The Restless Fugitive (Closed)

[Duffy]

Part Five

Duffy had been a fool that day. He did not know how to put it any other way. He had acted honourably, but brashly. His deeds severed all ties between the organisations working in the shadows to undo all the many years of ruin and toil the Forgotten Ones had carved into history.

Nalith was dead.

Pete was alive.

Oblivion…was lingering in the shadows clad in a veil of souls and screams.

“I think we made a mistake,” Ruby said. “Not the mistake you’re thinking of.” She shook her head. “We did the right thing saving Peter. What we didn’t do, though, is make sure he was protected.” Ruby looked up at the stage longingly.

Time had frozen as the pair had remembered their struggles atop the blade singer’s tower. The sheer weight of their sorrow had caused life to come to a standstill. She admired the youth’s attractiveness, his smile, and his charisma. She looked at the others with equal admiration. Already, on their debut performance, that had everything she and Duffy had, and so much more.

“What do you think he is going to do, when he founds out?” she looked at Duffy expectantly.

“The same thing he did last time,” he said flatly. “Run away, hide, and disappear.”

She frowned. Peter had left the troupe a century ago, in another life, when they had tried to fight Wainwright’s corruption and break free of his chains. He had rebelled. He had vanished. He had died hungry, alone, and without his friends. It took the duo two decades to find his reincarnation. They had vowed never to let him come to harm again. They had defied all that was good in the world, and all that was good in them, to fulfil that promise.

“I don’t think we’ll find him again…if he does that.” She hung her head. “This is hopeless…” It was not just hopeless. For Ruby, it was her fault, as well as irredeemable.

“It seems that way.” Duffy looked up at Peter. He saw his youth and vigour smile back at him; He curled his lip and ran his tongue over his snakebites. “But…now, forgive me for sounding deranged,” he chuckled. It was the first time he had ever apologised for his outbursts, “but what happens if we don’t tell him?”

“Duffy…we have to let him make up his own mind. To let him go on thinking it’s all over is cruel.” Her eyes sparkled with realisation as much as tears. “What if we let this one last secret wither and die with us? Let us take it to the grave, let us bury it, and let us live our lives knowing that Pettigrew Orison is free to live his through our sacrifice.”

Duffy began to spiral on the spot. He took in the faces of the crowd slowly. There were contorted smiles, anguished belly laughs, and worried expressions. Plaid, leather, and cotton formed a patchwork of poverty and pomp, blending the culture and wealth of the populace into one living, breathing, and united wall of life. He sighed. He sighed too much.

“I cannot even begin to think what that pressure will do to me.”

“Oh, please, we’ve carried darker deeds and devilry for far longer!” she whelped. She was right. Duffy, turning around to smile at her slowly, knew it all too well.

“Some secrets would do more damage in than out…,” he leered.

Ruby puckered her lips. “What's your favourite memory of Pete...and the early days of the troupe, for that matter?" she asked.

[Duffy]

Six Years Ago

The dusty upper floor of the Golden Carmi used to be a grand ballroom. It had once been a resplendent mansion, the finest in the district. Whatever glory and splendour it once had was long gone now. As the district about it faded, and its occupants became bankrupt, or worse, the Golden Carmi slowly became the proving grounds of a group of bards and minstrels. Over the years, rooms changed, functions altered, and construction transformed it into the Tantalum’s hideout. They called it the Prima Vista.

The floors inside were ripped out to make a roughshod stage, balcony, and costume workshop. The great glass circular roof let the sun shine bright onto the stage, and cast an eerie glow into the room. There was no need for lightning in the day, even in the balcony or under croft. At night, when there were rehearsals, candles and cantrips cast a light icy glow across the dry wood and brittle floorboards. It creaked with an ‘undeniable charm’ as one of the senior thespians described it.

At noon, a young lad tinkering with a saw frame looked up at the clock. He sighed. He had woken long before dawn, and the time had flown by as he had busied himself with last minute preparations. Today was Lucian’s Call, the celebration of the founding of the troupe centuries ago. On this day, every year, for the last five hundred years the troupe put on a grand performance of their most famous play. The citizens of Scara Brae knew it like the back of their hand. I Want to Be Your Canary was a cult hit as far abroad as Raiaera, the elven heartlands, and Dheathain, the Fae kingdom.

