife from his belt, leading her to believe he was involved in Oberan's current predicament. Turning around entirely, Natalia place her back against Oberan's body, trying to protect him, before addressing the approaching knife guy.

"It was you? What could he have possibly done to warrant this? Is your skin that thin that his taunts caused you to lash out?" Natalia didn't yell, scream or do any of the things someone might typically do when confronted with adversity- it was almost becoming a perpetual state of being for her.

"Me? No, but someone finally decided to off the idiot? Good. The man gave me a headache. Given another few trials and I would have done the deed myself. I had more important things to attend to, however. Watching you." His voice was deep, reminding her a bit of Grayson's but just a touch courser.

Pushing back against the loft floor with her feet, she gently began moving herself, Oberan, and the hissing Apollo backward, sliding along the floor. "I'm flattered, truly, but a supreme waste of time, in my opinion. Why would you even bother? I'm no one."

A smirk appeared on the man's face. "Let me tell you a tale, Sophia," he started, making a special effort to draw out the sounds in the name so Natalia knew not to waste time arguing that it was her name. "The people I hang out with like information. Quite often, they have people working on the docks and ships who are on the lookout for interesting people from other places."

He seemed oddly caught up monologuing, so Natalia allowed him to continue while steadily creating distance between them and the man, knowing already where the story would lead.

"So awhile back, a ship arrived with a young lady that had the most interesting creature with her, so I was told to follow you and see what you were up to, and things didn't add up. You've told people you sailed from Rharne, but that's not true. Your name certainly isn't true, and even here, despite most people thinking it's a backwater, we've heard rumors of the dragon bearers."

Shit. Well, that was bound to happen eventually. Natalia hadn't counted on anyone being interested enough in her movements to put puzzle pieces together, but that miscalculation would cost her. Apollo and Ares drew attention – she couldn't deny that. But dragon bearers? Certainly, that wasn't her?

And what else did 'they' know about her? Her status as a mortalborn wasn't entirely a secret, considering Daia had revealed the truth to her during a public event, at a table full of people. That piece of information wasn't something Natalia needed coming to light in Etzos, though.

"What they didn't count on was you running into that one," he snickered, gesturing at Oberan, but didn't elaborate further. Just who was Oberan? Natalia was aware that her companion was more than he appeared to be, but that someone else was aware of that fact was interesting.

As he droned on and on, her observant eyes were looking around, formulating a plan. Most people weren't aware of how the costume loft was structured. Due to its location in almost the theatre rafters, there wasn't a lot of room. A clever system with pulleys and rods allowed rows of clothing to be hoisted off the ground and stored above the loft until needed. To bring one down, all one needed to do was simply disengage the right rope…

The right rope. Natalia, while appearing to pay attention to the rambling man's words, made some calculations and observations. When she found Oberan under the mound of costumes, her first thought was that one of the racks had fallen on him, but they were all secured and accounted for, which translated into a bit of good fortune for her.

Unwilling to leave Oberan, she had to make do with what she had. What Natalia had was a very verbose, unaware, and a thousand other unflattering adjectives, adding up to opportunity. Pushing Oberan's prone form backward as subtly as possible, Natalia just needed to get closer to the wall, and moving one's dead weight like that wasn't the effortless task a person might think it to be.

The moment Natalia sensed talks-a-lot was winding to an end, she decided to shove her adversary a bit, needing to gain a few more precious trills to put her plan into action. "While I enjoy an eloquently constructed melodrama as much as the next person, I need a smidge of clarification, if you will. You did a marvelous job explaining the plan, although, if I might critique just a bit? It would help if you worked on the length of delivery. You went way, way overboard on that. You lost me back at 'dragon bearers,' and I'm the one the story is about. Clear, concise summaries – that's the ticket. But I digress. Clarification."

Having arrived at the wall, making sure to appear non-threatening, Natalia rose slowly, speaking as she moved, leaving the little grey dragonet on Oberan's forehead. "What, and I might have missed this somewhere in all those words you spouted, do you intend to do with me?"

If the man was offended or frustrated by the young woman's antics, it didn't show. Natalia allowed him to believe he was in control, which she took full advantage of as he walked towards her, trying to intimidate his quarry as best he could. Why did people think that just brandishing a weapon was enough to goad others into complying with their demands? Strange. "Information. You have it, and the people I work for are employed by others that need it. No one seems exactly sure what to make of you. That's quite a trick. I'm curious how you've flown under the radar for so long."

Almost there...

Natalia should have been terrified. The situation did call for a certain amount, but recent events had acclimated the young woman somewhat to traumatic situations. Hard-won discipline that served her well, allowing a calculated response instead of chaos, enticing him to take that final step into her trap.

The man's curiosity deserved an answer, and a reply organically manifested itself as she gave him a mischievous smirk.

"Didn't you know? A magician never reveals their tricks…."

A hand shot towards the nearby rope, giving it a solid yank, and Natalia watched as the costume rack above the man came barreling down on him.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Present time
Lamont theatre – Costume loft

“Magician?” the stagehand sneered, “What are you talking a—”

Mechanisms clacked as gears overhead ground into each other, spinning axles and working pulleys. Having disengaged the clever braking system holding the ceiling racks in place, one usually would hold the rope and slowly give some slack to lower the costume rack slow and steady. Natalia, of course, did no such thing. After yanking on the desired rope, she let it shoot up into the rafters like a startled snake slithering up a tree.

As a man tasked with watching, the stagehand happened to be rather observant. Having seen Natalia tug on the rope, knowing what that rope was for, and hearing the rattling up above, the stagehand put two and two together, glancing up. Despite being caught off guard, his reflexes were sharp enough for him to leap out of the way. Barely. One moment of hesitation, and he’d have been crushed by the falling costume rack.

Wood thundered onto wood, the impact deafening. Even the plentitude of clothes and fabrics in the loft couldn’t muffle it, nor could the layer of costumes thrown about cushion the rack’s fall.

The stagehand rolled to his feet, snatching his dropped knife off the floor. He softly barked a cuss, eyes flicking to the hall for a moment, before returning to Natalia.

“Clever girl, got me rambling, eh?” He brandished his knife again, gaze a lot less casual than before. Wary, suspicious. Slowly he backed away, towards the door. “Lured me right where you wanted me to be. You’d have had me too, if you’d been a bit more subtle about it. Don’t gloat or smirk until the trap is successfully sprung. Though I suppose getting it to drop is a victory in of itself. The noise will make people come investigate. Tricksy, indeed.”

