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Skelemen, The Rebirthing Part Deux [O]; Open to one or two others.
Topic Started: Sat Feb 3, 2018 5:37 pm (303 Views)
Skelemen
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Four Hundred Years Ago


It was Balefire in the height of it's play craze, young directors and playwrights were
celebrated and loved... but at the same time the Plague of Undeath was running rampant, turning the dead into undead and killing the living, leading to a massive witch hunt, destroying the undead that spread it.

The top playwrights and director combinations were mostly long-lived races, but there was one pair that stood out, a lone writer named 'Skelemen' and his director of choice, 'Mr. Bones', two humans that wrote plays ranging from action to social commentary, comedy to tragedy. The duo dazzled them, but the only one they saw was the director, Mr Bones.

It was on the night of their greatest performance, it was one of the rare occasions when Mr. Bones joined in the acting as a minor character, mostly just there for the dance numbers. When the play was done and the bowing began, he walked forward and roared out, "Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you for coming to see the latest Skelemen and Mr. Bones production. I have been doing this for ten long years and so has Skelemen, so now... I will reveal who Skelemen is."

He waited a few moments, letting the people gaze at him. He looked human... a human wearing make up and a mask to make him look like a skeleton... but in fact he was a skeleton, an Obitu, that dressed and disguised itself as a human and then disguised the human as a human in a skeleton costume, all to avoid the people that would kill him if they found out he was a living skeleton. He roared out again, "I am Driech Skelemen, also known as Mr. Bones. I am both, and for not telling you all sooner, I apologize, but now you all know and I hope you come to my plays for many years to come."

The roar of the crowd echoed in the old hall, he bowed deeply and went to get changed, he had an image to keep after all. Skelemen stripped down once he was alone in his room, putting on specially manufactured clothes to make him look less... skeletal. He wore a heavy turtleneck sweater, black pants, black shoes with spats, a black riding jacket, the back split to leave two long coat tails, the tips just barely missing the ground. He put on his makeup, his mask, then put makeup on the mask to complete his two fold illusion, he could rub it all off once he got home, get a good milk bath in before retiring to his study to write the next play.

He opened the door, only to find a fear filled face... the face of his lead actress. She ran away, shouting, "Monster! Skelemen is a monster!"

Skelemen's face would have gone pale if it could. He heard another voice from behind, it was like a whisper, barely audible, "I told you changing here was a mistake. You knew she liked you, wanted you, she peeped through the keyhole, saw you were all bones."

Skelemen turned and saw the vampire, an old friend, a fellow writer. Skelemen frowned, "I thought she would respect my privacy... everyone else does."

The vampire let out a small cough, "That was before you told everyone who you were. Her favorite author and the man she thought she loved were now the same person? What did you think she would do."

Skelemen rubbed the back of his head before taking off his mask, he could already hear people shouting, "I don't know... I was just tired of living double lives... could you do me a favor?"

The vampire remained silent... but he nodded.

The Obitu grinned, his face was abnormally flexible, a trait of Obitu, it let them have facial expressions, helped them relate to the living, "Before they burn my home to the ground, take my journals, publish them when this is all over. I... I don't want to be forgotten."

The vampire growled, "I would do that anyway. I'll pour some milk on your grave." With that said he disappeared into darkness and Skelemen surrendered to the mob. One swung an axe, Skelemen had not expected them to attack him, he was surrendering!

The axe hacked through the top part of his skull, the second slash was a backhand, catching his upper jaw and moving to his eye socket. He roared out in pain, another trait of Obitu, they could feel pain, they were positive energy skeletons, their bones were still alive. He was beaten and dragged out, his bones broken, leaking blood and marrow.

He was lashed to a lamp post for lack of a better object, wood and oiled rags tossed onto it. The guards were already trying to push through the crowd, this kind of act was steal illegal, but it still happened. A single torch... and he was up in flames. His screams echoed into the night, his face partially melting, his right eye socket drooping down, he could feel his bones cracking, he was dying.

He wheezed out, "Please... I just wanted to live. Please..." Then all faded to black.

