They hesitantly pushed through the gap in the front curtains to reveal a bizarre scene. Five undead skeletons stood in a row, not holding swords, but black canes, throwing their hats, spats, and tap shoes into sharper relief. Milling nearby were four soulbound dolls, each no more than two feet tall. The clown and ballerina sat facing each other, the warrior practiced his fighting moves, and the gunslinger leaned against a large chest, sneering and throwing shade toward no one in particular.

Between them stood a very colorful man, as if a swamp had somehow birthed a wizard. Long, stringy hair ran down over sun-dried red skin, his laminar armor emblazoned with flowing lines and arcane symbols. The angry look in his eyes complemented his aggressive stance. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And what gives you the right to trash my stuff?”

“I–we’re sorry,” Lorarona stammered. “We’re trying to find someone named Torun.”

He drew himself up to his full height. “You’re looking at him. And if you think you’re going to roll me like you did my crew, you’ve got another thing coming.” He reached for his scimitar.

Lorarona faced her palms outward in a pleading motion. “No! We mean you no harm.” She cleared her throat. “We’re here because your name was on a lot of Tintso’s invoices.”

He relaxed slightly. “Oh? You know Tintso? Sharp guy.”

“We wouldn’t know,” Noninja related. “He’s been dead for some time.”

Torun’s face curled up into a growl. “Three guesses how that happened.” In a flash, his scimitar left its scabbard and sliced through the air, stopping an inch from Noninja’s throat. Torun’s arm quivered as it held his blade aloft. “I’ll be honored to avenge his death.”

“It wasn’t us!” Noninja protested, gracefully putting distance between himself and the scimitar’s tip. “We think he’s been dead for a couple of weeks.”

Torun stared hard at Noninja, then lowered his scimitar. “Well, the timeline checks out. That’s about how long it’s been since I’ve heard from him.” His eyes fell. “He was the best repair guy I knew, and such a fixture in the local theater.” He looked up, grinning. “That guy made some of the wildest devices I’ve ever seen!”

“Truly,” Clancy joined, “his loss will be felt.” His brow furrowed as he noticed something pinned to the feral man’s chest.

Torun glanced over the team, then sheathed his scimitar. “Well, you don’t look like much of a threat to me…especially not after the beating you just took.” He snickered to himself.

Lorarona looked around in awe. “What are you doing here?”

Torun smiled. “What’s it look like? I’m working on my stage act! This derelict theater was the perfect place to rehearse…at least, until you showed up.” He put his hands on his hips. “Did you leave anything intact?”

“There’s still plenty of balcony seating,” Miles quipped.

Torun laughed heartily and slapped Miles on the shoulder. “Well spoken! I take back some of the things I was gonna say about you.”

Lorarona couldn’t stop looking at the skeletons. “Why are they dressed like that?”

“It’s for their act!” Torun beamed. “Would you like to see it?”

“Would I!” she gushed. The other three exchanged knowing glances and backed away, throwing smiles in Lorarona’s direction.

Torun twiddled his fingers and appeared to concentrate; a fiddle suddenly appeared in his hands. In a flash, he put the bow to the strings. “Hit it, boys!” he called out as he began sawing his instrument furiously.

The skeletons quickly stood at attention, then segued smoothly into a synchronized tap-dance routine. Their fluid acrobatics belied their lack of life; the smiles flooding from their gaping jaws would have looked much less disconcerting if there were still flesh attached to them. After the first stanza, Lorarona summoned a tambourine and tapped along to the implied rhythm, syncopating fluidly with Torun’s spirited fiddling. As the music ended with a flourish, the skeletons struck a joint pose that would have made for a great advertising poster.

Torun’s belly-laugh seemed to shake the walls. “Well joined!” he boomed. “Adding some rhythm really spiced up the act.”

“Happy to help,” Lorarona beamed. She turned toward the soulbound dolls. “So what do they do?”

Torun smiled. “Hoppy? Buttercup? Let her see it!”

The clown looked up uncertainly, the sadness in his wooden eyes palpable. The gunslinger wrested himself from the chest and, spinning his revolvers on his index fingers, moved to a less cramped area of the stage. The clown meekly took a position opposite him and put a drinking glass on his head.

Hoppy raised one firearm and pointed at Buttercup. “Now don’t move,” he snarled. “You don’t want this ending up like last time.” Buttercup closed his eyes and shivered. A shot rang out; a few splinters of wood flew from Buttercup’s cheek as the glass shattered anyway. The ballerina shrieked and fell into the arms of the warrior, who smiled at her sympathetically.

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“Hey!” Buttercup sputtered. “You’re not supposed to be using live ammo!”

Hoppy sneered. “But I like live ammo!”

“You know damn well the glass shatters automatically!” Torun chided. “Where did you even get live ammo?” He turned towards the team, looking embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

Lorarona turned to the ballerina. “How about you, sweetie?” The ballerina returned her smile, stood up gracefully, and flitted to an empty part of the stage. She did a short, graceful dance, stumbling once as she crossed a rough part of the stage floor, continued to dance, then abruptly tripped and fell.

