"The wakeful moon was stood with a lean, just past her peak in the sky. Her warm glow embracing the bustling midday crowds of old Fellorne as she started the long journey toward another day’s end. Come dark the chill of early Spring would return to the air but for the moment it felt as if a prelude to a Summer day had swallowed up any feeling of frost that dared linger on. A warm breath blowing vigour back into winter weary bones.

  Amidst the chatter and common chaos of daily life within the Wooded Realm’s Capitol they say surprises are the most frequent thing to be found. So say they in hushed whispers between brothel bed sheets, so do they boast over brews in scattered drinking halls and as can be seen scrawled and etched into back alley walls. And so here on an otherwise ordinary day, in a city that had once died and ever since been reborn, a most curious company can be found.

  The Puppet Players of Strise. Yes a rare sight indeed, for were they to visit the same town more than once or twice in a season then surely an incriminating pattern would eventually be found. And that, of course, would be very bad for business."

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A small throng of curious onlookers had already gathered as rickety wooden frames, ripe with splinters, were stood up between bags of sand. As frayed old lengths of rough cord tied everything in place chapped hands, slick with sweat, began hoisting the lines to lift a battered old curtain up off of the dusty cobblestone road of Millgate Plaza. Under the years of neglect and heavy day fading those broad canvas sheets had once been dyed a brilliant red. Now they rose before my eyes like a flaking old scab. Something sickly that covered up a festering wound.

  I watched from under the shade of our main wagon as Charlie, Garris and the rest of the brute squad went about slapping together their best attempt at something resembling a stage. Most of the other players had already exited the wagon. But not me and not the Boss. The plump old man in his ill fitted green suit cleared his throat with a thick warble before spitting something sticky and foul onto the wooden boards of the communal wagon.

“Oy, Sorrel! You need to get your damn head out of the clouds,” came the husky bark of Boss Strise, “I need you out there keeping those people entertained and feeling generous, you understand? We can’t be risking any more slip ups brought on by your half-hearted performances.”

Instead of a proper response I let out a long, exasperated sigh and reached out my hand for his grubby old hat which he then plucked from his head and offered to me. It was a stinking old thing, round and tall with a notable bulge warping the original form where the old man’s bulbous, hair sparse head pressed into the fabric as he wore it. I clutched a moist edge in my fingers and began to pull. Boss Strise didn’t let the hat go and so I sat there leaning awkwardly forward as he stared dully ahead. The two of us holding this sweat soaked fabric in the air like some sort of award handed out to pairs of idiots just to keep their hands busy.

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  And then finally he looked me in the eyes and said in a hushed voice that forced me to lean even further in to hear over the noise and nonsense going on outside of the wagon,

“Listen here, Sorrel, you’ve barely been keeping up your end of our pact lately and you know that we can’t be having that. Definitely not here in the Capitol of all places. So I’m being deadly serious when I tell you that you’d better make sure this crowd thoroughly enjoys today’s show. Ain’t a single audience member allowed to get bored or this time I really will invoke our agreed upon retribution. Do you understand me, whelp?”

It was a threat that I hadn’t heard from him for at least a few years but had known was likely to be coming. My second sigh was one of defeat.

“Alright, Boss,” I managed to say through a poorly forced smile, “But if you really want me to get into the show today then can we please not do the one about Marinclay this time? I’m so tired of hearing about that stupid old witch...”

Boss Strise began to laugh heartily and slammed his big meaty palm down onto my shoulder.

“Oh now that’s a good one! We’ll just visit the little town of Fellorne. Good old Capitol of the Wooded Realm of Marinclay and not do the act about the merciful merchant witch to which this entire region owes its name!”

He laughed again and began to squeeze my shoulder hard before giving me a rough shake.

“I know you’re a daft, scrawny mutt but to think under that big ugly cap and scraggly mane there isn’t even a working brain between those ears you’re always working so hard to keep tucked away. Truly tragic. Now get out of my sight before I throw you out onto that stage myself! Oh, and do remember to smile for real this time.”

With that he let go of his hat and the damp thing sagged limply against the back of my hand. I took it and stood to make my way out to the street. Boss Strise was already back to pouring his fingers over his notes and fussing over matters that didn’t concern me inside of his big, shiny, fat head.

  For just a moment as I stepped out into the wakeful moon’s inviting glow I let myself stretch and enjoy the sensations of being alive. And then I rubbed a tanned knuckle over my eyes before combing the fingers of that hand through the unkempt, shoulder length strands of brown hair that puffed out from under my cap and put on the best fake smile I could muster. The stage was up and old man Everrnak was busy handing out puppets to his four apprentices. Mirrin was anxiously plucking the strings of his lute while Shay worked her fingers over the holes of her flute to practice one of the songs she’d soon play.

  Before any puppet breached the scabbed crust of the curtains, before any proper tune would fill the air. Before anything but the growing sense of anticipation and curious merriment of our awaiting audience was allowed to swell I was the one that needed to step out from around the curtains and welcome everyone to the show. All eyes on me and mine on them. Only then would things finally begin. Knowing this did nothing but fill me to the brim with anxiety and dread.

  But, alas, the show must go on.