In between rehearsing, he scribbled thoughts down on a piece of paper that was on the table next to his tools. Because of his constant inability to concentrate, the repair was far from perfect. Every time he stopped to whittle away a moment, the time he had left dwindled, and the tin of varnish on the table became more forgotten. He put down the saw and fleshed out the opening paragraph of a solo piece he was working on. He read it aloud when he finished.

“It is hard to hear yourself think sometimes but you get by. Although silence is something you wish might for, you rarely get it. You must learn to cherish those moments like gold, myrrh, and love. There is no greater moment of silence than the split second before you walk out onto the stage. Many of the greatest actors have said the anticipation of the performance is much greater than the deed itself.”

“Duffy?” A voice drifted into the stage room. The air reverberated and resonated with life. “Are you in here?” Duffy recognised the voice as belonging to Pete. He was a young, well-informed, and plucky scamp.

“Hey Pete, I’m up on the balcony fixin’ the screens, hop yoursen’ up here!” Duffy returned briefly to his thoughts. “Now where was I…,” he mumbled. “Ah yes the stage. Those few moments as you breathe in and out and try and remember your lines are worth all the trials and tribulations leading to the debut.”

A youthful smile popped into view over the ladder. His hair was dirty, his nose ran, and his clothes were grubby. “Hey, I’ve,” he grunted. He stopped to clamber onto the balcony. He was not quite able to step up off the last rung due to his diminutive stature.

Duffy made to help him, but dropped to his knees when Pete finally stood.

“I have got this letter for ya.” He held out the piece of paper, triumphant. “It is from Miss Ruby.”

“This can’t be good,” he sighed. He returned his quill to the inkpot and reached or the note. “Thank you kindly,” he smiled. He noticed the boy’s bloody knuckles. He had obviously been fighting with the other orphans again. “Now tell me, are you all set for this afternoon?”

“Sure is Duffy!” He grinned from ear to ear. “Everyone’s downstairs finishin’ off. The props are already over at the square. Can I have a cookie?” He prodded his nostrils and wiped it away on his sleeve.

“Sure you can, but only one mind.” He pursed his lips, pictured Ruby’s sour, motherly expression, and added an addendum. “But remember to wash yourself after. We can’t be ‘avin you looking’ like the tramp on Bakery Street now!” He stood upright, pressed his hands onto his hips, and looked the boy over head to toe.

Pete smiled excitedly. “By the stage’s honour!” he saluted.

[Duffy]

Duffy nodded. “Now off you trot. I’ll read this and be straight down. There isn’t long before we start our performance.” Duffy sighed and ranted to himself. It would be nice, for once, if I could get to actually finish writing a scene to a play in one quick swoop. He watched Pete scuttle back down the ladder hastily. It was surprising how quick he was when cookies were involved.

“Right then!” he clucked. He slapped his knees and stretched, to limber up. He left the closing lines behind, and recited the opening line of I Want to Be Your Canary.

“Princess...wilt thou be happy, married to a lowly peasant such as I?”

The stage room fell silent in reverence.

“So much consideration thou hast given it! But worry not!” He paused to mock embrace an unseen lover. He clearly remembered the stage direction that was very important for timing, if nothing else.

“Cast away thy trappings of royalty, and I shall swaddle thou in a gown of pure love! Never again will I part from thee! Pray, my love, make me thy canary to keep forever in the cage of thy bosom! Let us embark on the first ship tomorrow, before dawn can tell of our elopement!”

The lines that stuck into the minds of the populace belonged to Duffy. He had played the part of Marcus for centuries. Ruby as ever would play the Princess Cornelia. She was flawless with a memory as great as any of the city’s finest mages or scholars. It would be a true loss to the troupe when she retired to her ‘normal’ life. Satisfied with his preparation, he tore open the hastily scribbled note.

Dear Duffy,

I hope Pete gets this to you.
The little scamp stole a cookie so don’t let him have another!
I’ll be at the square at two.
Let’s give Lucian a send-off once again,

Ruby.

Duffy deposited the letter neatly into his pocket, leapt off the balcony with agile grace, and landed on the floor below in a plume of dust. It did not take long for him to traverse the flight of stairs that lead down into the lounge. It served as the meeting room and an entryway to the streets beyond.