_______________________________________________________

Seven Years Ago

His eyesight came back all at once, a second later his hearing, he could feel his body next. He ran his fingers over his skull, the fire damage was still there, his right eye socket's top part drooped... wonderful, now he looked like he was half-winking all the time, ugh, a half wink was cheeky, what if he wanted to be coy or flirty, damn the fire... wait, wasn't he supposed to be dead?

He heard the voices, speaking excitedly, he listened to the voices, talking about... the Skelemen? The Legendary Mister Bones? He smiled, it hurt, the axe wounds would never properly heal, he could only seal them up after gaining the strength from some good milk baths.

He saw the group that had brought him back, one of them saying, "Told you! He was an Obitu, not an average skeleton. That was why his biography stated that he screamed in pain! The positive energy blast was perfect."

Another person, slightly smaller, his voice higher, almost angelic, but his words were crude, "Shut the hell up ya ass. It coulda been jus' some fluff an' shit. Gods be damned if someone don't exaggerate."

Skelemen's hand snapped out as he sat up, catching the rude one by the jaw, holding it as he examined him closer, his looks weren't half bad, his voice was great, but his attitude and words... ugh, awful.

Skelemen spoke, his voice smooth, almost silky, "Oh darling. You could be an excellent actor and singer... if only you would clean up your words. Maybe a few skin care masks, some minor vocal training to focus your heavenly voice... ah, how I wish I could train you."

The rude one jumped back, "Don't just grab me ya creep! I'm not afraid ta' blast ya with necromancer spells."

Skelemen smirked as he stood up, his clothes were gone, he was all bones. He frowned, "Right, clothes burned off." He was handed a simple black robe... which he grimaced at, "Wear that? Please, that is so necromancer-esque it hurts. Nothing in pink or a nice black smoking jacket? I'll go nude."

The two were apparently teachers assistants in the Academy of Magic, they were the heads of the drama club and wanted advice on the script they wrote. Skelemen glanced over it for a week, living in a small apartment the two had rented out.

His final statement was, "This is garbage. I'll write you a new one." With that said the two took notes as Skelemen not only taught them how to write a proper play, but how to not fall into poor writing habits and the beauty of turning bad actors into good actors. He even helped them choreograph the dances, write the songs, this work took nearly a year as he was transported between Istan and Balefire. It was his first play... but he let the two students take the credit, he was not ready for a real debut, he needed to get back into shape... er... well, get back his dancing legs.
________________________________________________________________

Present Day

Skelemen finished his tap dance routine, the clicking of his shoes brought back good memories of the dancing he did back when he was a big star. For the last seven years he had been gathering information, learning languages, working, getting back in touch with the world, and now with all of this new turmoil, all of this... this... absolutely brilliant fuel to burn for his scripts, it was time to begin anew.

He changed out of his tap shoes, putting on a pair of old boots, worn pants, and a white v-neck shirt, unlaced. He put on some padded leather gloves for handshakes... and made sure to pocket hi wallet. He lived in a decent neighborhood, his apartment was small, but cheap, and he had finally gotten the royalties he was owed from his vampire friend, apparently he had died a hundred years ago and his kids were hard headed fools, claiming he could not be the REAL Skelemen, of course a few stories later and they were scrambling to try and get all of the affairs in order. Now he was rich once again, and it was time for a shopping spree, new clothes for every occasion. He grinned to himself as he walked onto the streets, his fame was slowly growing once again... he had released his own book, the unfinished plays his friend had saved, he finished them all and released them to the public, now was not the time to dwell on old works, it was time for an all new Skelemen.
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Shan Orison
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Note: Part of Amnesia Shan storyline.
~*~
He'd gained a bit more freedom of movement as he stayed longer at the Dazzling Dove Inn and Tavern, both by becoming more familiar with the area and the locals as they learned of him, and also from his demonstration to the elven family who took him in of what Logan the Werewolf called "shadowdancing," something he could always use to escape from danger if he needed. Granted, he hardly ever left the inn despite that, but he'd been saving his tip money for a few weeks. Now, he figured, he had enough coin in hand to go to the nicer parts of Balefire and purchase small but quality gifts for Faen'avel and her twin children. Dressed snuggly in plain clothes, braided hair, and a small grin, he wandered into an area far removed from the more simple lodgings of the Dove, one he almost felt lost in.

