Pantomime - Parfait Parfait

__TOC__
Act 1
(*The Theatre is aglow with lights, holding the darkness at bay. Lorenzo walks out on stage, calling for the audience to find their seats and adjusting the arrangement of parchment on a pedestal standing in the corner of the stage. Once the audience sits, he clears his throat and begins to narrate:*)
Once upon a time in a far off land, there lay a small village near the great black woods. And in this village lived a young baker’s apprentice-
“But I’ll be master one day!” (*Rostam, playing the part of the apprentice, says with a flourish of his hand*)
- and a wealthy spice merchant-
“WeathiEST merchant, I’ll have it be known!” (*Ohanzee says with his head held high, teeth gleaming in a wide smirk as he trots across the stage towards the left*)
-with his daughter.
“The sweetest seasoning of all~” (*Ligeia proclaims as they seal-bop across the stage, following Ohanzee*)
The boy had been apprenticing under the village’s baker for a few months now, and could cook several loaves of bread if given proper instruction, but mostly the baker had put them to use by sending them to collect grains from farmers and other supplies in the market.
“Tomisk almost never leaves the shop. The old man is great with pastries, but his people skills are as crusty as burnt bread!” (*The boy gives a dramatic shrug before he runs off towards the market, set on the left side of the stage.*)
The spice merchant was a regular in the marketplace-
“Practically the lord of the place!” (*The merchant tells the audience before he approaches Suleta, now flaunting light lilac feathers and a new pattern and playing the role of a local merchant*)
-as he would sell his own wares and take his daughter there to shop and walk around as well.
“I come to the market so often, that I know where everything is! I know where all of the best deals can be found, and which merchants will travel and bring back interesting things to look at!” (*The daughter gestures with her flippers towards the market stalls.*)
But what she didn’t know was how to look forward. This was evident when she walked straight into the baker’s apprentice.
(*Rostam, now carrying a large prop of a bag of flour, casts an unsure look towards Ligeia, but their eyes meet for less than a second before they seal-bop directly into him, causing flour to burst out of the top of the bag and over the front of Rostam’s clothes and body*)
“Oh DEAR!” (*The daughter lifts a flipper to cover her mouth*) “I’m so sorry! I had no idea you were there!”
Though the boy had seen the merchant’s daughter in the market on days before this fateful one, today was different: today, the boy was enchanted with the daughter, lost in the deep, swirling pools of her eyes. Never before had he seen someone with eyes as lovely and pure as hers-
“I-it’s alright, miss… (*The boy smiled sheepishly and avoided her gaze*)
The daughter, however, had seen many ‘mons more enchanting than the boy, all of which had not been covered in flour, so, once she heard everything was fine, she made her leave.
“Fare thee well, then.” (*The daughter inclined her head to him, before she turned around and seal-bopped back towards her father.*)
Even as the merchant and his daughter left the market, the boy remained where he stood, a dopey grin on his face and flour falling from the bag he held-
(*Rostam quickly readjusted the bag so that its contents would stop spilling out onto the stage*)
-as he watched the daughter’s… graceful form as she accompanied her father.
“There are none in this world or the next that travel as elegant as she…” (*The boy sighs to himself*)
With his heart captured, he knew he must speak to her again. Preferably this time without flour over his face and making himself look presentable.
“I shall run to the baker and grab my finest clothes!” (*The boy declared as he brushed flour off of his face with one hand*) “Then I shall meet her in the gardens of her estate and proclaim my love for her!”
But the boy knew that looks alone would not be enough to earn her attention, let alone her favour. For him to leave a good impression, he would need to show the merchant’s daughter that he was intelligent and understanding, the type of person who picked up on the interests of others and knew how to display their care of them. For that to be done, he would have to present her with a gift to show his knowledge of her interests.
“But what could I get her?” (*The boy held his chin in his free hand as he thought.*) “I have seen her around the market many-a time, so I know of her interests, but which interest would make the best gift…?”
From the times he had seen her in the market, the boy knew that the merchant’s daughter typically did three things during her time there: she would go visit the various food vendors and shops to see what they had prepared for that day; she would walk through small flower patches near the edge of the market; and she would sit and listen to the street musicians sing.
“I could try to bake her something! I have all of the ingredients and recipes at the bakery, after all!”
The boy had only been apprenticing at the bakery for a short time, and had not made many things without the guidance of his mentor.
