The green room was ornately decorated, and massive for its type - it was more a lounge all its own than the simple backstage room that other theatres had, and for good reason - he'd demanded it that way. It was his, now, after all. His troupe had been giving command performances for nearly a decade now, and while he was rather older than when he'd first left the flock behind, his energy remained, his skill with voice and fingers lingered, and his dreams were no less vibrant now that they were real, and tangible, and partially in the form of his own performance hall, rather than rolling fancies just before daybreak.
He inclined forward in the ornate leather chair; it was a unique design crafted for him by one of his longtime companions and, once-upon-a-time, his employer, back when he made ends meet by guarding scholars and diggers with bowskills instead of lyrics. He liked the chair - it still reminded him of her. Yet, the arms draped across his back were not hers, but those of a pale, red-haired Roegadyn; the lass was sculpted well but petite for her kind, yet that simply put her at eye level, when standing, to the seasoned bard, and that made her everything that could still stir him after so many cycles on the road. Of course, the similarly well-rounded and dark-skinned Keeper Miqo'te at his right hand - his master stage technician and handywoman - occupied just as high an opinion in his mind, and while in his youth, he had been rather mistrustful of their race, it had taken only the good will and affections of a few of them for him to overcome that early prejudice, and find delights in their kind as he did with the taller races' women.
Yet his attentions were more focused, now, at the newest pledge to the troupe before him, a leggy lass with big dreams of her own, a big heart, and even bigger... need to work on her poise, if truth be told.
"A little to the left, love - stand where we marked, now turn... Twelve, you're a lovely one, yes, but if you slump like that, you look bored, and what do I keep telling you?"
The raven-haired girl, of tall Midland stock and lithe form, put her finger in her mouth, letting her form go nearly limp in place, obviously using the Little Girl tactic in her defense. Clever, he thought, but as cliche'd as the rest of you.
"Enthusiasm, my dear, enthusiasm!" He lifted a finger. "When you are before the audience, you are their everything. You are all twelve gods at once, you are their dreams made flesh, you are the epitome' of desire and delight. Everything about you must convey that, meld it, twist it, make it your own, and mold it into the show! If any part of you is bored, or unengaged, then you are committing the worst sin of our craft - you are reminding the viewers that you are a mere person, love, and while that is what we are off the stage, when you stand up there, you have -got- to put your entire will into making sure that Menphina herself would turn green with envy at seeing you. Do you understand?"
The winsome girl nodded, bobbing her long raven hair, and adjusted her pose, taking in a breath and holding it.
He'd seen the performance enough times for his attention to drift, and whispered up to the Roe above him.
"Have the Second String monitor the rehearsals tomorrow, love, and pack your things, especially your harp and that fetching cobalt blue ensemble of yours. We're taking another walkabout, while you and I still have the youth and drive to enjoy every...little...part of it. Baderon's reserved us a room for when we're done." He punctuated the last few words with a trio of soft caresses to her cheek.
The rakish Roe winked, and sashayed off to find the troupe's second-in-command.
Nathan himself took a moment to let his gaze linger on the old, worn but still flamboyant hat that hung over the green room's door. It was not his; it had belonged to a woman long lost, who would be eternally older than he, yet whose memory kept him young and whose example had made him what he was - a showman, to the end. His voice was but a whisper among the steps of the midland girl's rehearsal dance.
"You'll always be the First String, ma'am. I only hope I have been a worthy steward. Say hello to mother for me."
He inclined forward in the ornate leather chair; it was a unique design crafted for him by one of his longtime companions and, once-upon-a-time, his employer, back when he made ends meet by guarding scholars and diggers with bowskills instead of lyrics. He liked the chair - it still reminded him of her. Yet, the arms draped across his back were not hers, but those of a pale, red-haired Roegadyn; the lass was sculpted well but petite for her kind, yet that simply put her at eye level, when standing, to the seasoned bard, and that made her everything that could still stir him after so many cycles on the road. Of course, the similarly well-rounded and dark-skinned Keeper Miqo'te at his right hand - his master stage technician and handywoman - occupied just as high an opinion in his mind, and while in his youth, he had been rather mistrustful of their race, it had taken only the good will and affections of a few of them for him to overcome that early prejudice, and find delights in their kind as he did with the taller races' women.
Yet his attentions were more focused, now, at the newest pledge to the troupe before him, a leggy lass with big dreams of her own, a big heart, and even bigger... need to work on her poise, if truth be told.
"A little to the left, love - stand where we marked, now turn... Twelve, you're a lovely one, yes, but if you slump like that, you look bored, and what do I keep telling you?"
The raven-haired girl, of tall Midland stock and lithe form, put her finger in her mouth, letting her form go nearly limp in place, obviously using the Little Girl tactic in her defense. Clever, he thought, but as cliche'd as the rest of you.
"Enthusiasm, my dear, enthusiasm!" He lifted a finger. "When you are before the audience, you are their everything. You are all twelve gods at once, you are their dreams made flesh, you are the epitome' of desire and delight. Everything about you must convey that, meld it, twist it, make it your own, and mold it into the show! If any part of you is bored, or unengaged, then you are committing the worst sin of our craft - you are reminding the viewers that you are a mere person, love, and while that is what we are off the stage, when you stand up there, you have -got- to put your entire will into making sure that Menphina herself would turn green with envy at seeing you. Do you understand?"
The winsome girl nodded, bobbing her long raven hair, and adjusted her pose, taking in a breath and holding it.
He'd seen the performance enough times for his attention to drift, and whispered up to the Roe above him.
"Have the Second String monitor the rehearsals tomorrow, love, and pack your things, especially your harp and that fetching cobalt blue ensemble of yours. We're taking another walkabout, while you and I still have the youth and drive to enjoy every...little...part of it. Baderon's reserved us a room for when we're done." He punctuated the last few words with a trio of soft caresses to her cheek.
The rakish Roe winked, and sashayed off to find the troupe's second-in-command.
Nathan himself took a moment to let his gaze linger on the old, worn but still flamboyant hat that hung over the green room's door. It was not his; it had belonged to a woman long lost, who would be eternally older than he, yet whose memory kept him young and whose example had made him what he was - a showman, to the end. His voice was but a whisper among the steps of the midland girl's rehearsal dance.
"You'll always be the First String, ma'am. I only hope I have been a worthy steward. Say hello to mother for me."
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."
![[Image: 3610850.jpg]](http://assets-cloud.enjin.com/users/1266293/pics/original/3610850.jpg)