"Okay," Laithe mumbled to himself, a small habit he'd had for the past few months. "Aywin's been saying he'd like a new hair comb....Gorre probably wants some more hand cream....but what to get for Faen'avel? Some new herb plant, maybe? Beer yeast? What would she like?"

He paused outside a bookstore, his flitting mind working through what to get for the elder elf, possibly considering looking up in a book on beer making something new she might like for her hobbycraft, when he spied a book placed in the window, one of the few since, though Balefiran shopkeeps didn't need to fear about sundamage, they did have to worry about thieves. The book itself was unremarkable, though it had a tasteful cover. It advertised a list of classical plays, newly finished after sitting incomplete for centuries. Now, this new edition sat, the gleam of the gilding shining in the lanternlight, and Laithe felt anger.

He stood seething at the window for at least a minute before he realized the new feeling imposing on his mood. "Why...am I angry?" he muttered. Breaking from his plans, he strode into the shop, his steps heavy with irate purpose. He grabbed a copy of the offending book off the shelf and studied it more closely.

Alright, so...it was by some ancient playwright, a "Skelemen". It was published postmortem. The person who purported to finish the variety of plays, musicals, operettas and such was someone named.....Skelemen.

Alright, so someone new took up the name of the old playwright, finished these tales, and was now selling it. That should be fine. If they were good endings, that should be all that mattered, right? If they weren't, the man would fade into obscurity and perhaps older copies of the unfinished plays would find a new place in the stagelight, unsullied by Skelemen II. This should be absolutely fine and of no concern.

Laithe found he was even more mad. "What is wrong with me?"

"You gonna buy that?" A voice interrupted. Laithe started and looked up, seeing a longhaired and bored shopkeep leaning over a counter. Besides the worker and himself, Laithe realized the store was empty.

"Um...so, who's this Skelemen?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"I dunno. Mebbe look in 'history'?" The shopkeep sighed. Laithe grimaced. This person wasn't going to be any help, were they. He opened the book and began to read.

"Hey! This isn't a library! You read it, you buy it."

"Why do you care?"

"Look, I need to keep this job. Just buy the damn book. I'll even make it half off if you'll just take it."

"That...is not the best business practice."

"I can double it instead."

"Fine! Fine!" Laithe wandered over to the counter and counted his coin. Even with the steep and sudden discount, it'd still take most of the money he saved for gifts. He should just go buy those, but this book just enraged him, and he had no idea why.
~*~
"So I guess I'm a selfish arse on top of everything," Laithe muttered to himself, the book in his arms. He found a small bench in a small boutique district, out of place in his clean but worn clothes. However, no one bothered him as he settled down and began to read, scowling at the pages. The tales themselves were good, every character coming alive with just the written word, and he could work out what the music scores would play in real life to a degree, and they were quite lovely, as well. He couldn't tell where the old story ended and the additions began, either....

But it still angered him! Why?!
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Skelemen
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Skelemen would whistle if he could, but his bone face wasn't THAT flexible. He rolled a coin between his fingers as he walked, he was still a far cry from his old dextrous self, but he was closer, a few more milk baths and his bones would be stable again.

He walked the streets, he bought a few fried batwings from a cart and gave it to a homeless man in the nearby alley. The man grumbled some rough blessings and ate his fill as Skelemen walked off, chuckling to himself, it was a good day.

Then he saw someone reading... oh! He was reading his book! He must be overjoyed that such great plays were finally finished! As he got closer he saw the man's face twisted in... oh, rage. He almost rolled his non-existent eyes as he thought, 'Oh great, a critic that probably didn't know the difference between their own mouth and ass.'

He walked around him, turning to read over his shoulder, he read the tensing muscles and anger... it was only at the changes, the tweaks, and the endings he had written.

