In another part of town, Whiskey was having her own moment of revelation.

Whiskey heard a wagon crash; she ran over to help the injured; but she found no injured. Instead, a man stepped into an impromptu spotlight and addressed everyone. He said, "O Gods, hear me hear me! I am but a humble peasant. I long for freedom! But I am kept in thrall by the land! Won't anyone help me? Or am I to remain forever the ghost. Am I to remain as this wagon? Broken. Destroyed. What am I to you all?! Nothing. A mote. But I don't have to be this way! Help repair me! Help me make a land anew where none are kept in bondage. Help me rebuild the wagon!"

A few people cheered for the man, but Whiskey was unsure of what was happening. What WAS happening? she asked herself.

As soon as the man ended his speech, he handed out fliers. Whiskey could read bits and pieces but not much. She approached and asked the man, "What is this about? Was this a performance?"

Rolling his eyes, the man said, "You do not have to chide me, fair maiden. I know my acting is a little wooly, wooden, puffy -- whatever your adjective, I know what I am. Please be on your way if you support neither me nor the movement to liberate the land."

Attitude aside, the man's words kindled in Whiskey something she hadn't thought about before: theatrical performance.

Whiskey was no bard. She could, perhaps, dabble her feet in such an affair, to try it out. Watching the man act and speak, Whiskey felt insider her a blooming desire to see more.

"You have me wrong, sir. I am only asking a question. I am new to these larger cities. Is what you have done common here?" Whiskey asked.

"Oh. I thought you were the peanut gallery... always looking to make fun of me. Or yell a notch too loudly. I am a performer. Elbow is the name," the man said back.

"Nice to meet you. My name is Whiskey. This all looked very intriguing. Would you mind telling me your process?" Whiskey asked.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Sorry lass. This performance was my seventh already for the night. I still have three more to go. I don't have time to talk to an aspiring actress. I will say this, in this city, you make your own opportunities. Don't be expecting to be swept up by a troupe talent scout any time soon," Elbow said.

"Again, you have me wrong. I am not an actress. You do not have to speak. Can I watch you perform? I will help you set up..."

Whiskey studied the man's face. Hard to do when the streetlights only covered the basics.

Elbow liked the idea. He said, "Fine! I normally don't take on understudies, but I will make an exception tonight. Only because you offered to help me set up! With you helping, I could cover twice as many locations...!"

Though Whiskey didn't know what she had gotten herself into, she was happy the man let her help him and observe him. There was something about this street performance stuff which tickled Whiskey. Never one for formal study of things, Whiskey liked hunting and hands-on activities growing up. She still did! The relish of the kill and bringing home a large deer for her village -- showing up the stuck-up boys -- never failed to fill her with meaning. Satisfying as hunting and crafting could be, there was something missing from her heart. And that something wasn't the so-called 'thrill' of war and fighting for her life.

"If you're going to help me, don't just stand there. Help me to gather all this crap," Elbow remarked, motioning around him to the many pieces of wood and cloth tarp coverings which dotted the street and Whiskey could now see were props. Picking the pieces up, Whiskey saw how many of the pieces were merely chunks of wood and scrap. Same with the metal bits. From a distance, they had looked like they were from an overturned wagon. Up close, refuse wood and bobbles were all they were.

Gathering up everything and putting it into an actual wagon, a small pull wagon capable of being pulled by either a beast of burden or perhaps a couple of people, Whiskey positioned herself next to Elbow and grabbed hold of the handle and pushed.

The wagon, though heavier than Whiskey expected, was not too heavy. With two people, it was doable and though acting had more physical labor than she expected, it was nothing compared to the drain of battle. Unfortunately, Elbow wanted to perform in all of the busiest locations. Places where, though the moon rang high, the people refused to quit their partying. Thus, Whiskey endured many instances of heaving herself forward to move the cart only to suddenly crash to a halt as some child or drunkard stumbled in front of them.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop.

Again, and again and again it went -- start-stop, start-stop, start-stop...

"Stop!" Elbow yelled. "We're here."