Hand on the door, he paused for a second. “Woops, I’m doing it again. Ah well, doesn’t matter. I have all the time in the world.” Giving Natalia a meaningful glance, he pushed it shut, and locked it a moment later. He didn’t remove the key from the lock. “Too bad I have a plan of my own. See, all that watching from the sidelines got me nowhere. Might as well go for a more direct approach. Now, I had hoped for this to be not quite as hostile when I stepped in, but since things have proceeded this way, there’s no need for me to play nice, is there? I need answers, and you will provide.”

He raised his knife again, with far more conviction than he had earlier. Gone was his swagger, gone was the almost too-casual confidence of being in full control. Natalia had gotten the better of him because he didn’t take her seriously enough, but now he knew not to underestimate her. Moving like a fighter staring down a deadly predator, he stalked closer, his stance and blade leaving no doubt as to how he planned to make her talk.



A little over 2 hours earlier
Lamont theatre – Costume Loft

Oberan did not want to clean the costume loft.

He’d switched outfits to rid himself of the stiff black and white uniform, now dressed in his regular clothes once more. Back here, out of sight of any theatregoers or bar patrons, it didn’t quite matter what he wore. And there was no-one to amuse him either.

That happened to be the point, of course. Get him somewhere he couldn’t do any damage, someplace with a boring chore to keep him occupied until the his shift was over. Like cleaning up the costume loft. Too many heaps of strewn-about outfits to pick up and put on hangers and racks. Especially on his own.

Maybe he should have behaved a little rather than angering customers. Then he might have been able to stay behind the bar and have some more fun. Sneak a couple drinks, perhaps?

No. Oberan had worked with customers for too long to treat them any different than the way they absolutely deserved. And ways they certainly didn’t. He couldn’t help it though, it provided so much catharsis. Years of bottled up vengeful feelings he’d not expected to still have a grip on him, now released. For a little while, at least. The pressure would build again, waiting for the right trigger that would cause it to gush forth.

Pursing his lips for a moment or two, he hesitated in the doorway, wondering what to do if not clean that mess. This was a perfect opportunity to take a nap. Or perhaps fool around with the costumes for a while. Several fancy ones had already caught his eye; searching for the most ridiculous outfit present and seeing if it’d fit did sound like it’d be a good time.

Sure, yes, why not?

Whether or not he got a lot of work done didn’t matter, really. The ‘debt’ owed to the Lamont was to be paid back in a minimum amount of hours spent in their employment, with the theatre able to add more if they felt the labor provided didn’t weight up to the damages incurred quite yet. Which meant that doing no work at all would get you more shifts until the Lamont was happy. Well, within reason, of course.

Generally, as long as you did your job well and an altogether pleasant person to have as a colleague, you could get off the hook with the minimum of shifts. The girl was headed straight for that outcome, if Oberan had to wager a guess.

Oberan himself? Perhaps not so much. He’d have been if only they gave him fun chores though. Something exciting. Maybe on stage, near the stage, above the stage. Advertising the Lamont in the street by doing tricks and improvised one-man plays. Like he’d asked for so many times.

Now he just figured he’d give it the least amount of effort he could get away with, while having his fun in different ways.

Such as trying on a severely unfashionable poofy embroidered dress, a too-tall powdered wig with too many bows and hair rolls, and waving a lace-topped folding fan about, pretending to be the Queen of Rynmere.

When he had enough of that, he changed into a pirate costume –including a bicorn hat emblazoned with skull and crossbones, a wicked hook, mandatory eyepatch, and flamboyant but weathered burgundy overcoat. He left the wig on, as its ridiculous bulk required the bicorn hat to balance precariously on top of it. Oberan dubbed it the ‘traditional Scalvorian councilor’ outfit, which was equally inaccurate as it was offensive to Scalvorians, and, as a logical result, hilarious.

For over an hour, Oberan entertained himself by going through several costumes. Not all of them were recognizable archetypes, humanoids, or even sapient. There was a lion with a thick golden mane and a tail like a ten-year old paintbrush. A scarecrow that more resembled a beggar wearing a potato bag over its head. A suit of armor that seemed to be crafted entirely from metal cans –some large enough to fit over a man’s torso, held up by a set of tough suspenders.

And a tree. With a beard.

Oh, he knew that one! He’d seen it in action right before he and the girl had gotten themselves in trouble with the Lamont.

Eventually though, Oberan grew bored with trying on costumes and prancing around in them. He changed back to his normal outfit which now felt painfully plain and a thousand times more comfortable in comparison, threw the costumes on one of the preexisting heaps left behind by the stage crew, and left the loft to pursue entertainment elsewhere.

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 50, Arc 721

While not a complete success, her gambit was ultimately worthwhile in several ways. It did catch the man off guard, giving her precious trills to try and drag Oberan out of harm's way, shoving him best she could under another garment rack. He wasn't a large man by any standards, but dead weight was dead weight and, well, hopefully, he wasn't actually dead.

Apollo, for his part, spent the time bouncing up and down on her unresponsive companion's head. The chaos evolving in the costume loft was enough to send the little dragonet into something of an anxious fit, occasionally hissing at the knife-wielding man.

And then, there was a feeling. Something suddenly felt off. Only after a look down at her hand did the young brunette realize that her signet ring was gone. But, she had used it not that long ago...

Gaze falling to the toga-clad trickster, Natalia could only sigh. She didn't know what he was up to, but it was certainly something. Hand shooting to where her dagger laid, nestled between fabric and skin, there was comfort in the feel of its outline against her fingertips - and relief.

Whispering, her words fell between them, meant only for him. "Cheeky monkey. At least you didn't take the dagger...."

Once Natalia managed to back Oberan's body under the garment rack, the Kletier lowered to a crouch, watching his guardian intently. Giving the creature a quick smile, knowing her advantage was running out, she left the pair with a few words. "Apollo, stay here. Oberan, whatever you are doing, be quick about it..."

Stuffed under the relative clutter of the rack, she had given the two some camouflage which, coupled with her distractions, might be enough to provide Oberan with time to help her - if he were so inclined. Their first adventure had shown her that the man's whims were unpredictable, and as such, there was an equal likelihood that he would wait and see how she handled the situation on her own.

Men.

Emitting a soft trill in response, Apollo watched as Natalia stood and found herself face to face with the pain in the ass that was ruining her evening. Well, the more significant pain in the ass, anyway.

He called her clever, which was appropriate in her estimation. The maneuver had done enough of what she needed it to, but stowing Oberan and Apollo had cost her time she could have otherwise used to prepare. Now, all Natalia could do was go with the flow and see what additional opportunities emerged.