“When I catch him, I’ll show him what for,” he grumbled. He could not believe he had fallen for the cookie swipe again.

The lounge was bustling with the sound and movement of fifteen members of the troupe. The big double doors on one wall, which lead out onto the main street remained closed. Two partitions erected in front of the street-facing windows, in which two mocked rooms lingered. Nobody could see what truly went on from the garden. The noise wall that hit Duffy was like the noise of a riotous crowd.

“Right then.” His words disappeared into the noise. “Can I have ever-.” He sighed, and then brought his hands together with a heavy clap. The bang got everyone’s attention. “Sorry to startle you all.” He glanced up at the old dusty clock above the front doors. “It’s midday, so, we’ve got ‘bout an hour before we start. Everyone is to be ready for then. All of you should have tattooed, painted or chalked on our troupe’s symbol.”

There was a chorus of stifled yes and sirs.

“I’m going over to the square to make sure the props on the roof of the inn are ready.”

Satisfied that he had gotten his point across, Duffy grabbed his belts from the cloak table, buckled up, and scooted out of the side door in full oratory swing.

“Not if I can help it! Now is my moment of vengeance! For my parents, and for my love, Cornelia…” He pulled a dagger from his belt and waved it with a zed shape through the air. As he danced out into the sunny street, he bellowed his favourite line from the play. “I shall cut thee down!”

[Duffy]

The square that connected Bakery, Lombard, and Holmsgrove Street was an understated venue for a play on the edges of the docklands. With the exception of once weekly markets, where stalls of all varieties would congregate here from the poorer trade districts to share their wares, only a fountain occupied it. If you departed the square via Lombard, the Olde Harbour Inn stood on the left, and a rickety apartment building on the right. From atop the apartment block, Duffy could see into the top floor of the Inn. He could make out distinct shadows rushing past the open windows.

Every year they adapted I Want To Be Your Canary to suit the modern day themes, and fit in recent events and trends. This year, the lunatics on the streets were portending a comet. There was more than likely absolutely no truth in it whatsoever, but a good troupe knew how to milk controversy. The front of the apartment building housed a great clock front. A hundred concentric gears turned, ticked, and chimed away day and night. He could feel the movements of the pendulum reverberating through the roof beneath him. He started to count the beats, waiting for the sign for the show to begin.

“Oh where are though, Cornelia, my Canary Grande, and my sweet riposte!” He recited a random line to break the monotony. He was most impatient, desperate to do anything other than stand about. A gentle breeze whipped up dust, and birds scattered from the sporadic trees on the edges of the square. The beating wings drowned out by the torrent of footfalls, conversations, and haggling.

Eventually, a little face appeared in the distant window. It waved a small blue flag with a faint white symbol on it. Duffy beamed a broad smile and stoop upright. He tensed his legs, stretched out his arms, and bounced once or twice for good measure.

“Well then Duffy!” he clucked. He broke into a run towards the drop. He brought his right foot up onto the ledge with too much force, and he leapt into the air with too much momentum. He landed with both feet on the end of the flagpole and, somewhat comically found himself sprawling through the air. He careened haphazard towards the opposite tavern higher, quicker, and more recklessly than he had planned.

The plan was to use the Tinder Gear to trail lingering flame in the air behind him. It was supposed to look like a comet’s tail. As soon as he brought his arms up, he felt awkward. He was descending far too quick, weighed down with the heavy flint gloves and fuel pipes. He ejected the liquid in a light spray, and just as he crash-landed onto the balcony, he let loose an almighty clap. With thunderous results, a single spark caught the vapour trail and flame licked up into the sky. If Duffy was upright at that point and not in the middle of a tumble across the floor, he would have heard the crowd scream with delight.

The troupe burst into a hive activity. They flung bags of flour off the balcony and out of the windows. They tossed bits of wood and cloth carefully, to avoid hitting anyone. It was all to give the impression that something had fallen and crashed into the inn. There was a lot of coughing and mock screaming and crashing from inside as the younger performers slammed chairs down onto the floorboards and ran riot.

Duffy finally came to his senses. He removed himself from a pile of dresses, scarves, and umbrella with a sheepish grin.

