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"I'm an actor, for my sins, Will," Marten says, giving the young man a rueful smile. "But I've been told I can hold a tune, too. You'll be able to make your own judgement of my skills at the party tomorrow." He pauses to knock back the remainder of his wine, and quickly order a bottle. "How about you? Any interests outside ancient artefacts?"
"Me, Milady?" Marten says, a slight smile on his face. "No, I'm afraid not - though I did play Octavius Quillt once, in a show called Demon Chaser, based on the Chronicles. If even half the stories in those books are true, it must be quite an exciting life! Mayhap Will and Mal can tell us more?" He catches the eye of a server and orders a glass of the wine that the lady is drinking. Turning back to the table, he winces a little, his hand going to his side. "Ah - that goblin caught me with quite a nasty blow," Marten says, by way of explanation. "I'm lucky I put my hauberk on before I came out, or else I'd probably be lying in the street with that dog! But you got a lot worse, it seems, milady. And finished the blighter off with a dagger before I could talk him down! You certainly know how to take care of yourself in a scrap."
Marten looks up at the clean-cut young wizard, shifting a little in his seat. "Ah, you knew the Old Man, did you?" he says. "I'm sure he wouldn't approve of you traipsing around out here, getting your boots muddy, when you could be holed up in the library cross-referencing some papers."
"It's a distinct pleasure to join you, Ferdinand," Marten says, pulling up a chair and tossing his hat onto the table. "Is that what you like to be called - Ferdinand? You seem to be a bit of a regular here - what can you recommend to drink? Do they have a decent wine?"
"Milady," Marten says, bowing deeply to Adelaine , "I am honoured to make your acquaintance. Yours, too, Master Kane. I am Marten Encarthan - a poor player, attending the masquerade in a professional capacity. Regrettably, I cannot understand this fellow's guttural tongue."
Marten smiles broadly at the applause and works the crowd enthusiastically, shaking everyone's hands and muttering "It was nothing" in a self-deprecating manner whilst embellishing his recounting of the event with exaggerated, lurid details. When this is completed, he turns back to the guard and nods his approval. "Quite right, my good man," he says, stepping up to the goblin squirming under Mal's boot and leaning in close. "What are you doing here?" he shouts.
The actor is more than a bit surprised when a copper piece strikes him in the sleeve, thrown from the direction of the inn. Turning around, Marten stoops to pick up the coin, turning it over in his hand. "A small round of applause would have sufficed," he says, "but I'm always grateful for any token of appreciation." He sketches a bow in the direction of the elven priest and tucks the coin away in his belt. "Now, what mischief had this little fellow been up to? Thievery?" He walks over to the fallen goblin and gingerly prods the bloody bag it was carrying with the toe of his boot. "Gods - I'm loath to look inside!"
"Blaggard!" Marten cries, staggering backwards a step and grasping his side in pain. Glancing around, he quickly notes the goblin's pursuers, and turns to follow the fleeing creature. As the little terror scrambles over the wall, Marten tosses a few petals into the air and calls out, in a commanding voice, "Sleep rock thy brain!"
Strangely elated that at least someone in Lady Vestang's household finds his performance acceptable, Marten decides to escape the somewhat feverish and oppressive atmosphere of the manor for an evening. Stopping by his tent only to change out of his costume and pick up his gear, he quickly makes his way out to the nearby hamlet, wondering what kind of drinking companions might present themselves from among the huddled masses brought here by the impending party. As he approaches the inn, some shrieks reach Marten's ears, followed by a cry of "Goblins!", and he pauses, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword as he peers into the gloaming.
"Ah, yes, these are for Madame's exotic fish. If I may speak candidly, sir, I haven't even seen them and I do believe they are meant to be a surprise for the event. The water must be changed every day, but I've never seen the fish moved from the bath. Should be an amazing treat, sir, one of many." "Ah, yes, of course," Marten says. "I won't let the cat out of the bag, as it were. Mum's the word!" He taps the side of his nose with his forefinger in an exaggerated fashion. "Well, you'd best get on. Wouldn't want to keep those fishies waiting!" With this, Marten turns on his heel and strides back up to his tent.
"Yes, sir, all the preparations are under way for the party. Nothing out of place. Sure to be a great event." "Excellent, excellent," Marten says, nodding slightly and twiddling the end of his beard. "And all this water," he adds, flapping a hand at the serving men, "what's it for?"
"Anything we can do for you sir?", he asks wearily,"If you want to go for a swim, I can send one of the other men to act as safety if you'll give me but a moment, Lord." "No, no, my good man, it's far too late for a swim," Marten says, imperiously. "I just wanted to check how you're getting along with the task. Is it progressing satisfactorily?" He peers down at the servant, and drums his fingers against his leg, as though impatient for a response.
So here you are in a depressing little hamlet in the scrubland, notable only because Lady Vestang owns it. At least you have food in your belly, though. You're about to return to reviewing your lines for the party when you notice a curious sight: four servants are pulling tubs of sea water from the beach into the mansion. His interest piqued, Marten sits up out of the slump he'd settled into. He peers down at the beach, hoping to get a better idea of what's happening down there, but the fading light doesn't help. Absent-mindedly, his left hand feels for the bottle standing on the grass next to his chair. Finding it, he lifts the bottle, uncorks it, and takes a quick swig, before setting it back down. Then, in an instant, his mind is made up - he never could resist an intriguing mystery. Jumping to his feet, he quickly fits the false beard in place, wiping his lips as he does so, and tosses the script onto the chair. Drawing himself up to his full height, he adopts his best noble bearing, and strides purposefully down towards the beach.
Let the party begin!
"Just one thing first, though, sweetie; I need you to fill in this registration form for me..." "You want my signature?" Marten asks, his booming voice carrying clearly across the general hubbub. "But of course, young lady! I hadn't expected to be recognised quite so soon." With a flourish, he dashes off an illegible scrawl on the proffered piece of paper. "You have the place decked out most splendidly," he continues, in a quieter voice, "as befits the opening night of a fine establishment such as this! I would be honoured to perform here, if that is your wish. I'm sure Old Nick and I can come to some sort of arrangement." He beams at the woman, then surveys the room for drinking companions.
I'm definitely going to go with the bard - I'm just working on the details. I was toying with comedy, but I think I'm going to settle on acting. Marten would be delighted to have an innocent under his wing - as well as any number of drinking companions! |
