A red headed man taller than any other in the crowd watched with baited breath as the curtains swung open and a fanfare declared the opening act’s commencement. The thousand-strong crowd cheered, fuelled by adulation and the honey beer poured freely from great casks rolled into the square by the palace guard. Behind him, the royal box, raised on reinforced stilts and containing a hundred of the most influential people in the city waved delicate silk fans and gasped politely to show their enthusiasm. At the centre, on a grandiose throne carved in sandalwood and covered in thick furs sat Queen Valeena Rodham. She was the only member of the esteemed audience to remain perfectly silent as the chandeliers burst aflame and a long, cloaked figure walked out to centre stage.

“Give ‘em hell,” the red head said under his breath.

He turned his attentions back to the crowd, keeping an eye peeled for pick pockets and vagabonds shirking their duties. Unbeknownst to most Rodham’s citizens, the Restless Fugitive troupe had less than host intentions in hosting grand performances like this. The younger members of the troupe learned the tentative first steps in the theatrical stage by improving their reflexes and improvisation skills at the hems of widows and deep pockets of oblivious merchants. He caught a glimpse of a rugged looking tom boy hands outstretched towards an open bread basket and rolled his eyes.

“It’s going to be a long night.” He balled his fists and weaved through the crowd towards her to stop her falling at the first hurdle. His scarred face and bare torso drew wanton glances, but they soon turned back to the stage as the cloaked figure pulled back his hood and revealed himself.