“That dint goes so well,” he chuckled. Only Ruby heard him, and she tried very hard to stifle her laughter. Her face was as bright red as her hair.

The silence outside drew them both very cautiously to the window. People all over the square had dropped whatever it was they were doing. They discarded fish, apple, book, and child (literally, from the faint crying at the back of the crowd). They slowly approached the dusty inn. The paranoia and curiosity was almost tangible in the air. They had waited months for this singular moment.

He twirled on one foot and pointed at a group to his left and to his right with dramatic flair. He waved them to the window. With some sort of wooden contraption they let loose two long blue tapestries, each equidistant of the inn’s entrance three floors down. A group on the roof tossed bucket after bucket of paper and cloth clippings, which came down like a rainbow’s glow, and the doors of the inn burst open in unison. Pete and his young friends came skipping, jumping, and speeding out into the sun.

“Ready guvnor!” the youth clucked. He flailed his arms around, commanding his motley crew with gusto.

They pulled the tables of the inn together by the steps, and a great cloth hanging dropped down behind them. In seconds, the inn was now a castle front, adorned with the banner of the Tantalum. When the orphans finished moving the tables into a makeshift stage, they produced fake bushes, trees, and props from nowhere to set the scene.

The crowd stood, stunned to silence, and unable to look away.

Duffy turned to Ruby and smiled at her with his cheeky little smile. “So, my Lady Cornelia, shall we?” He held out his hand. With a hefty tug, she pulled him out of the window into a combined slide down a rope ladder. It was as good as a yes as he was going to get.

Nobody seemed to recognise them as they landed with their backs to the crowd. As she put on a crown of a dubious nature, and he withdrew a dagger and held it aloft, they began whispering. Then two trumpets appeared in the windows of the ‘castle,’ and began to play the Scara Brae waltz. Duffy turned, dropped on one knee, and muttered the immortal line that opened their greatest work….

“I want to be your canary!”

The wave of cheers and applause drowned out the hubbub of the docklands. The news quickly spread across the city that the Tantalum where afoot.

[Duffy]

Back in the sanctuary of the Prima Vista, Duffy considered all that had transpired. After every performance, he was ecstatically happy, but it always came with equal sadness that it ended. The smiles and cheers on the faces of the audience square had lasted for almost an hour; right up until the guards came to break it all up. The cries of ‘stop, thief!’ had been accurate, given that the younger troupe members had been cutting purses during the second act.

The noise of celebration and laughter rose through the floorboards from below. Duffy had slipped upstairs to sit on the edge of the stage, to be on his own, and to get filthy drunk in peace. He kicked his heels against the backboard with his back flat on the dusty stage edge. He looked up and out through the great glass dome that resembled the sun at midday - the zenith of nature. As far as he was concerned, it looked like a very badly designed pentagon, with crooked edges, and a serious need for refurbishment.

“One day we’ll be able to fix it,” he sighed. He played with his locks, continued to kick a rhythm on the wood, and drank awkwardly from a simple wine goblet. He barely tasted the claret after a fifth glass.

They had obtained about five gold worth of coppers and coins in donations from the crowd during the performance, and another couple of pieces from the purses they had snipped. The crowd was not particularly wealthy, and Duffy was strict they only took from those that looked like they would not miss it. It was very hard to be cross at such cute little things, snotty noses and all.

The spoils would feed the troupe for a day or two. Whatever food the money brought, the troupe earnestly made do. That sort of communal ethic that a troupe needed to survive became part of the Tantalum from the very first day. Lucian had seen to that.

“Oh Lucian…,” Duffy said aloud. He gazed upwards, as though asking the stars for answers. “What am I doing wrong? Why can’t we be as great now as you were then…?”

Ruby listened to Duffy’s dreams unveil themselves. She heard of the streets, the doubts, and the insecurities. She heard of the laughter and joy caring for the troupe gave him. She heard him speak of how he would do anything to keep them together in love, art and romance. She the same passions, as had the Tantalum’s entire list of masters over the centuries.

“His flawless lines, perfect recollection, and charm inspire me. He was the very example of a modern gentleman…” With a long drawn out sigh his feet rose one last time and dropped with a bang before falling still.

