When the Script Gets Real

Amara slumped into her seat behind the set, practically melting with exhaustion after the whirlwind of takes that morning. Her "captain" costume a mishmash of leather and chain mail that, while nowhere near authentic, was heavy enough to make her shoulders ache felt like it had fused to her skin. She wasn't sure whether she was sweating from the actual workout of sparring or from trying not to fall over every time she caught Elara giving her that look.

Across from her, Elara was lounging on a folding chair, sipping water like she hadn't just spent the morning getting knocked over repeatedly in full armor. Somehow, she'd managed to keep her wig and mustache mostly intact, which was more than Amara could say for herself. Her hair looked like it had declared independence an hour ago.

"You look like you've just fought a war," Elara teased, smirking over the edge of her water bottle.