“Ever yet he dogs my steps. Past the sea he hounds me. He tasks me. He tasks me, but I will have him!”
A mirthless chuckle left Farrival’s mouth unbidden.
Uh oh.
OK, don’t panic. Let’s just perform a check in. Farrival stretched, then grounded himself. He paid attention to his body, the emotions he was experiencing and where they physically manifested. Then he checked in:
Muttering to yourself? Yes, but everyone does that.
Isolated? A little, but only because I wandered away from the people
because they were staring at me because I was muttering
to myself.
Come back to that one.
Was the chuckle normal,
half-mad, or quite insane? Only half-mad.
Oh, well then, you’re probably fine.
Farrival stood in a patch of open ground, surrounded by the ramshackle edifices of Kas Selvess. The troupe had come here for answers to the latest mystery, but found themselves called upon to render aid. Easily done and willingly given, the troupe then remained for a few days before setting out for the capital where they would join the story already in progress.
Farrival took in his surroundings. His last clear memory was helping with some carpentry, using illusions to envision repairs and the like. Now he stood in an interior park, a grassy area protected by the surrounding buildings. Ah, right, Atreya “Ryea” Thaorifeth was making good her promise to train the Tabaxi tyke troops. Whenever the kits’ muscles flagged, Farrival used his Stage Hand to help them hold their pikes and swords in proper position so they could learn the basics. He’d been casting and re-casting Stage Hand reflexively for who knows how long.
The kits were long gone now, enthralled in a sparring display by Reya and Gannet Del Mar.
It was exhilarating to have another performer in the adventuring troupe again! Joining Mr. Del Mar with the shipboard drag performances was revitalizing. It had been so long since he took up a new performance style, not counting his new roguish pursuits. In his varied career, Farrival had not previously performed drag per se.
In his mind’s eye he saw himself as a child, playing in a park not unlike this one.
“Out dam–” he remembered his mother, “–uh, darned spot! Out I say!”
It was his first staging of the Orcish Play. His parents wouldn’t fund a full staging, even though it was just a one-boy production. So he’d performed the full play in bits and pieces over the summer. Finally, he got to Lady Orcbeth’s famed monologue. It seemed only natural to him to dress as the stage notes suggested – sans the jewels, of course. No room in the budget.
To his shame, he wasn’t off script yet. It was a lot for an early reader.
The boys came out of nowhere, with their jeers. When they started to dance around him, Farrival had hoped they were joining him, answering his casting call.
“Ha ha! Farry’s doing it again! He’s in a skirt!”
“The Skirt! The Skirt!"
"The Skirt! The Skirt"
"The Skirt! The Skirt”
Eventually, the boys agreed on a cadence. They grew marginally more creative, devising a rudimentary sing-song chant.
The name stuck for a while. “The Skirt.” But it only ever confused Farrival. He knew they were trying to insult him, but for the life of him he couldn’t find the shame in it. And so the insult never reached the sticking-place of his soul. He was grateful for that.
"Hm," he mused aloud, "Veralta Le Joupe. Is that where the name came from?" The name Farrival had used in his drag performance. He thought he'd created it impromptu. Perhaps
Lost in reverie. Occupational hazard, I suppose.
Again, Farrival collected himself. There was still daylight to burn. No time for Renaud Gadbois nor ancient history. He flexed his hand, briefly making the glove visible. Then he Prestidigitated a fine pair of opera glasses with which to scout the village, looking for more tasks to which he could lend aid.