“Oh now, Duffy…” Her voice whispered softly into the room from the darkness. She chuckled as he jumped, rolled off the stage, and crashed in a defeated heap. “Everything you and the Tantalum stand for comes to life on the stage. Everything you dream about comes alive in the words you weave, and the songs you sing. You must keep those dreams alive…one day; you will be as great as Lucian, if not greater.”

“What codswallop!” he snapped, perhaps a little prematurely. He said it a little louder than he intended. The playhouse became deathly silence. The bard rose perplexed, but quickly realised to whom the voice belonged.

“Ruby, is that you?” He mustered his pride with a meek question, scratched his head, and began to dust himself down.

“What the fuck does codswallop mean?” She stepped out from behind the changing screen. She was wearing a short white ruffled skirt, a taught brown brassiere, and a plethora of beads. Bangles and ribbons wrapped together the strands of her crimson hair into neat plaits.

He stared at her wistfully, trying to place what play she was supposed to be dressed as. From what Duffy could remember, she appeared to be Esmeralda, from the comic play Love, Drugs, and Dancing. It was a gypsy love story set in the early days of the island’s capital.

“I…,” he began, but trailed off without a defence. He shot her a glare in contempt.

“A fantasy is only in your imagination Monkey Man.” She never called him that unless she was very disappointed with him. “A fantasy is something you make happen, a dream that might seem far too unrealistic.” Her quick feet carried her towards the stage with rhythmic, fluid motion. She rotated and blew a heated kiss.

The fiery gesture struck him square on the forehead, and sent pain across his body.

[Duffy]

The Next Day

“Oh my days,” grumbled a slumbering drunk.

The ripe bard woke with a start to find he had fallen asleep on the end of the stage. His feet hung over the edge, and a spilt goblet of cheap market wine dripped through the cracks of the upstairs floor next to him. He felt bad. He felt very bad. Not the guilty sort of bad you got when you dirtied your Sunday best a moment before going to temple. Not the bad you got when you did something you knew you should not. It was the bad the morning after a very heavy night’s celebrations type of bad.

“I am never again drinking, never!”

He flashbacked to the day before, and remembered that it had been Lucian’s Call. The performance, the boisterous crowd’s cheers, and everything else merged into one very painful throb. He snapped out of it when he heard the immestakible sound of stiletto footsteps.

“Well, good morning sleepy head!”

It was Lissa, the troupe’s Mistress of Piano. She was a talented, all-round musician, and far better than anyone with a needle and thread. Costume designer, conductor, and this morning, from the contents of her outstretched hand, she was now a matron to fools.

“Urgh…,” he grumbled. He snatched the fizzing tonic from her and downed it thirstily. It tasted foul, but it would set him right in no time at all. She chuckled at his groans. “What…what’d do?”

“Well, according to the rumours you, Ruby, and Jack…” She paused to count. “I think the Conley Brothers were there too. You stayed up much later than everyone else did. You took it upon yourselves to drink the week’s supply of wine, beer, and Cordon Rum!” She hopped onto the side of the stage and began to hit the wood with her halls enthusiastically loud. “Miss Ruby said you were singing Lucian’s Aria…can you remember?”

Duffy could not. Duffy could not remember that he was Duffy, never mind complicated Tradespeak verses. Now that she had filled him in, the blanks between the end of the play and the morning after were starting to reform. He did not feel too bad, but guilt did terrible things to your bowels.

“Thank god tis only once a yer,” he mumbled.

He propped himself upright and slid besides Lissa. Of the entire troupe, she was the closest to him besides Ruby. They had a mutual and bittersweet rivalry. It suited her fine, and him.

“Drink this.” She picked up the glass with a delicate hand and held it out. It refilled magically.

“More?” he sighed. He took it from her and continued his medication. It tasted worse the second time.

As he slowly glugged down the contents she recounted further tales of the night’s revelries. Ruby had done a fire dance, right over in the corner in the shadows as Esmeralda. It had gone well until a lick of flame caught the red ‘sunset’ curtain and the entire semi-inebriated troupe sprang into action to douse it with water, petty cantrips, and desperate cries. Now that she mentioned it, his nostrils did smell of smoke.

It tasted foul, but it made him feel better very quickly, “I’m not even g’na ask what’s in it…” She took the glass back and shook her head. “B’what time is it?”