He stroked his own chin for a few moments... maybe it would be more fun to screw with the kid. He grinned, "Liked the original works better, eh? I have to admit, it's a bit of a dick move to try and profit off of someone else's work, just slapping on a few endings, can they really call themselves a writer just from that?"

He waited for him to turn and offered a gloved hand, "I'm Driech, and you are?"
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Shan Orison
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"Liked the original works better, eh?"

"Ah!" he started. His form flickered slightly in the shadows as he turned, but he at least kept his seat on the bench. When did this person sneak up on him?! He couldn't have been that engrossed!

"I have to admit, it's a bit of a dick move to try and profit off of someone else's work, just slapping on a few endings, can they really call themselves a writer just from that?"

"I don't know," Laithe said, shutting the book after a glance at the page number. "I don't remember reading this before. Don't even know what they added to the thing." He felt his shoulders relaxing, however, now that he'd stopped reading, unaware of his flexing tension. "It's just a bunch of old plays."

The odd, well dressed stranger put out a hand. Laithe hesitated in taking it at first. Despite the genteelness of the man, Shan's strange right eye showed that he wasn't alive. That is, he had that same strange aura that the vampires and other undead he met in Balefire had. However, this was Balefire...

"I'm Driech, and you are?"

"Laithe," said Laithe, taking the undead's hand for a single shake before releasing. "It's Balefire, though. It's human nature. I mean, if it's written well, it's fine some nobody comes in and....it's fine."
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Skelemen shook his head, "Trying to hard to convince yourself. See, I'm an Obitu, a positive energy devouring skeleton. Just a bit different from normal skeletons, my skull is a bit more flexible, gives me the ability to make funny faces and show my emotions, makes it easier to deal with the living. It makes us very good at reading the muscle tension of other people. Every word of 'it's fine' makes your jaw lock up slightly, muscle strain around the neck. It is very clearly not fine."

He motioned down the street, "I was just going on a walk to buy some new clothes. Would you care to walk and talk about it? I'm a bit of a play and drama nut, love a good play. For example the original Skelemen would often put on shows in gardens when he was first writing his plays four hundred years ago, they called them 'Pauper Plays' since they targeted low class individuals. To bad he was murdered after his tenth year of writing and directing. Tragedy really, and how dare this fake take his good name, right?"
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Shan Orison
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Well, Laithe soothed himself. At least this man was upfront about being undead. He'd never heard of an "Obitu," and what was involved with "positive energy devouring," though?

"I was just going on a walk to buy some new clothes. Would you care to walk and talk about it? I'm a bit of a play and drama nut, love a good play."

Laithe knew he shouldn't. With his money spent except a few chipped coppers, he should head home, probably recouping some of his losses with the book at a pawn shop. Today was a loss. The book meant nothing except some folks had time and greed to motivate them, and that was that.

But...was what Driech said true? Was his anger stemming from that fact? If so, why did he care so much? The foreword stated this Skelemen died four centuries ago. There would be no chance for Laithe to have known him personally....unless Laithe was immortal somehow?

He decided to simply assume he wasn't. Best to play it that way. He listened politely to the stranger as he spoke a bit more about the original author.

"That's nice, but I honestly never even heard of this person before today," he said. "And it's not like I'm some playwright or the like...or I don't think I am." What if he was? Would learning more about this author lead him to something about himself?

"Besides, I sort of spent all my money on this book..." he finished, a rather lame excuse even as he thought of it. "So I'm afraid all I could do at the shops is stand there and look grubby."
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Skelemen laughed, "Oh dear my new friend, that is fine, I am mostly looking anyway." He to was not the best dressed, at least not this own standards, "Looking is free in most situations, the only place it usually isn't free is a beautiful companion, but enough of that, walk with me Laithe, we can talk about plays and the theater."

He looked at a few other bystanders, "Plus I bet you've never met an Obitu before. We're not terribly common, not illegal by any means. Many of our kind died in a great purge four hundred and some years ago. Apparently Skelemen dressed up as an undead to mock the people that feared the walking dead, and that eventually got him killed." A half-lie, he wondered how long he could string the boy around before it got a bit mean... probably for half a day.