Seemingly unable to keep quiet, he continued to talk…and talk, backing towards the door to secure it before turning his attention to her again with mannerisms that reminded her of a cornered snake – wary and on edge. Natalia had lost her advantage in the broader sense of indicating that she wasn't a shrinking violet. Remaining, however, were a few more subtle tricks that deserved the appropriate moment to reveal.

Eyeing the dagger the thug brandished, Natalia steeled her nerves. He didn't scare her in the least, but each new encounter had a particular effect on the young woman. Having been involved in several such tense situations herself, she learned quickly that a certain amount of resolve was necessary to see them through. Besides, Vielkrontier would expect nothing less of her.

Waiting patiently until the man stopped yapping, the response Natalia provided was said with an amused tone and delicately arched eyebrow. "You expect me to be intimidated by you? Let's suppose, as you claim, I'm one of these mystical dragonbearers. That means that I've been in the presence of an actual dragon and most likely had to prove myself worthy of continuing to live."

As she continued, her hand slowly disappeared behind her back, moving slow enough not to alert the man's attention. "So, picture this, little me, in front of a, let's say, sixty-foot tall creature, trying to figure out what to say, so it will allow me to live."

Painting a picture of the scene, Natalia's hand slipped inside the hidden compartment of her corset and wrapped around the handle of her dagger. "And not only did little ole' me live, but also happened to be gifted with the honor of being a dragonbearer? Imagine that. What could I have possibly said or done to convince a dragon I was worthy of such a thing? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

And with that last word, Natalia took a step toward him. It took a lot for her to take that step, but part of the plan was deceiving him into thinking something that wasn't. Deceptively managing his expectations, so to speak. She'd give him just that if he wanted to go face-to-face with his ludicrous fantasy.

Now unsure of what he had gotten himself into, the man looked for all the world, torn between action and running away. The girl had managed to sow enough seeds of doubt to make him second guess his plan. Could such a girl, like the one in front of him, be the favored of a dragon?

Shaking away the doubts, he returned to business, ultimately unswayed by her argument, continuing his advance. "I don't know about that business with dragons, but I know you lie, and that's enough to tell me your words aren't to be trusted."

Hand tightening around the dagger's hilt, a few more steps would bring Natalia to the point of no return - she'd either have to brandish the blade or figure something else out.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

One hour earlier
Lamont theatre – on stage

“So you are absolutely certain you don’t need a stunt double?”

Oberan sat perched on a small stepladder, head cocked and eyebrows raised. Close by, a duo of actors were going step by step through a lengthy swordplay choreography. They were far from alone; the floor of the stage crawled with people –actors and stagehands and technicians alike. The former were knee-deep in repetitions, going over the parts they had the most trouble with, while the latter two groups checked the various mechanisms and equipment.

Despite the amount of people occupying the podium, or because of it, the curtain still hung down, separating it from the auditorium. That border hadn’t been enough to stop Oberan when he’d wandered through the empty rows of empty seats. Hearing the cacophony on the other side, he’d just slipped underneath the heavy cloth without second thought, strolled up to an unattended ladder, and had claimed it as his throne from which to observe the chaos.

The actors and various technical crews had given him sideways glances at first, pausing whatever they were doing to see what he was up to now. When he just settled on the ladder, they released a collective sigh and continued with their work.

Oberan didn’t mind the wary and annoyed glares; he’d worked hard to cultivate them. In a sense, he relished them. Every resigned look, every deep sigh, and every irritated scowl was a sign of his success in that regard. It meant the theatre as a whole would think twice about extending his sentence. Which meant Oberan could slack off without consequence.

“You think I’m going to change my answer just because you keep nagging me? The answer is no. Bugger off, will you? We’re trying to rehearse.”

Of course, a side effect of his campaign was that no-one really wanted him around. If they could help it, they’d never ask for his aid at all. The less they needed to interact with him, the better. Most people tolerated his presence as long as he shut up, sat still in a spot they could keep an eye on him, and didn’t interfere with anything. Tasking him with anything had usually proven to be a bad idea, if only because Oberan did things his own way. If he came asking for work or offered to assist, so they had figured, he definitely was up to something. And yet, he’d never once messed with the actors or the stage itself, though that went completely overlooked.

“Aw, come on. I won’t mess it up! You know I do great stunts!” As way of demonstration, he leapt off the ladder –which teetered dangerously back and forth before stabilizing—and flipped backwards through the air, landing softly on his feet, hands stretched above his head. “See?”

“We don’t need stunts,” the actor said, turning back to his female partner. “Let’s take it from the top again. I’m not really confident in my footwork for the bit where you’re supposed to drive me back and against the wall.” They went through the steps slowly, brandishing his prop-sword and fending off invisible blows. Oberan, who’d returned to his spot on top of the ladder, thought it looked pretty good. The first actor frowned as he danced through the choreography. “See, it’s left back, right back, while I parry on the alternating sides, right? Then it’s right foot back again?”

“Uhuh,” she said, “you got it.”

“Hm, well, see, when we do it fast it trips me up, and I think I do left, right, left. So, from the top again, okay?”

His partner nodded, and the two of them launched once more into the exchange of blows.

As far as Oberan understood tonight’s play, the Tragic Demise of Eskerland and Sir Hofbjarn, it told the story of the royal knight Sir Hofbjarn, who struggles with his loyalties to his king after the king begins to command his armies and council to commit cruel and unjust acts that throw the nation of Eskerland in turmoil. He then meets and falls in love with the leader of the revolutionaries, who has sworn to overthrow the king and change the nation of Eskerland for the better. After many turbulent events, Sir Hofbjarn finds out both the king and the revolutionaries have been manipulated by the king’s most trusted advisor all along, in a ploy to take power for himself. Hofbjarn tries to convince his love of this while the revolutionaries storm the castle, defending the king with all his might. Though he cannot bring himself to harm the leader of the rebellion, and tragically dies. The revolutionaries then stab the king seventy-seven times –once for each deplorable act he committed because of the advisor’s vile manipulations—and get eradicated by the ruthless advisor’s legion of crossbowmen hidden atop the mezzanine. Eskerland falls into his evil hands, and is run into the ground, never to recover.

A real bummer of a play, for sure.

“See? Right there, I did it again!” the actor playing Sir Hofbjarn sighed, an edge of frustration bleeding into his voice.

"I think it’s fine?" Oberan shrugged. He received an annoyed look from Hofbjarn. “Just go with what feels more natural rather than cling to a choreography that’s just not working for you. I didn’t notice anything amiss until you noticed you were wrong and fumbled. Just press on like nothing happened and no-one will know. The audience will be looking at the swords anyway.”