She looked up from the floor, gaping. “I’m still learning…” she managed to stammer.

“You’ll get it,” the warrior sympathized, before smirking. “She’s better when she’s levitating.” He assumed a martial stance, holding his sword before him. “My turn!” He flew into a dazzling display of martial prowess, flipping and pirouetting across the stage.

“I feel I’ve seen this before,” remarked Miles.

“It’s an almost beat-for-beat copy of what the skeletal champion did,” agreed Noninja. “With the difficult parts glossed over.”

The warrior scowled, redoubling his efforts. Without warning, his sword flew out of his hand, heading straight for the clown. Buttercup threw himself to the floor just in time; the sword narrowly missed impaling itself into his chest.

The warrior looked embarrassed for a second, then his expression became defiant. “I meant to do that.”

Buttercup seethed. “What am I, target practice?”

The warrior chuckled. “As soon as I figure out how to make my sword return to me…that’s gonna look great!”

“Keep dreaming,” the clown jibed as he picked himself up from the floor. “Now let me show you how it’s really done!” Rubbing his wounded cheek tenderly, he walked over to a chest, picked up a few objects, and after seeming to concentrate for a moment, began juggling. He started with a three-item cascade, grabbing more objects from the chest, building to a seven-item cascade. He smoothly transitioned to intermittent side-swaps and an occasional fountain, his hands moving at blinding speed.

Abruptly, he crossed his arms; the objects continued to fly through the air as if still being juggled. “I know,” Buttercup gloated. “I make this look easy!” The ballerina clapped joyfully, the warrior smiled proudly, and the gunslinger stewed a little, turning away and brooding.

“Wonderful!” Lorarona applauded. The objects flew back into Buttercup’s hands; he bowed regally and then put them back where he found them.

“But why are you using undead and soulbound dolls?” Miles asked. “Don’t most people use golems, or clockwork constructs?”

“Sure,” Torun snorted, “if you’ve got money to burn.” He looked down sadly. “When I was finally too crippled to adventure anymore, I had to find something else to do with my time.” He looked around at his menagerie. “And I have to stretch my retirement funds.”

Clancy pointed to the logo pinned to Torun’s chest. “Is that why you decided to hook up with them?”

Torun looked down, spying the pin featuring a heavily-cratered moon, with a large bone-shaped object floating in front of it. “Hmmm? Oh, that. It’s just some merch from a local bard’s guild. Their products have been really handy for getting my acts set up. Their quality is top notch!”

“We’ve been looking for them,” Noninja informed. “Can you help us find them?”

“What, are you kidding?” Torun chortled. “I don’t have enough cred to know who or what they are – I’m just an amateur.”

“Then how do you know about them?” Miles asked.

“I bought my stuff second-hand from someone that runs with them – a guy named Hamish Stirk. Maybe you can ask him.”

“Can you tell us where to find him?” Lorarona asked.

“He hangs out at a gladiator bar down near the docks,” Torun informed. “That’s where I met him. But don’t tell him I sent you – he’s not likely to be forgiving.”

“We can keep secrets,” Noninja assured. “How do we find him there?”

Torun grimaced. “How should I know? It’s not like he wears a nametag or anything. But he’s one of the exhibition fighters. A damn good one, too!”

“Can you give us a description?” asked Miles.

Torun shrugged. “Short black hair, kinda scruffy looking.”

The team exchanged uncertain glances. “That’s it?” sputtered Clancy.

“Sorry, brah,” Torun trilled. “It’s not like I walk around with full dossiers on random people I meet, just so some self-styled detectives can get their next lead.” He crossed his arms and smirked. “Maybe you all need to get into an easier line of work; I’m speaking as an experienced adventurer here.”

“At least we’re not the ones supporting an evil guild,” Lorarona insinuated.

“Evil?” Torun guffawed. “You think they’re some sort of serious threat? It’s just the theater; it’s not like it’s a matter of life and death.” He struck an arrogant pose. “So if the so-called evil bard guild triumphs, the vanquished will have to get day jobs or something?” He put his hands on his cheeks in a mock expression of horror. “Oh no! We must stop that at all costs!”

The team’s faces fell. Torun shook his head. “I’m not the one that needs to examine their life choices here, kids.”

“Fine,” Clancy glowered. “Point taken. Is there anything else you can tell us before we take our leave?”

“Only that I find it hard to believe this guild is hurting anyone,” Torun explained. “And even if they were, I’m not a member, just a satisfied customer. I don’t see anything wrong with getting a leg up while I’m trying to establish myself.” He looked wistful for a moment. “If only I could afford that ‘wand of great expectations’. It sounds absolutely brilliant.”

The team exchanged uncomfortable glances as they moved to leave. “Sorry about killing your stage crew,” Miles offered. “We were mostly acting in self-defense, anyway.”

“It’s OK, I understand,” Torun assured. “I was once a murder-hobo too. I guess I deserve this.”

They looked back with haunted expressions as they made their way through the back curtain. Clancy turned to look as he left, and saw Hoppy point a finger-pistol at him and pretend to shoot.