You stare as she raps three times on the trunk of a massive dead elm two hillocks in the other direction. The Duke's courtier and the soldier emerge from the hollow tree, heads bare and looking much younger somehow than when they were by the roadside.
"It was all an act," you realize.
"Another exemplary performance conceived by your servant Gwendell, Princess of the Bardbrood," the curly-haired youth says with an ostentatious genuflection. "And her associates," she adds carelessly.
"Oh, I like that," sneers the soldier, his voice light and playful. "Do we have to endure the deprecations of self-crowned royalty?"
"I did not crown myself," Gwendell sniffs. "My talent did it for me."
"You heard her; or, should I say, this raw embodiment of talent we're fortunate enough to know," quips the courtier. "And now you're fortunate enough as well, dear…?"
"Bandochel," you answer the prompt. You clear your throat, wondering what to ask as these curious artists chuckle amongst themselves.