“I don’t think I requested your opinion. Are you an expert on fight choreography now? Or a master of the blade, perhaps?”

Oberan frowned. “No, but I can hold my own without.” He descended the ladder and fell into a combat stance. Mimicking the motions of Hofbjarn’s actor, he pretended to be driven backwards, using his hands to slap imaginary swords aside. He didn’t mess up the footwork. They were very basic steps for a novice fighter of any sort. Of course they were. These people were actors, after all. All they needed to do was give a performance that looked real enough to convince the audience. They weren’t martial artists in the slightest.

Hofbjarn scowled, but his partner seemed impressed. “You have to admit he’s pretty good, Louis.”

Oberan bowed. “I’ve seen you run through this sequence twenty times already. I’d be ashamed of myself if I couldn’t perform it correctly by now. The offer for being a stunt double still stands by the way.”

Hofbjarn’s –Louis’s—scowl deepened. “No. I can do it. Why are you so adamant about taking my place? You want to usurp my role or something?”

“Not at all!” Oberan raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I just want to get my ass kicked by a pretty warrior lady. And then die, wrapped in her strong arms as I bleed out and reach for her cheek with bloody fingers. Even if it’s just pretend.”

“That your kink or som--”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes. Yes it is.”

Hofbjarn stammered for a few moments, unprepared for that response, before finding his voice again. "The answer is still no.”

Oberan sighed. “Fine, you do you. Good luck with the footwork.”

He walked away, but not to his ladder. Instead, he headed for a group of different actors, one of which would be playing the king in tonight’s play. As Oberan approached no-one as much as looked in his direction, their necks stiff and their gazes averted. They even kept it up as Oberan joined their little circle, glancing from face to face.

It kind of felt like he was using his body language to hide in plain sight, but he knew for a fact that he wasn’t. Well, he didn’t mind too much. How long could they keep this up, he wondered.

“So, do you need a stunt double?” he asked. As expected, he received no response, as the actors did their best to just keep their discussion going, mixing their words with his own. So he waited a minute or so, and repeated the question.

And again.

And again.

And again.

They had to crack at some point. Which they did the fifth time around, sighing exasperatedly and finally acknowledging Oberan’s presence. “Will you stop! We’re in the middle of something important here. Don’t disturb us.”

“Okay, sure, but do you need a stunt double? For the play? To get stabbed a bunch of times and then lay in a puddle of blood?”

“What, no! That’s an important scene for me, the climax of my character’s arc! A pivotal moment! I’m not going to give it up. Also you look nothing like me.”

That was true, the man was bald and clean shaven.

“I do believe they have wigs and fake beards in the costume loft? I think it’d make you look quite regal.”

“That’s not the issue here! If anything you should shave your head to look me like me.”

“So you do want me to be your double?”

“No!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why would I need a stunt double if I’m not doing any stunts?”

Oberan shrugged. “Well, I figured that maybe you didn’t want to lie in a puddle of sticky blood for an entire scene. The boards are hard, you’re wet, it’s cold… I thought maybe I could help.”

“If you want to help, then shut up and leave us to our rehearsal! You’re in the way. And I don’t believe for a moment you could pull off a convincing corpse act. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are a clown, not an acteur. You simply don’t have the chops for the part. Don’t worry, we’ll call on you if we need someone to throw pies at. Now scram, we need to focus.”

They promptly returned to ignoring Oberan again, who gave up and slinked off, grumbling under his breath. Don’t have the chops for it. Can’t pull off a decent corpse act. Conceited bastards. Performing on a fancy stage for pedantic snobs who rate performances based on their ticket price had given them all a big head.

Little did they know he’d already given a damn fine corpse act seasons ago. Not qualified for the position? Ha! He’d show them. He’d put on the best dead man performance they’d ever see!


Present time
Lamont theatre – costume loft

“Cheeky Monkey,” Sophia mumbled, “At least you didn’t take the dagger…”

Monkey?

Oberan didn’t respond, remaining limp and motionless as she shoved him halfway under a rack. The tiny creature on his head dug its little claws into his skin during the move, then resumed its bouncing. Oberan had no idea what it was trying to accomplish. At least it didn’t tickle too much, else his deception would quickly fall to pieces.

Of course, he had already ruined it by stealing the ring. But he couldn’t help it, he wanted to see if she'd notice. Or if her mental state was in too much disarray to realize where it might have disappeared to.

His whole performance was a huge success. It had elicited a strong reaction from Sophia, and though she had quickly assessed he wasn’t dead, she’d at least believed he was unconscious and bleeding out. More importantly, the second member of his little audience still seemed utterly convinced Oberan had been murdered.

An audience of one was better than an audience of none.

“Oberan, whatever you are doing, be quick about it.”

So she said, but what did she expect him to be able to do stuffed underneath a garment rack? If anything, he’d prefer to keep up the pretense of being dead until an opportune moment presented itself for a grand reveal.

For the moment though, he just did the only thing he could. He put the creature on his head to sleep, along with several rats or other vermin in the walls, and channeled their combined Thrill into Sophia. While it wouldn’t be quite enough to boost her physical abilities to superhuman levels, it would provide an increase to her reflexes and dynamic vision, as well as a measure of hysteric strength. Depending on the skill of her opponent it might not be enough to let her outmatch him, but it should definitely give her a fighting chance.

But that was about the extent of the assistance he could lend her. Perhaps he could do more, but for that the thug would need to come a lot closer. Within arms reach would be ideal, but considering Sophia’s attempts to keep Oberan out of harm’s way, he figured she’d probably try to keep herself between his not-so-unconscious form and the blabbering threat pointing a knife at her.

Stupid girl. Worry about keeping yourself safe first.

The false stagehand, meanwhile, cautiously crossed the room, one step at a time. Blade trained on Sophia, he raised an eyebrow as she approached him in turn. Her attempt at intimidation stopped him in his tracks for a moment, but then he shrugged it off. Dismissed it as an exaggerated and foolish attempt to deceive. Still, beads of sweat did begin to appear on his brow, and he licked his lips continuously in an attempt to keep them moist.

“For your own good, girl, you better stop right about there.” He inclined his head at her, ceasing his own approach. “You think because I’m hired to get information on you that I’m not going to harm you? You stay right there and answer my questions. Don’t think I won’t kill you if I have to! My employers will be very cross, but I’m sure they’d rather have you dead than remain an unpredictable unknown no-one can accurately gauge.”

