Some Time Later

Five friends, siblings, colleagues stood on the edge of a snowy square. A black-haired bard free of his burdens. A red headed matriarch with love rekindled. A silent swordsman ever watchful. A seamstress with the fire of home in her heart and a soldier still fighting the long war. For the first time in an age they gathered peacefully, no arguments and no worries besides those of the stage. The late afternoon slowly turned to dusk and the city they called home wound down from its hustle and bustle. Winter in Scara Brae felt more cathartic than usual.

No winds danced through its streets. No markets lined the avenues and boulevards, and no threat of war played on the minds of its citizens. This was the home they all remembered. It was the sanctuary they had fought so hard to preserve. At the helm, Duffy Bracken buttoned up his overcoat and turned up his collar as the temperature began to drop.

“I’m surprised I remembered my lines.”

“That’s what that debacle was?” Ruby raised an eyebrow.

“Well. Most of them anyway.”

“I think we can forgive a momentary lapse in your recall given it’s been forty years since we performed our coup de gras.” Ruby touched the feather in her hair and let the bridling strength of the Old God in her soul wash over her. Unlike Duffy, the snow was not an excuse to look anything except ravishing in red silk and leather doublet.

“It’s not a competition, we’re all rusty.” Lilith gave her sister a look and put her in her place. “Your dancing is as stale as Duffy’s delivery.”

“Alright, alright. I was just saying,” she replied defensively.

They had practiced for weeks in the sawdust smothered playhouse they had built in the ruins of the Prima Vista. Though their new home lacked the stained-glass dome of its predecessor, The Orlouge proudly displayed its purpose to the city, the need for secrecy abandoned and the pride of thespians painted onto the sign above the entrance for all to see.

“The real question is why we have to put all this effort in to freeze our tits off in the middle of winter.” Despite spending a lifetime in Berevar’s tundra, Leopold had grown too used to the warmer climate of the south. He wore a battered black overcoat and thick woollen jumper, but still felt the cold stiffen his joints.

“Sod the cold. Why did I give up a cracking pair of tits and thighs for this?” She gestured at her former self, and then to the peaceful Market Square.

“The Last Song.” Duffy said it softly, as though he expected them all to know what it meant without exposition. He hoped they did. It was the principle on which the Tantalum Troupe was founded six centuries prior. “The first great work of Wainwright Jones.”

“A song which can unweave the fabric of reality, re-write time, and kill even gods couldn’t have cut a girl a break?” She dropped her hands to her sides, only just realising how disappointed and frustrated she was. “We’ve gone from leading men and women of the world stage to rosy cheeked toddlers barely able to throw together three Acts.”