"Here's the short of it, chickies," Timshel says, pacing and pontificating. "Right now, we're just a ragtag gaggle of strangers. If we're going to earn our bread on Sunday, a company we must become."
"Hear hear," Gilbert puts in.
"To that end, I've devised a gauntlet of games for us," Timshel goes on, pulling a string of handkerchiefs from his breast pocket. "Let us thaw the ice between us in a spirit of convivial mirth…."
A chorus of scarcely concealed groans rises up from the rest of the company. You surmise that they may have experienced Timshel's games before. "Games?" Millicent crosses her arms. "How many games?"
"A day's worth, at least. Getting to know each other is an investment, dear Millicent. 'Tis paramount."
"Rehearsal is paramount," she retorts. "Unless you propose we play games onstage for His Grace."
"What use is rehearsal without the proper camaraderie?"
"Camaraderie will not cheer us when we face the Steward's lash!"
You are so lost in the squabble—and the palpable discomfort in the room—that Timshel has to call a second time before you realize you're being addressed.
"Bandochel, thou'rt the newest babe in our woods," the fool says. "Can you help Millicent understand the benefits of a day spent breaking the ice?"
You hesitate. The company clearly is not keen to dedicate a day to play with an important performance looming…but Timshel is your leader, with the ear of the Steward and the Duke. Contradicting him in the first minutes of your time together will make an impression you might regret later.