He planted his feet squarely on the floor, clearly planning to hold his ground should Sophia intend on closing the distance even further. Blade pointing at her throat, he scowled fiercely, though he wasn’t too good at keeping up the veneer. The sweat and forced expression betrayed a storm of panic raging on inside as he desperately tried to get a handle on the situation. Unfortunately for him, his grip was weak and his hands slippery, and the course of events spiraled further and further out of his control.

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 50, Arc 721

The issue Natalia had at that moment was purely about survival – how long could she reasonably hold the man off? Certainly, she had learned a bit about fighting and how to protect herself, but she had no idea how skilled her opponent was. In fact, she knew nothing about him, but perhaps that was her avenue to stalling. No doubt the commotion in the costume loft had been heard by others. It was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate, if they weren't on their way already.

With Oberan and Apollo tucked under the costume rack, she was free to engage the one causing so much headache - well, the most headache, anyways. Natalia couldn't say that the unmoving one didn't have his moments as well. Good and bad. Considerations for another time, though.

Her adversary's cautious advance meant she would have to find a more aggressive way to detour his attentions or scare him off somehow. What would have helped was if her companion would cease his act and help, but that appeared not to be happening, so she would have to figure it out on her own.

Appraising the situation, the beads of sweat were a good sign that the brute wasn't entirely comfortable with his current course of action. Excellent – she could use that. His insistence that she stop moving was also another superb indicator that things were not working out well for him, so Natalia decided to push a bit further and see what would happen. Of course, it didn't always have the best results, like the matter in Almund, but she was wiser and more skilled now.

Then, she noted an odd sensation rising inside of her. Again. Despite feeling relatively calm, her heart was racing and there was a clarity to her thinking that was unique for a perilous situation. It was similar to something she had experienced during her last adventure with…..

…..Oberan.

Sighing, Natalia tabled that thought for the moment, vowing to get some answers from her mysterious companion when the opportunity presented itself. Currently, she was a bit preoccupied but certainly no stranger to the obscurities of mystifying abilities, which Oberan seemed to have in spades. The young Mortalborn had given him enough time and space to realize she wasn't a threat, but enough was enough.

"Stop? You are the one waving a knife around at me. I'm simply protecting another and trying to get you to see reason. Either I'm this dangerous dragonbearer you speak of, or I'm nothing. There's very little room for in-between here, you see." She inclined her head at him, smiling lightly, trying to disarm him if she could.

When push came to shove, putting a little stress on someone was always a good way to press them into making mistakes. "I, personally, choose the version of events where I remain my unpredictable, unable-to-accurately-gauge self, but if you insist on trying to kill me, you'd better be quick about it. The others will be here soon."

"However, you should know that I have no less than seven weapons on me. Or is it eight? Let us check, shall we?" Pulling the dagger out from behind her, she showed it to him. "One." While keeping her eye on him, Natalia gently slipped her hand up to her hair, shaking loose what had appeared to be a decorative comb but, in truth, was a hairpin dagger. "Two. Do I need to continue?" On the opposite side of her head, the small matching dagger to the one she had just revealed lay, woven into her intricate hairstyle, clearly visible.

Her gamble was a tricky one. How long could she distract her adversary with her ramblings? In her estimation, he would panic and either run or attack – she had no idea which action the man was leaning towards. He had stopped moving towards her, which was a good sign, but the situation was still quite fluid and volatile.

Before she could further contemplate the dilemma, he decided to test her reflexes, lunging quickly, albeit a bit clumsily, at Natalia. Sidestepping took her out of danger, allowing his momentum to take him past her, but her own feet managed to get a bit tangled in the moment's urgency, causing her to stumble but stay upright.

Opportunity favored her opponent at the moment, who decided to use it to catch her hair and attempt to pull her back to him. Fortunately, despite the annoyance of being grabbed, Natalia had a serviceable counter to the move, having practiced it many times before with Grayson.

Natalia didn't resist being pulled backward, allowing momentum to aid her. When the moment was right, and her back was against him, a hard stomp came down on his foot, followed quickly by a sharp elbow to his core. The defensive maneuvers were enough to convince the thug that the notion of trying to wrangle the petite young woman wasn't worth the effort, and was more akin to snake-wrestling. His hold on her hair quickly dissolved as he tried to recover.

Scrambling away, Natalia got to a position somewhat near Oberan's still-inert body – what the beneath was that man up to? – and turned to face the threat once again.

Her adversary appeared to be considering his options very carefully. Either he was a good actor or simply awful at everything. Why would anyone send this buffoon after her unless…they hadn't. Shit. Why had it taken her so long to figure it out?

"You weren't sent, were you?" He wasn't some errand boy on a mission – he was just a bottom feeder looking for a way up. "You overheard something and decided to get your foot in the door by attempting to bully me into giving you more information, thus impressing your bosses. You just wanted a chip in the big game. It all makes sense now."

Her tone gained an edge at that revelation, and it was apparent in his expression that her assumption was correct. Still, he didn't move. "That's absurd. You aren't as clever as you think you are, little girl. You've been strutting around Eztos like you own the place, but you are nothing more than a posturing infant wearing her mother's dress." Despite his bold assertions, he held his ground and looked for all the world like he wanted to run.

Dramatically, Natalia looked down at what she was wearing and shook her head. "Tsk, tsk. You know so little about me. My mother wouldn't be caught dead in this…" she said, but her words cut off abruptly as footsteps sounded on the stairwell outside the loft door. Relief flooded her being as a voice yelled from beyond, the locked door rattling mightily.

"Hello! Is anyone in there? We heard a loud crash down below." Ladrian! The older man was one of the higher-ups in the company and had a fondness for her that she didn't discourage because it was often helpful, like now.

Smiling at her attacker, the dark-haired young woman called out, dagger tip pointing at the thug, just in case. "Ladrian!! I'm here. It's Sophia! Please help me!" Keeping her words short and sweet right then was the name of the game, inspiring enough panic in those outside the door to get them inside the door as quickly as possible.

Shouted ensued, and more footsteps were running up the stairs. The door started to buckle slowly and surely as the group applied pressure from the other side, in the form of what Natalia assumed were kicks.

Meanwhile, Mr-in-way-over-his-head began to scare in earnest, eyes dashing feverishly around the room to look for an escape. Across the room, beyond the racks and Natalia, the form of a window peeked out. He took off running that direction, managing to push her away as he ran past her forcefully.

Falling rather inelegantly to the floor, the one piece of fortune bestowed upon her was that the moment she did, the door burst open, sending shreds of wood sailing in all directions. Ladrian saw her lying there and assumed the worst of the situation, as most did.

