The Prologue...

“Are you sure this is the right place?”  Duran was thoroughly dubious.

The audience watched them expectantly, and certainly more enthusiastically than the elves were used to.   Chants and cheers rang out through the air - and some rather ribald heckles too -but of course as professionals, the Green Glade Theatrical Players had each and every one of them learned to rise above such things.  Besides, at least everyone in the audience was awake for once.

Still, Duran had to admit, he was more used to hearing raucous cries of “GET OFF!” or “WHAT’S THE MATTER, YOU FORGOT YOUR LINES?”  He’d never had an audience call out “YOU’RE GONNA GET YOUR RUTTING HEAD KICKED IN!”  before.

Luthien brandished a tattered strip of parchment, jabbing at the spidery cross which had been marked in deep red ink.

“I’m certain!  Look, it says so on the map,” he protested.

“But this...”  Duran looked around, “This isn’t a theatre!”

“Well, no.  It’s... it’s an amphitheatre!”  Luthien had to shout over the noise of the audience, who seemed in no mood to settle down quietly and watch the play.

“It’s a stadium!  And it’s full!”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?  There must be thousands of people here!”

Duran snatched the map and tried to read the faded lines and spidery scrawl.  “We only sold twelve tickets...”

“I put up a poster,”  offered Clew-Neith, shouldering his way between them and taking the map.  “It’s amazing what a bit of advertising can do...”

“My point is,” explained Duran, “just because you bought a dodgy map from some goblin street-seller – whose name, incidentally, was ‘Cheet’ – it doesn’t mean that it’s remotely correct, and what’s more  –“

Duran stopped dead, his face suddenly flushed with panic.  “CLEW-NEITH!”  he cried.

“What now?”  He was absently scratching the ears of his bear costume.

“You’re on stage!  In costume!”

“Yeah.  Just wanted to come out and see what all the shouting was about.  I’ll go again in a minute.  What time we starting?”

“But... Your costume!  The Bear doesn’t appear until the end of Act One!  You’ll give it away!”

Duran was half leading, half dragging Clew-Neith from the turfed stage.

“Orion’s sack!  Hopefully no-one noticed!” he fretted.

“But we’re performing ‘The Princess and the Bear’,” explained Clew-Neith adjusting  his mask, “I’d have thought it’d have been obvious that a bear might be involved at some point.  And besides...”

Duran was desperately trying to cover Clew-Neith’s heavy, stinking bearskin cloak as he hurried him along.

“Besides what?”

“You’re wearing your dress!”

“Well, everyone knows I’m the Princess!” he declared with a flourish.

The air was split by deafening shriek and the audience were momentarily silenced.

Duran roughly shoved Clew-Neith from what he took to be the stage, into the sodden mud which lurked in the wings.

“CURTAIN CALL!  PLACES EVERYONE!”  He cried, clapping his hands.  The rest of the troupe lined up on their marks, which had been painted (to their frustration) rather obtrusively across the middle of the stage.

The huge, lumbering hulk of an ogre sloped out to centre-stage, his knuckles dragging deep troughs in the grass as he went.  He spat the whistle out of his mouth, treading it into the turf.  As an afterthought, he slowly crouched to pick it up before rubbing off some of the dirt and stuffing it back into his pocket.

“Ah!”  Duran enthusiastically clapped the ogre on the back, but he barely felt it.  “Mister Director, I take it?”

“WHA -- ?”  grunted the ogre.

“You know - the man in charge!  Our fearless leader!”

The ogre didn’t move.  He was considering whether or not to take off  the elf’s head and use his spine as a whip.  Luckily for Duran, the thought took a very long time to travel between the rough stone which  passed for the ogre’s brain and its huge meaty fists.

“The teller of tales!  The master of stories!”  Duran continued on, ignoring the ogre’s vacant stare.

“WHA’CHOO TALKIN’ ABOUT, SQUASHY ELF?”  the ogre growled, raising its fist.  Its thick, muscular arm tensed for the impending deathblow, waiting only for the signal from its brain to eventually reach it.

“The one who weaves imagination into gold!” Duran confided with a sly wink.

The ogre’s eyes suddenly lit up.  Its raised fist scratched the matted hair beneath its striped cap instead.  It took a while, but then he finally agreed:

“YEAH... DAT’S ME... UM... WHAT’SIT OF GOLD.”

Duran’s grin widened.  “Fantastic!”  He tried to put an arm around the ogre’s shoulder, but couldn’t reach.  “So, what are your thoughts on this opening scene...?  I really can’t help feeling that the Princess – that’s me, by the way – needs a few more lines here.”

“DOES PRINCESS HAVE GOLD?” the ogre grinned.

“Well... yes, I imagine she’s very rich, but when it comes to her lines, she’s a bloody pauper!  If you could just write out a few of the minor characters, I’m sure I could pick up the slack...”

“PRINCESS GIVE OGRE GOLD?”

“Ogre?  Well, not really.  You see, there’s no ogre in the play.  Unless you’ve written one in?  Oh gods!  You’ve changed the script, haven’t you?  We can’t handle another re-write!  We’ve barely had time to rehearse as it is!  Unless –“  Duran licked his lips, “Does the Princess get more lines?”

A roar erupted from the audience and all eyes were suddenly on the wings as – could it be....?

Yes, Duran was certain.  Another troupe of actors were marching out onto stage!

Duran looked between them and the ogre, his confusion giving way to anger at (quite literally) being upstaged.

“Who the hell are these jokers?”

The ogre grinned and clapped a hand on the elf’s shoulders.

“EXTRAS,” he laughed, fishing the mud-caked whistle from his pocket as Duran picked himself up off the floor...