He chuckled,"Balefire is such a colorful place you know. So many different species in various states of death, undeath, and life. I mean look at me for instance, I'm an Obitu, I'm a skeleton that gets healed by positive energy magic, my bones are technically still alive, when they're broken I bleed, I feel pain." He touched the large wound still on the top of his skull, "We can die from these wounds you know and we never fully heal... ah, being a downer, sorry. Anyway, plays. Skelemen had plenty of plays, my favorite is the 'Tale of the Black Bowman' based on the original Black Bowman myth, I felt it captured his sorrow very well, I mean it's a bit samey to the other plays and books, but it felt like it had more of an emotional charge to it." Another lie, his favorite was actually 'The Pauper and the General', a story of how an eighteen year old homeless boy ended up outsmarting a high ranked Balefiren general in urban combat, but it was still considered controversial, and as such was not as famous as his other plays.
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Shan Orison
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Laithe followed. He shouldn't follow. He didn't know what a normal skeleton animated by magic could do, let alone an Oh-bee-too. Still, he nearly felt compelled to follow. There were mysteries here, and Laithe had a terrible habit of following their trail.

"That's interesting," he said as Driech dropped more tidbits about Skelemen. So he was an advocate for the differently alive, then? That wouldn't make Laithe angry, so he put that aside. "Didn't know there were illegal undead, either, though I guess I never looked into it."

"The Black Bowman story is good, true," he offered as the man continued merrily making conversation. Laithe couldn't say if it was similar to other tales. Skelemen's telling was his first known encounter with it. He'd been in the middle of another tale about a homeless boy outwitting an army or some such by using his street smarts and knowledge of the terrain he personally found more interesting, but he didn't know the ending yet, or even what constituted a good play.

"I, ah, I also like that one little story about two lovers talking through a wall," he said. "The back and forth round they did seemed like it'd be a lot of fun to hear, especially as more of their friends and family join in and the chords just become incredible."
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Skelemen nodded and smiled, but in his mind he thought, 'Oh gods that play was such a pain in the ass. That diva of a head actress was so demanding and the head actor was a mess of nerves and twitching, it took most of his time just getting those two to work together. He saw a shop and stopped at the window, his eyes going over the clothes, "Stitch quality is fine, good quality of cloth... ah, to thin. It'll tear to easily, moving on."

He grinned, "Apparently that was one of his highest grossing plays. The head actors were apparently very beautiful." In his head he said, 'But the woman was selfish and the boy was just that, a boy with little life experience. His eyes roamed over Laithe's features, his eyes ending at his hands... odd calusses. His mind went through several possibilities... farm work? No, to defined, not muscular enough, sewing? Unlikely. Music? Yes, most likely, maybe, definitely not swordplay.

He looked into the dark skies, "He wrote only a handful of plays that are called 'classics' while another half a dozen are hidden away for being controversial or from lack of interest. Apparently his comedy, 'The Life of a Braggart' was originally supposed to be social commentary of the upper class but it ended up just getting sillier and sillier. According to the biography he had to much fun turning it into a comedic piece and his patrons and investors loved it as well."

He began to reminisce aloud, "Ah... I remember the day I watched a reenactment. The trumpets blaring, the actors singing and dancing. Ah, but the leader actor was an idiot, but he was pretty. If only he wasn't so tone deaf... but that ended up being part of the joke, a bad joke, but still funny. The dancing was of a high caliber, the lead actor was a pretty idiot, but he was a good dancer, exquisite." He was deep in the memories of his play, the way the actor worked the crowd had been excellent. He tried to get the man in on another project but he apparently had gotten one of the stagehands pregnant and decided to take care of her and the baby so he took on a 'real' job... down a good actor and a good stagehand that day.

He snapped back into reality, "I bet if you think hard enough and slowly try to rationalize some things you'll be able to find why you got so angry at this pretender. You seem like a real fan, a big fan of the original's works. Do you perhaps play any instrument? I have a violin at home, I would love to be able to play the saxophone, but no lips, can't play the brass without lips, so I'm stuck with string instruments."
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Shan Orison
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"Ahhh, no," Laithe said, a few steps too quickly to be a casual dismissal. "I mean, I've been told I have a good ear, and I can read sheet music well enough, but I don't play anything, and don't even ask about my singing." He laughed at that part, the tenseness lessening as his words drifted away from instruments. "I've been thinking about that, and I'm wondering if...um...