“About eleven o’clock...it’s also Saturday…”

Duffy’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

“Is it really Saturday?”

“Yes…,” Laverne said very sincerely, with just the right tone Duffy needed to realise he was in trouble.

“Saturday…”

Saturday was matinee day. It was also the first Saturday after Lucian’s Call. Which meant it was the day the troupe performed a new creation for the first time. A creation Duffy had not had the time to finish…

He began to recite the lines he had been scribbling the day before, on the balcony, before Pete had interrupted his train of thought.

“It’s hard to hear yourself think sometimes, but you get by. Although silence is something you wish for, you rarely get it, so learn to cherish those moments like gold, myrrh, miracles and love. There is no such greater moment of silence than the split second before you walk out onto the stage, the anticipation of performing, the greatest playwrights of the age have all universally said, is much greater than the deed itself.”

He ran out of the room to find his books, not sure where his feet were going, but going there anyway. No matter how bad he felt, the show must go on! He had never improvised two whole acts before…

[Duffy]

The bard finished reading his soliloquy with a cough. Duffy looked over his shoulder at the buxom lass who was adjusting her breeches and raised an eyebrow. “Did that sound okay to you? Or should I give you a minute…”

Ruby smiled and stomped her foot, satisfied that she was ready to brave the outside world. “It’s fine, blunt and feisty, your usual mode of address - but do you think leaving Luther with the reigns is better? I mean...there’s, you know…me?”

With a succinct hint of irony, Duffy bowed as if to obey her thinly veiled command. “Sorry m’lady Rube, but you’ve given up the title and you’ve a loving husband and,” he jabbed a finger at her still remarkably toned stomach.

“Well I’m pleased you decided to waylay your plans to go abroad until after the first performance of your play. Lysander’s Flock will be a flourishing success and you can leave in a flurry of excitement not seen since Petra lost her knickers during the chorus of how’s Your Father. I don’t think she could top it if she tried!”

The dusty sun kissed atmosphere of the Prima Vista’s upper floor set an idyllic scene. They looked around in silence for a moment, wistful and remembering the yesterday.

“Yeah…those were the good old times. I hope that she will decide to bury her shame and take up her own handle. Saying that, she is not exactly disappeared considering she said and I quote. ‘I ain’t never any coming near you lot ‘gain!’” He chuckled and tossed a scarf at Ruby, who quickly knotted it around her wrist and let it dangle. Her dress was torn, smattered with dust, and held up by braces. Her corset was a good deal too small for her.

“The whalebone princess was an inspired idea Duffy but I can’t help but feel you’re dressing me up like a lamb for slaughter. There might be children in the audience!”

He raised his eyebrow up with a puzzled look. “Ruby, since when did that matter? You are dressed for battle, not for a night out on Salas Avenue. In fact, you are underdressed for the role. Now do me a favour.” He made a mock spinning top in the air. “Twirl thine spirited backside about so I can have a gander. I don’t want any safety pins giving you grief mid-way through a line!”

When she stopped spinning, Duffy nodded in appreciation at the quality of their costumes. Lissa had outdone herself again.

“Will though now come with me to the battle field, to behold and hold dearly the angels of the gods and their entire ghostly ilk?” The bombastic increment and posh accent he put on made Ruby giggle. “Halt, have I offended thee mistress of beauty?

“Duffy! Stoppit, we aren’t on stage now. If you ‘aren’t to your lines this close to curtain’s rise I suggest you take up fishery.” She rested her hands on her hips and sighed. She shook her head, a gesture to which Duffy stuck his tongue out in response.

“Oh alrigh’,” he goaded.

“Come’n, let’s get downstairs and help load up the wagon.” She bowed and skipped out of the room. Her clogs clapped a mock applause as she went.

The troupe was his charge, and he had to do anything to ensure its name, players, and honour were kept alive in the songs they sung, the plays they wrote, and through their many sacrifices.

He liked how things were turning out, how things were happening. He drew the sword from the stone at the centre of the stage and sheathed it under his belt. It would serve in an epic battle between Lysander and Lyons, his brother at arms and treacherous devil.

“No going back now, as they say,” he said. He left the sun kissed borderline between stage and living quarters, and took to singing Lucian’s Aria loud enough to calm his nerves as he ran down the stairs.