Before he could say anything, though, Natalia pointed a finger towards the window and man, crawling into the roof of the Lamont, screaming about the dangerous 'dragonbearer.' Two of the theatre men ran in that direction but stopped at the window, unsure of how to pursue him.

Ladrian offered a hand to her, helping her rise to her feet again. "What was that all about? Dragonbearer? Why did he lock you in here?"

"He saw my little pocket drake and went a bit crazy. I guess he didn't realize how common they are where I come from. It was the oddest thing." Shrugging lightly as she dusted herself off, Natalia fired off a quick reply, fearing if she waited too long to answer, the response would seem fabricated, which it mostly was. There was no need to bore her boss with the details.

Now she needed to figure out how to explain Oberan's presence. Turning, she started for the rack where he and Apollo were hidden. It would take something of a creative twist to make the situation seem believable.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Sneaking glances through his lashes, Oberan waited for the right moment. The perfect, golden moment for a dramatic reveal.

Of course, Sophia already was aware that he was both not dead and not unconscious, but the thug threatening her wasn’t. And since he’d so gleefully reveled in Oberan’s supposed death, he was the perfect audience for the Mortalborn’s little performance.

Unfortunately, however, Sophia did not quite cooperate. As before, she refused to move out of the way, shielding the rack under which she’d stowed him with her body. Admirable, if she’d still be operating in the belief Oberan was unconscious.

He wasn’t too sure what she wanted him to do from his current position. She’d voiced a desire for assistance, and yet she kept the thuggish stagehand as far away from him as she could manage. At least her attempts to intimidate her opponent were rather entertaining. Interesting too, if any of it was real at all. Same for the supposed information the false stagehand had managed to collect already –though from the sound it, he might have mixed up his targets.

Dragons? Dragonbearers? Radar?

A heap of nonsense-words that rendered the entire conversation mostly meaningless, but it remained an interesting exchange nonetheless.

The situation quickly devolved into a scuffle then, Sophia’s reveal of the numerous daggers on her person proving to be not quite the deterrent she’d expected it to be. The thug lunged for her, and managed to grab a handful of her hair.

Should have left it pinned in place, Oberan sighed internally. For all her daggers, Sophia seemed woefully ignorant of the fundamentals of hand-to-hand combat and fighting dirty. Grabbing hold of your opponent in any way possible –the more debilitating and painful, the better— was a classic move. Long hair, capes, cloaks, scarves. All good targets.

Mental admonishing aside, Oberan did tense. Using the opportunity to slide the lizard creature off his forehead into a heap of clothes that’d fallen off the rack, he braced hands and feet against the rough floorboards, preparing to launch himself into the fray.

However, the concern was unnecessary, so Oberan went floppy again. Sophia handled herself quite well, breaking out of the grip with a well-placed stomp and elbow. Credit where credit was due, she wasn’t completely unable to defend herself. Someone without at least some training or theoretical instruction likely wouldn’t have performed a series of strikes targeting those places.

She scrambled away from her attacker, only to position herself in front of the clothing rack once more. Oberan just sighed quietly, gave up, and continued playing dead.

That was as good a plan as any.

Ladrian rattled the door, drawn in by the ruckus from before. Upon a plea for help from Sophia, he called some more people over, and began to bash in the door. It groaned under the impact, and wouldn’t hold out for much longer.

The false stagehand realized this too. After a few moments of decision paralysis, he staged his exit, rushing for the window. Taking his chances with a daring rooftop escape rather than be caught by a band of angry stage technicians, and a very burly, very worried, and very mustached Ladrian.

Oberan considered giving chase for a second or two, but ultimately didn’t move. He’d have grabbed the thug’s ankle, wheezing and crawling like a living corpse if he’d been close enough. Unfortunately, the man didn’t pass the clothing rack to get to the window. What he did do, was throwing Sophia roughly to the floor.

Finally the door burst open, Ladrian and a few others spilling into the room. Just in time to see the tail end of the thug clamber through the window. Not one pursued him, though a few men did run up to stick their heads outside. Ladrian, for his part, helped Sophia to her feet, creases of concern and confusion on his forehead. Prompted by the sight of the dagger she still held, he gave her a brief once-over to check for any injuries, and breathed out in relief when he found none.

“Well, I’m glad you can make light of the situation, but it’s a very troubling occurrence nonetheless. To have someone assault you over such a thing—”

Underneath the clothing rack, Oberan stirred. Groaning slightly, he crawled slowly into the open, then pushed himself on his feet. Unsteady, wavering, slightly swaying as if off balance. He touched the back of his head and winced. His hand came back slicked with blood.

“What happened to you?” asked one of the technicians, without much of the worry or concern that they’d shown to Sophia only moments prior.

“I’m not sure,” Oberan croaked, “I think someone hit me in the back of the head.” He frowned so hard his eyebrows touched, then cupped his skull for a few moments. “It’s… It happened so fast—it’s just a blur. My memory is a bit fuzzy, I don’t remember it very clearly.”

Some of the technicians mumbled to one another, wondering if perhaps it had anything to do with the man they’d seen fleeing through the window.

Ladrian raised an eyebrow. “Do you know anything about this?” he asked Sophia. “Did you happen to see him being clobbered over the head?”

“Ooh, it’s coming back to me,” Oberan said, rubbing at his temples. “I was—Yes, I was cleaning up the mess of costumes, here in the loft, when I noticed a shadow fall over me. As I turned around, suddenly an intense pain shot through my skull. I don’t remember anything after. Well, apart from waking up with a splitting headache.”

One of the technicians not currently flocked around Sophia and Ladrian had stumbled upon the large spill of blood while pacing through the room. He crouched next to it and studied it for a few moments, dipping a finger in and rubbing the viscous liquid as a pensive frown spread across his features. “And why exactly are you wearing one of the costumes, if I may ask?”

“Ah?” Oberan said, staring down at his toga-clad and red-stained self. “I don’t recall. But if I had to wager a guess, I’d say it’s because I felt like it.”

“Naturally.” The technician waved Ladrian over, and began to whisper something in his ear. Then, he addressed Oberan again, and stepped forward. “Anyway, considering the amount of blood here, it seems your head wound is quite severe. I think it’s best we take a look to assess the damage. You need to be careful with head injuries, even a minor bump can be more dangerous than you think.”

Waving his hands in a warding motion, Oberan took a step back. “I’d rather not have you touching my head. It hurts a lot, you see, and you’re not a trained medical professional—”

“But I insist! We’re going to be calling a doctor over to take a look, and we need to know if its urgent or not.”