"This is going to sound strange, but there are....some holes in my memory, and I'm wondering if...if I did something with the arts or something in those blank spots." No need for Laithe to tell the skeleton his amnesia was stronger than that. He knew he was already too much of a lamb in the woods, as it were.

"You talked about someone stealing someone else's work for their own and...I think that might be it. I mean, I guess it'd be one thing if the person just said 'Hey, here's my interpretation of how these should go!', but they started acting like they were the original author, someone who's been dead for ages! I mean, just taking someone's work and saying it's yours...that's not right, right?"
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Skelemen nods, "Yes, it would have been terrible if someone stole my unfinished plays and made bad endings to them. I'm glad I was revived after only four hundreds in the grave."

He chuckled, "Allow me to reintroduce myself, I am Driech Skelemen, I was killed by a mob for being an undead. Thank the gods that Obitu only need a blast of positive energy to revive."

He offered the boy his hand again, "I finished my own plays and wrote that book, I am the original come back to life or... undeath again. Sorry if my little prank went to far, you were starting to get a bit to serious about it, but yes, stealing works is wrong."

He opened his wallet and took out a few notes, "Allow me to buy you some food for accompanying me so far. I have plenty since I had my plays released. As for your memory... I can tell you played an instrument at some point. The calluses on your hands, string instrument calluses. You were playing something like a violin or a lute for many, many years. If you've forgotten I can teach you how to play the basics again, maybe that will help with some kind of rehabilitation."
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Shan Orison
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Laithe blinked, staring at the strange face of Driech. Driech Skelemen, the once lost, now apparently revived playwright whose works, he claimed, were not stolen, as they were his to begin with. It could be the words of a clever imposter, but his tone as he spoke of the plays displayed a quiet, if obfuscated, sincerity. He chose to laugh.

"Well, you could still be lying," Laithe said. "But at least it sounds like you did your research so far. Forgive me for not knowing enough to trust that, but so far I don't think you're too bad a man, at least."

As for your memory... I can tell you played an instrument at some point."

Laithe felt his heart sink.

"The calluses on your hands, string instrument calluses. You were playing something like a violin or a lute for many, many years. If you've forgotten I can teach you how to play the basics again, maybe that will help with some kind of rehabilitation."

Laithe clenched his left fist and clutched it to his chest, the deep calluses on each of his fingertips scratching his palm. "I...It...

"It's fine," he said again. "I mean,I wouldn't mind taking you up on a meal or snack, but...but don't worry about the last thing. It's...it's all right." Every part of Laithe's body stood tense, his skintone paling enough to draw the color from his freckles. He forced a smile, but it didn't reach his tremoring eyes. "Whatever that might have been, I'm at least still more than happy listening to others."
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The way he acted... a deep fear? Of what? Musical instruments? No, then he would be afraid of even listening to them, something else? Something forgotten? He did not know, and if the boy did not remember then it may be best to not push it, he will come to his senses one way or another.

He bought a kebab for Laithe, bat meat, onion, and green pepper, "Then eat, calm yourself. I will not push anymore than that. A good director knows when to stop pushing... some hacks keep on pushing, and pushing, and pushing... only for the lead to break their leg or take a nasty fall and sprain their ankle the night before the big show. Dreadful incidents, people need to understand that rest is just as important as training."

He stopped at another store, "Ah... good. One second my friend, I need to get out of these rags and into something with a higher thread count." He marched in, his eyes roving over the turtleneck sweaters and black coats, when someone came to shoo him away he produced a large bundle of notes, which was taken greedily as he took some clothes, going into the back to change.

He came out in clothes he was very familiar with, but instead of a white turtleneck sweater, it was pink. The black coat was buttoned at the bottom, leaving the sweater in view, his pants were clean and black, his shoes were leather, expensive leather, to be specific cascadian leather. He walked out, leaving some instructions for a number of other pieces of clothing to be delivered to his apartment, someone would be there to bring it in.