[Pettigrew]

Epilogue

Five hundred and thirty six year ago, the Forgotten One Oblivion began to grow paranoid. Seeing himself vulnerable to the power hungry advances of his siblings, he swaddled himself in the secrets of the Tap, and devised a method of overcoming his mortal weaknesses, and his rival’s desire to become more and more powerful.

He wrote of five siblings.

He wrote of a bard, so jubilant and enthusiastic about the stage that he embodied the arts themselves.

He wrote of a singer, whose voice could quell rebellion and inspire euphoria.

He wrote of a young brother, whose sense of fun always brought a smile to the darkest of times.

He wrote of a tailor, who could stitch life into fabric and make simple cloth arm, armour, and art all at once.

Finally, he wrote of a swordsman, who pledged to defend the rights of the populous to enjoy the arts, and the life of the thespian, until the end of days.

They were given names, which have been lost to time, resurrection, and war.

Now, they are Duffy Bracken, Ruby Winchester, Arden Janelle, Lillith Kazumi, and Pettigrew Jones.

“Hang on a minute,” Pettigrew mumbled. He closed the book with a thud. Its dusty pages shed a cloud of dust, which smelt of old cellars and decay. “You’re trying to tell me I’m like you?”

Duffy watched the boy’s eyebrow rise, and smiled. He saw the same curious spark in Pettigrew that he once had.

“That is precisely what I am saying. You are the fifth member of the troupe, and in turn, the fifth shard of the Forgotten One called Oblivion.” Duffy would have gone into detail about the Forgotten Ones, but he did not wish to overwhelm his friend with the menagerie of tales, legends, and nightmarish stories that went with the history.

“So why didn’t you tell me before now?”

It was a genuine enough question. Pettigrew had every right to ask it.

Duffy hung his head. Ruby pressed her hand onto his shoulder, and got his attention with a warm smile. They had struggled for days about wherever or not they should tell him about his true nature. At first, they had agreed to stay silent. They thought it best to seal away one of their last weaknesses, in case Oblivion ever showed his face and tried to regain his strength.

“We tried to, we really did.” They really had. “But it was not until Lillith told us about what she saw that night, three years ago, that made us think you’re ready for the responsibility.”

There was an awkward silence, which swallowed all their pride and confidence, and left the chamber dark, tense, and humid. They had withdrawn into the depths of Castle Brandybuck, to the old Rectory, to impart the news. The roaring fireplace roared triumphant, and the dancing lights, red, yellow, and gold, reflected across their elaborate garb and dinner accruements.

“Three years ago,” Pettigrew mused. He set his knife and fork down onto his plate, and pressed his palms together to keen his thoughts. “You’ll have to remind me.”

The youth watched the duo look at one another, and seemingly communicate in hushed tones and whispers. He curled his lips. He hated it when they did that. He had never had any sort of bond as strong as they had, not with anyone.

“Three years ago…” Duffy turned back to the boy as he spoke. “You fought with us against the fragment of N’Jal. It was the very same episode that you used in your play.” He nodded with his own personal line of thought. “When I saw Nemo, and what he was doing, it made me realise how much of an impact that had on your life.”

“That’s because I enjoyed being with you, with the troupe, and everything we went through just to survive.” Pettigrew’s voice fell flat, bitter, and resentful.

Ruby sighed. “Look,” she snapped. “Whatever the reason, we did not tell you before now because we thought it best. Obviously we were wrong.” She cut through a boiled potato with etitquite abandoned, and slipped it between her lips before the cheese and parsley sauce dripped down her bodice.

Pettigrew chuckled. He shook his head. He picked up his cutlery and resumed his carnal dismantling of the three tiered steak and mushroom risotto he had chosen from the elaborate menu on offer in the castle. He had no idea Duffy and Ruby had cooked it themselves. He never would.

“What’s so funny?” Duffy asked politely. He picked up his goblet and drained it. The cheap Riesling rinsed the peppercorns from his teeth.

Pettigrew glanced up from his meal, flashed a smile, and then dropped his head again. With a noisy slurp, he retorted. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just don’t often hear the great Lady Winchester admit she was wrong.”

Duffy scoffed, but stopped short of laughter when Ruby jabbed him with a fork.

