You clasp your tour-mate, Catsby, by the sleeve before she departs. "Hold, friend, I think there's someone speaking to you."
"Oh? Hullo then," your tour-mate says with a confused smile to Gwendell, looking between you. Gwendell just looks at you, a chill expression overtaking all else on her countenance.
"I was speaking to you, Bandochel," Gwendell says in warning tones.
"Oh, were you? Am I the sort of person you'd speak to? Fancy that!" you say brightly, before twisting your lips into an oafish sneer and going cross-eyed. "You see, I've the sort of face that many don't seem to recall," you moan. "What say you, Catsby, dost remember me?"
"Aye, from my nightmares," your fellow thespian laughs, pushing you away as Gwendell looks on, seething.
Your wit being in fine fettle, and Catsby's laugh being melodious enough to draw the ear, soon a small crowd of your compatriots has gathered. It's a fine feeling to be in the center of some of Brenton's greatest performers and know you're holding your own. [+Surety] [+Bardbrood]
Onward