Oberan glanced around, thinking of a believable excuse to get the man off his back. He found none floating to the surface of his mind, nor did he see one drifting along the ceiling, the walls, or on the floor of the costume loft. Instead, he saw more and more suspicion twisting the visage of the men present.

“Fine! You got me!” he yelled, spreading his arms in a theatrical gesture that made his toga flutter dramatically. “I, Oberan, am not injured in the slightest!”

There were absolutely no shocked gasps or expressions of betrayal. Only slight annoyance creasing brows, and deep sighs escaping lungs.

“Yes, that’s right! I, Oberan, staged it all! I made it look like I was attacked from behind simply because I thought it would be amusing! The blood, my supposed pain, my foggy memory? None of it was real!” Brows drawing together in a scowl, he pointed at the technician who’d called his bluffs. “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for that meddling know-it-all with his pesky questions!”

In no time flat, the entire costume loft was filled with mumbling and grumbling. Most of it pertained to having to deal with yet another of Oberan’s antics, but some technicians began to question the truth about the rest of what had transpired here, right before they’d burst into the room.

Oberan let out a disgruntled snort, crossed his arms, and fixed the lot of them with a serious glare. “But that raving lunatic who attacked the girl and then jumped out the window? I had nothing to do with that. I don’t know where he came from.”

He said nothing more, allowing the murmur to start up once again. Ladrian and the investigative technician shared a look, then the former clapped loudly to demand everyone’s attention. The whole room went silent in a mere moment.

“Okay,” said Ladrian, “the situation seems to be under control for the time being. Everyone return to your work, it’s about time for tonight’s performance to start. I’ll handle this further.” Donny, you’re in charge of the lighting if I’m not back in time. Leo, you go report the incident to the Black Guard, if you will.” He pointed to the respective men in turn, then nodded towards the investigative technician. ”Raph, please tell Irine we’ve found the cause of the discrepancy between the ledger and our actual inventory. She doesn’t need to concern with it any further. She has plenty of grey hairs already.”

Raph moved to leave, but paused to open his mouth. Ladrian cut him off before he managed to produce more than a syllable. “I will deal with him, Raph. Don’t worry.”

Still scowling, but seemingly appeased, Raph followed the others out of the costume loft, but not before warning Oberan with a gesture that he’d be watching him. Oberan rolled his eyes.

With all the technicians finally gone, Ladrian expelled a deep, deep breath. His shoulders heaved, and he seemed to shrink a tad. “Right. As for the two of you. Always making trouble or getting into trouble… Where do I even begin?”

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 50, Arc 721

Things began happening very quickly at that point. There were many people in the costume loft, and most of them were asking questions she couldn't answer. No one, apparently, was going after the moron that had tried to assault her, and eventually, the focus turned to Oberan, who was now moaning and stirring under the rack.

Natalia considered jumping into the conversation, but something stopped her. No, best to stand back and see what would happen. Oberan was up to something, and if she got in the middle of it, there was a possibility that she might muck up whatever plan he had. Leaning back against the wall, she observed and listened.

And then the grand reveal – he had been faking all along! There was a weariness in the expressions of the group when he admitted it, but Natalia fought back a smile. It had been a good ruse, and if not for her ring and good sense, he might have pulled it off. Begrudgingly, she admitted that, for a moment, Oberan had fooled and scared her.

If he had waited a moment longer and not barreled on with his confession, she might have been able to extricate him from the situation, but that wasn't to be. The man required recognition for his dramatic interpretation, and when he didn't get it, things started to go downhill. It was only a matter of time before more serious questions were asked and Natalia wasn't in the mood.

The more immediate concern was the rumblings of others, drawing her into the theatrical performance of what had happened, simply by proximity and association. That drew her ire more than Oberan's tomfoolery, and the irony wasn't lost on her. She and Oberan were two entirely different people, and as much as he frustrated, irritated, confused, and downright ignored her very existence, Natalia was on his side. She could see things in him that others couldn't. Perhaps not even himself.

She was on his side. Well, at least until he called her 'the girl' again, and then all bets were off. Natalia was tired of being shoved to the side by everyone and disregarded. Underestimated. Now, she was on no one's side, just waiting for the right moment to display her wrath.

Ladrian dismissed everyone and began in on her and Oberan. Natalia would have been inclined to participate in the conversation had the man reasonably approached the situation. Unfortunately, he didn't, inadvertently stumbling upon a series of words that flamed her incredulity further.

"Always making trouble or getting into trouble?" Natalia's voice was even and cold, a far departure from the girl the man had come to know. She was keenly aware of what she said and how she said it, never rising to a shout. She leveled her intense gaze at Ladrian first, pushing off from the wall and entering the fray.

"I've done no such thing. All I'm guilty of is trying to do the right thing and bring a man who attacked a girl to justice and was sentenced to work here, during which time I've done everything asked of me. I did nothing to provoke tonight's attack, yet I'm 'making or getting into trouble'?"

For what it was worth, Ladrian tried to backtrack, unaware that his frustrated words would prompt such a response. "Sophia, I'm just trying my best to manage the situation…."

His response received a snort from her as she paced slowly in front of him. "Managing the situation? You've done a poor job at that. Want an example?" Without looking in Oberan's direction, the young woman pointed at him.

"Him. You and the others have spent half a season assigning him to jobs you know he won't like, just because you can. You shuffle him off here and there, and when he asks you for something more suitable to his talents, you all ignore him and call him a troublemaker without thinking about why he's messing with you all. He doesn't care about those types of jobs."

Ladrian was old enough to be her father, and perhaps she was using him as a surrogate for that moment. The target of her words just stood there, listening to her. It felt good to finally let loose and let people see her for who she really was.

Time had honed Natalia's innate discipline, so her voice never soared a smidge over normal conversational tones, but the intensity of the tone was unmistakable. "If you had bothered to listen to him and consider any of his ideas, he might have been able to make the Lamont some money with his talents. Isn't that why you are all here? No, don't give me that 'for the arts' bull. You can't continue to produce performances here if you don't make money, and if you haven't noticed, Etzos is something of a ghost town."

Bringing up the city's state was a risky move, but she was on a roll and didn't want to stop. "He's the best acrobat I've ever seen. The people here in the city want a vehicle to help escape thinking about their lives. Mix it up and do something other than the plays. Why not host a circus night or something, and let him help organize it? At the very least, let him do something he wants to. You might be surprised."

Oh. One more thing.