“That said,” Ruby snapped, eager to get to the desert course, “I think it is high time we all moved on.” She picked up her glass, and downed its contents. She set the crystal onto the tablecloth, and cleared her throat. “It’s time we stopped being fugitives to our past, and we wish you and your troupe all success in the future.”

In the humid dining room, in toast of dead elves, gods, and possibilities, the trio raised their fists to the candlelight.

“To Tantalus,” Duffy pledged.

“To Leopold,” Ruby offered.

Pettigrew shook his first when it was his turn, and said the first thing that came to mind that meant the most to him in the world.

“To the Fugitive,” he said meekly, and somehow, all the drama of the last week felt like nothing, compared to what now lay ahead for the brackish youth. He did not have to run anymore.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Plot ~ 24/30

Story ~ 9/10 – I have found this story to be an excellent way of wrapping up a well done arc of stories. It answers some questions, leaves more behind, and ties a nice knot in the characters that gives end to one play, but opens the curtains to a new performance. The characters have shown their age well in the first part of the story, and the recalling of events to the present was nicely done through the lenses of a play.

Setting ~ 8/10 – You have never left me wanting for Scenery in a story sir, but this is also a judgment to improve your scores as a whole. I could go over the same things I say daily, but in the end, the new shall prevail: It’s time to change it up. More evocative use of the scene is needed to make it come alive. I give this to you as a challenge, so fear not, I know you will rise to the occasion.

Pacing ~ 7/10 – The scene changes in the play were well done, but the pacing at the beginning was the masterfully shown art of it all. Part one is your polished work Duffy, and the remaining parts didn’t have as bright an opportunity as they did before. Perhaps it was when you went back into the past that through the wrench in this, but it’s a simple matter to fix. More practice sir.

Character ~ 26/30

Communication ~ 9/10 – Expertly done! Expertly sir! The witty banter, the serious monologues, the soul searching thoughts, all of this lent well to the stories strengths, and none of it’s falls. You brought each character their own, private voice and for once, sir Duffy, their was no one’s voice I heard twice. Every character, npc or otherwise, was heard in their own distinct fashion. Bravo

Action ~ 8/10 – This is a masterful piece of working action, with the heavy handed, but entirely fitting chat between hero and foil, and the battles height and lulls. Nothing was left to chance and the only reason I didn’t give this a 9 is because…well frankly sometimes it did get a bit confusing. This goes into your pacing, and while your scenes transitions are important, so is the flow of battle.

Persona ~ 9/10 – As I said earlier, every character has their own voice, and every character used it. There was no mixing of who was who, and each one did a magnificent job coming through to shine.

Prose ~ 23/30

Mechanics ~ 8/10 – There were errors, of course, but so far and few between that it shows you put the energy into fixing this up.

Clarity~ 7/10 – The issue here is the fact that sometimes you get so wrapped up in your plot and action that the reader has a tendency to stop and say, “Duffy what the hell.” It’s a sickness I am afflicted with as well. The stream of thoughts pour forth from our fingers and we think it makes perfect sense. Why not? We’re the authors after all. We even go back and read it after writing it, seeing it in our eyes and still not finding the problems inherit with it. You need to return to your scenes days later, come back, look, and see it all in a fresh light. It may help. Otherwise, disassociate yourself with your story, come back later and read it, and find those nasty errors.

Technique ~ 8/10 – Your use of many different writing techniques show that you’re grasping more and more of them, and using them correctly. While Dirks may always disagree that anything that isn’t law abiding correct is crap, I find your personal twist on old favorites keeps it fresh and exciting. Well done.

Wildcard – You have grown, Duffy. Your writing is reflecting an older, more mature group of immature jack-offs. They have become whole, and it’s illusions do not hide any of the joy you have with these characters. You’re getting better with every story I read, and the only way you’ll be going down is if you forget to check yourself for ego and proof-read. Otherwise, you’re doing just fine.

8/10
Total ~ 81/100

This thread will be nominated for a Judges Choice. In the meantime, EXP will be distributed once an official answer is given.

[Lye]

Congratulations on making Judge's Choice!

Your EXP is:

10,660 EXP for Tantalus!
125 EXP for Pettigrew!

Your Gold is:

775 GP for Tantalus!
17GP for Pettigrew!