The Troupe Who Changed The Game

"This I command," the voice bellowed, belonging to no one. Yet the actors looked to be listening with intent. "For toying with the followers of my promises, pressing them to oppression and torture… do not take pity. Slay every man from the enemy's army. Do this for my glory."

There was a loud rumbling as the chariots entered the stage. The soldiers faced them with swords, unafraid, as they swore their life to their faith, their God. There was none but tension between the two. One side led by their commander, who had sworn himself to worship idols, whilst the other was led by a prophetess and the army's leader. But much more than that, they were led by the Greater One who created the heavens and earth.

There were sounds of drumming as both parties stared at the other. Admittedly, the chariots had the upper hand in this battle. Yet there was something about this army of men that held their head up high.

Not wasting any time, chariots accompanying spears met swords. The drums became louder as the beats went along with the clanging of the swords, metal to metal; and how the cast's feet moved with their bodies. Rehearsed, a puzzle completing another. And from the woven background of clean, isolated desert, came blood. 

"Do not spare one,"roared the Unseen.

The battle continued until victory was in the hands of the prophetess' army and their God. There was none left of the other side but the commander, who fell on his feet, alive and bruised. Yet no one batted an eye. They were celebrating, praising their God for the victory he had given them. It was as if no one could see him.

So he fled on foot. The set changed from one into another as he travelled, finding himself lost until he reached the camp of his ally.

A meek woman came about to meet him, her voice calm as she told the commander, "Do not be afraid, sir. I am here to serve you."

She led him to her tent, giving him wool to fare to the cold.

Relief washed over him. "Then shall I have a drink of water? A jug would be fine."

Before he knew it, he was alone at one side of the stage. 

The stage was divided in half, time separating the two. The commander's side moved fast, with the lights beginning it's flicker. Slow until fast, as if the lamp would run out of oil. But the lady's part of the half was steady. With the set designed as a place where a meal was to be prepared, her hands moved gently. 

The left showed a relaxed, majestic show of preparation, while the right aimed a heart-racing performance.

Before time stopped for both. 

A second or two, there was a beat. A continuation. 

But instead of just the commander, his side was suddenly packed with his subordinates. They were looking at him, their faces deformed, expressions unreadable. They were once alive but now they're only ghosts of the past. Of his conscience.

Behind him, they screamed. 

And he did his best to be unafraid. He shouted through their whines of terror, "This is war! Armies would always die and one must accept it! You cannot guilt me into restraining my responsibility to your deaths. You cannot come back!"

He was speaking to them yet it only sounded like he was assuring himself.

Time came back to the other and before he knew it, the lady had returned to the inside of the tent. 

She wasn't carrying water. Instead, she brought him a bottle of mead and a plate of sliced cheddar, berries at the side. "I thought our guest deserved more than what was asked. You have been very humble to ask for just."

A delighted look replaced his face. He began whispering prayers of gratefulness to the gold and silver stands he worshipped, the lady watching his show of devotion.

And so he turned to her. "If you would, woman, stay outside my tent. And if anyone asks for me, tell them that you have not seen my being nor my shadow."

It wasn't a plea. A man like him would never. But the woman obediently nodded her head, letting go of the thick cloth of the tent. 

He was alone again.

But both were present.

The commander was overjoyed. 

"Oh, to have a blanket to survive the coldness of the night!" He touched the wool to his face, pleased to feel such warmth.

"Oh, to have a feast when I need not asked for one!" He drank the wine, ate the cheese, and savoured the berries to his delight until his stomach was full.

"Oh, to have a servant who would look out for me!" he chuckled to himself, slurping the last drop of wine. He yawned as he continued speaking. "She is frail and meek, a perfect thing to lure away soldiers who must be coming to find me. No, with someone uninvolved, they would not suspect a thing."

Outside his tent, the woman prayed. "Lord, your will must be done. I have no doubts of executing what you have asked of me. I only need your guidance."

She was meek, but not for long. She stayed outside in his order, giving her the time to get what she wanted. Waiting for him to fall drunkenly asleep, she held the dagger she used to cut the block of cheddar. It looked a little bit too fancy to belong to someone who was only a servant.

"After this, I would need to report to the prophetess. How the great torturer of my people came to die at the hands of a kind-hearted woman."

Hearing nothing besides the commander's snoring, the woman shoved the cloth acting as the tent's entrance. "Sir, I will serve you now," she whispered. She raised the dagger, closing her eyes to take a deep breath. 

"Do not spare one,"echoed the voice from before.

"This, I will offer to my saviour. Father, bless my people."

As soon as she was about to go for the kill, the curtains closed.

-*-

The audience was quick to hop on their feet, applauding the brilliance of the performance.

"So that's Moon Petal," Nelle muttered, her eyes wide.

"So that's good scripting," Hellen bit her lip.

"Those were great costumes! Where did they get those fabrics?" Freeda squealed.

"Are we forgetting how the set of the play was just pure artistry?" Giles swooned.

"The blockings! The acting! That was amazing!" Meanwhile, Sybil was on the verge of crying.

Moon Petal was indeed great at what they were doing.

As West clapped along with them, his eyes scanned the crowd. Lemver Street was indeed different from the stage they've come to know. From the often changing prop materials and set to the appearance of the crowd, the price of all that would really come to mind.

He assumed that it was because they were locals and that the emperor must have taken a liking to them after all those years.

He could only scoff because the very same emperor was rumoured to have a knack of getting rid of witches.

Shaking his head to return to his reality, his eyes caught sight of Patrick. He was still clapping, wearing a proud smile while his gaze was still caught on stage. 

It was obvious how he yearned to be back with them.

West looked back to the conversation he had with Nelle. It gave him hints of how she wanted an out. And if she did, would Sir Duncan accept her back again if she regretted it?

Nelle often complained how her father always treated him like he was his son, more than she was his daughter. But the man also had his moments when he was indifferent with him.

Like when West tried to convince him to not attend to Moon Petal's invitation.

Everyone who worked with the theatre troupe was called on stage when they took their last bow. The audience cheered, hats and flowers were thrown as the actors graciously accepted them. 

The witch who played as the prophetess stepped forward, her white braided wig swaying, the audience quieting. "I would like to thank everyone who watched our play today." 

She was answered by another round of applause. It wasn't as loud as the common folks would do. The nobles, with their fancy suits and beautiful, clean dresses, were much more respectable in nature when it came to taking their turn to react. 

"Of course, we would not have done it without our patrons. Ladies and gentlemen, the Lord and Lady Saveni; Marquis of Flaria; the Duchess of Astrel; the Princess Arvilla and the Emperor himself, His Royal Majesty, Emperor Theron Ulievean!"

Beside the stage were elevated seats. From where they were, West could only see them giving the actors slow and graceful waves. They did not bother to face the others who were watching, but it seemed like their show of hands was enough to satisfy even the fanciest man of the audience.

Those over there were higher than them, after all.

The male witch released a deep breath.

"They have patrons?" Nelle whispered to him, amused. 

West shrugged, pushing away thoughts of jealousy. "Imagine having one."

"Would that mean more masks?" Ruben innocently asked.

Nelle tilted her head at the child's question. "Hm… Imagine having more," she replied, shooting West a grin.

"But most of all," the prophetess continued. "I would like to welcome our invited guests, Eglantine Theatre Troupe."

Wait, what?

They were seeking the troupe's attention, and now they got it. Confused, they turned to one another. Should they wave? Do they bow and do a curtsy? But they were bare, masks unprepared.

They came as just humans, not artists, who were only there to watch.

"Would any of the members care to join Moon Petal onstage?"

But with that, it seemed like changes must be made.