"For what it's worth, had it not been for him, I wouldn't have had a chance with the idiot that attacked me. Oberan distracted him with his act, giving me valuable time to work with until you all got here." There was truth to what she said, although Natalia framed it much more heroically than it deserved. A final gift to Oberan.

Ladrian went to open his mouth, presumably to respond, but Natalia cut him off sharply with her hand. "I'm done for the moment. In fact, I'm done for the night. I'm leaving."

Swiftly, she collected Apollo from the hiding spot Oberan had placed him in, grabbed her bag, and began walking out of the costume loft, only stopping briefly to address Oberan himself, voice no less stern. "I'm not 'the girl.' I have a name."

Without another word, she left the two men in her wake, trudging down the stairs and past a group of eavesdropping theatre workers at the base of the stairs. The gaggle of people gave her a wide berth, stepping back as she passed.

Making her way out of the Lamont, she turned and proceeded to head to the inn, wanting nothing more than a warm bath and sleep. Her anger at Ladrian was well-placed, but truthfully, she was more upset with Oberan. He treated her like an inconvenience – a bit player to his rising star – but he also reminded her a little of Grayson. Maybe that's why his antics didn't bother her as much as they seemed to everyone else. He and Grayson would get on fantastically well, given the chance.

It was only because her mind was cluttered with thoughts of the evening that she completely missed the fact that someone was following her. It wasn't until a hand reached for her shoulder, roughly turning her, that she realized her mistake, but by then, it was too late….

Too late for him, as it turned out. Natalia balled up her fist and slammed it into the face of, who else, the thug from earlier, who must have been waiting outside for her so they could resume their 'talk.' She had wanted an outlet for the pent up frustration, and the universe provided.

Caught completely by surprise, the punch made the thug fall back onto the ground, moaning in pain while Natalia sighed. "Are you kidding me? Really? Just waiting to accost me in the middle of the street? What was that going to gain you? Stupid!"

A few by-passers had seen the attempted attack and came to assist. Natalia waved off their concern for her, instructing the men to take him to the Lamont and ask for Ladrian - it was his problem now.

She was going home.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Of all the possible responses to Ladrian’s exasperated question, Sophia’s anger erupting like a one of Faldrun’s mountains wasn’t within his or Oberan’s expectations.

She kept it out of her voice, but her body language did all the talking. The muscles in her shoulders tense, the tendons in her neck taut. Poison in her gaze, and fury on her brow. Certainly, she didn’t scream or shout. Her voice raised only a tiniest bit. But her tone became beyond frigid, approaching temperatures cold enough to flash-freeze an open flame.

Not a noisy explosion of anger, no, but the even growl of a dog threatening to bite your throat wide open.

Though possessed of enough wit not to say anything, Oberan couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow witnessing the storm Sophia unleashed up Ladrian. Not in the least because the majority of her rant pertained to him and the way the Lamont had chosen to employ him.

Having someone complain about it on his behalf was… perplexing and odd, and Oberan didn’t know how to feel about that.

Yet, it seemed it didn’t make him exempt from being a target for her rage. He received but a handful scathing words, but those were more than plenty to make him raise a second eyebrow. Still, he said nothing in retaliation –though he really wanted to shoot a snide retort back.

Without further pause, she stomped off, leaving both Ladrian and Oberan by themselves in the costume loft.

“Well, you done fucked up,” Oberan finally said, letting his eyebrows descend. Ladrian looked like he wanted to protest, but then just shook his head and sighed instead. “She’s full of fire, isn’t she?” Oberan continued, the beginnings of a crooked grin tugging at one side of his mouth. “I didn’t think she had it in her. But she’s right, you know. You can’t fault the girl for attracting men with knives that want to stab her. She’s been a perfect little slave for you lot throughout the season, and then you hit her with such a grossly inaccurate accusatory statement? Tsk tsk.”

Ladrian’s mustache trembled, harsh lines etching themselves on his face. He clenched his fists, breathed deep and slow and deliberate. “You think this is funny? Is this some kind of joke to you? Lighthearted entertainment for you to enjoy?”

“Whatever do you mean?” came the innocent reply.

“Sophia’s just finished laying into me for your sake! Yours. Not for herself, for you. For whatever Mortie-damned reason, that’s the core issue.”

“Skewed sense of justice, perhaps. She is Scalvorian, so that tracks.”

“There were go again. All her anger comes pouring out, and there you are making light of it. Smirking and snickering like it doesn’t concern you. I don’t understand why she’d do that for you of all people. I could list a hundred people who’d be more deserving of such outburst on their behalf! All of them combined aren’t even one tenth as obnoxious as you—”

“Why, thank you!”

“—and yet, she got mad for how you’ve been treated? Which, I will point out, is a result of your behavior!”

“Honestly, Laddy, I don’t understand it either.” Oberan scratched his head, and picked the grime from underneath his nails directly after. “Must be my rugged charm. Or my roguish good looks. Perhaps the girl is infatuated with me. It’s not impossible, it’s happened before.”

“She. Has. A. Name.”

“I’m sure she does.” He nodded. “But I can only guess to what it might be.”

Faced with the continued callousness, Ladrian released a quivering breath, hands balled so sight his knuckles creaked. All of his face glowed red, and the intensity of his scowl could drill a hole in a boulder. And yet, Oberan seemed entirely unaffected. He shrugged it off like he’d been slicked with oil. He just stared right back, grinning ear to ear.

“Rotten little shitstain. It’s all a game to you, isn’t it? Getting under my skin, seeing how far you can push me?”

A shrug.

Taking a deep and calming breath, Ladrian turned, heading for the door. “People aren’t toys, and neither are their emotions. You’re acting like a fucking Mortie.”

Oberan’s grin wavered and fell.

“Clean up the mess you made. Put that costume back where you got it. I want this room spick and span. And use the time to think real hard about your behavior, and maybe clean up your act.”

“For the circus thing?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work. You know exactly what I mean. Clean up the loft. You’re not getting out until it’s done.” He closed the door behind him. Seconds later, the lock clicked, its mechanism engaged, snapping the latch in place.

As the sound of Ladrian’s boots distanced itself, the noise of someone yelling his name increased. A muffled grumble reached all the way through the door.

Oberan, for his part, stood with pursed lips and crossed arms. A vein pulsed near his temple. He paid it no mind. For some time he stared at the doorway, tapping a finger against his bicep.

Eventually, he shifted, taking in the chaos that was the costume loft. Heaps of discarded costumes, a fallen rack that was probably broken, and a large crimson puddle. He clicked his tongue.

“You forgot about the window, dumbass.”