He turned on his heel and walked back to Laithe, "Finally out of those rags, now if only I could find some decent bone wax and a better source of high quality milk... my skull has seen better days." He ran his fingers over the two large gashes, "Dreadful thing axes are. Cleave right through the bone."

He checked his wallet, he still had a good deal of cash. He grinned, "Would you like to see a play? They still do Pauper Plays in the area, should be a garden somewhere. When I last walked by they were practicing 'The Coven', not one of my plays, but old Robertson loved his witch hunt plays, very popular during the undead purging. Ah... if he was still alive I'd show him I was an Obitu all along, make him seem foolish before clocking him once upside the head. A real bastard of a person, very good playwright though."
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"A...witchhunt play?" Laithe asked. For some reason, the idea of it made him slightly queasy, but there was nothing else offering why that might be. Perhaps it was simply the idea that he was already out and about further from home than normal with a strange skeleton man who, from the way the storekeeps treated him as he left, possessed far more money than he'd have any idea what to do with, and now that man was offering him not only free food but a play as well. Very likely, that was the source for his nausea.

"I mean, I suppose I could come along, sure," he agreed. After all, it was because of this man he'd spent all his gift money. If he hadn't republished his work, Laithe wouldn't feel the need to purchase it. Honestly, a meal and a play was the least the man owed him. "I wish I could tell you where you could get some...milk?....in return, but that's not a common feature in Balefire. Most things that live here aren't interested in being milked, and regular cows wouldn't last long, either."

He tailed after the strange skeleton, realizing part of his ease was something the man didn't do to him once he saw the markings of a musician on him: make him play. "Um, thank you, by the way, for the food and for....not pushing. People tend to thinking it'll solve all my memory issues but...well...thank you all the same."
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Skelemen
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The Obitu shrugged, "I'm not your parent, nor am I someone that will force you to do something that scares you so much. A nasty phobia you have there, perhaps it's related to your amnesia. Maybe playing it will bring back your memory, but it won't do you any good if you're so afraid to do it. In the acting world there are three kinds of people, Thinkers, Doers, and Can Nots."

He looked in the direction of the garden, his eye sockets narrowing, "Those that Think will think and think and think, planning every possible option, always preparing, training, and so on and so forth, doing whatever is needed to be ready for the play. Doers just... do it. They don't think about the part they have, they dive into it, trying to get into character, to perfect their performance by becoming the character, by doing something, anything. Finally... the Can Nots. They are the ones that suffer from stagefright, heights, or have horrible traumas that they can't get past. Sure they could be fine actors, great actors even, but because of one thing... they could end up useless, broken... but there is always a chance a Can Not can become a Thinker or a Doer, it just takes time."

He looked over his shoulder at Laithe, a smile playing on his abnormally flexible skeletal face, "I'm sure some day you'll pick up your instrument and break through whatever is causing your mental block or whatever it really is."

He rounded the corner, his eyes looking at the director and the cast, setting up a small stage while onlookers sat in the grass. Skelemen smiled, "Ah, Pauper Plays are still free, excellent. I can't sit on the ground in these clothes though, grass stains are hard to get out."

There were a few benches, most of them had people on them... but one had only the director on it. He motioned for Laithe to follow as he sat next to the rotund man that held up a paper speaker, shouting orders to the crew.

Skelemen made a clicking sound, "A poor thing to do. Instead of sitting around like a fat waste, help out."

The man glared at Skelemen, but took his advice while swearing and muttering under his breath.

Skelemen would roll his eyes if he could, "Charming. We still have a moment or two before it's done. Anything you still want to talk about or shall I start critiquing this... 'play'." He could understand the below standard costumes, he could not, on the other hand, understand the below average skills, people were doing vocal exercises or warming up in one fashion or another. The movements made him groan in his mind, these people weren't amateurs, they were just all taught below average techniques and practices. Two tiny blue flames appeared in his eye sockets, "To think I started Pauper Plays and they become... this."
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