Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

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?”

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.

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.

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?”

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.”