“Or perhaps I could pick some wildflowers and present them to her!”
The boy himself had never seen which flower patches she most frequented, so how could he know what would be her favourites?
“Or perhaps I could serenade her with a song!”
The boy had no experience with performing, and no instrument to use but his own voice.
“Oooh, what would be best?”
What would be best indeed...
: That is the question we pose to you, our dear audience! What gift should the boy bring to the merchant’s daughter? Should he bake her something, bring her some wildflowers from the patches near the edge of the market, or sing for her in her gardens?
: Choose wisely, for the boy’s fates are in your hands!
: Let us hear your thoughts, everyone! Speak now, tremenda così forte!
Act 2
: Silenzioso, silenzioso! It is time to press on with our story!
After a long bout of pondering, the young apprentice began to consider something much more flashy, something far more permanent--
“Jewelry perhaps...?” (*Rostam hums, pressing a hand to his chin in thought*)
However, he was quick to perish the thought after turning out his pockets and finding not but lint and more flour. He remembered why it was that he had picked the initial three ideas--
“Alas! Not even a pittance to my name!” (*The Gallade sets the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically.*)
Sadly true! For he was far poorer than even the very dirt he trod upon! Poorer than a shepherd without a flock! Poorer than a drunkard, high and dry! Poorer than--
“Dirt. Yes, continue.” (*The Gallade gives an out of character huff, hands on his hips and a foot tapping impatiently.*)
Finally, the young lad came to a decision! Since he knew not of a decent patch of wildflowers from which he could pick-- and realizing that his singing voice sounded of a Loudred being violently strangled- Thus--!
“I shall bake to show her my affection!” (*Rostam triumphantly points up into the air.*) “I shall craft her the finest apple cake! This is clearly the best choice.”
Apple cake, such a simple yet sweet dish that anyone could enjoy. And though just months into his apprenticeship, it was also a hard dish to botch. It would be easy as pie-- or cake, really. His decision set, the boy hurried back to the bakery to prepare his gift-- and to remove the flour still clung to his being.
“My fair seal should not be kept in waiting!”
(*Rostam rushes off stage left and a flat prop that looks like the side of a fancy house is quickly placed on stage right by a Machoke. Ligeia is seen quickly seal-bopping into place behind the prop.*)
Evening soon overtakes the town in its beautiful embrace as our would-be romantic hurries along with his gift, fresh from the ovens.
(*Rostam struts back into the scene with a clean shirt and a small, wrapped parcel tucked under one arm.*)
Prepared as he was in dress and gift--
“As one should be when off to greet a dear lady!” (*Rostam touted.*)
--He had however neglected in all his preparations to find out where exactly it was that his dear lady lived.
(*Rostam stops mid stage, shoots Lorenzo a miffed look, and then raises a hand to his brow in a gesture to search for something.*)
“Surely she could not be far from here?”
And indeed, the tradesman’s daughter was not far at all! As if on cue, an angel’s voice reached out to our lost and lovesick fool, beckoning him hither to a window.
(*Ligeia sits up behind the prop’s window and hums out a short song. Rostam in turn cups a hand to his ear before trotting the rest of the way towards the prop house.*)
(*The Gallade kneels down beside the window and extends a hand towards Ligeia.*) “My fair lady! It brings me great joy to hear your voice and set eyes upon you once more!”
“Hello? Who is there?” (*Ligeia leans out of the prop a bit.*) “Oh! Who might you be?”
“You do not recognize me? Why, I am the baker’s apprentice. We bumped into each other-- though more you into I-- just earlier this day.”
“Oh, the young baker! I could hardly recognize you without your coating of flour.” (*Ligeia giggles.*) “Pray tell, what are you doing about this evening?”
“Ahem, yes, well--” (*Rostam stands.*) “It is that very meeting that has brought me here tonight! I wish to impart on you a gift--”
“Oh dear apprentice, you need not apologize for bumping into me.” (*Ligeia claims cheerfully, fanning a flipper in dismissal.*)
“Oh but I must, dear lady! It speaks quite ill of me were I not to deliver a true apology for our happenstance and for likely dirtying your garments with flour. Thus--”
(*Rostam juts the parcel he was carrying toward Ligeia, who quickly jerks their snout up to avoid the box being jammed into it.*)
“I have baked a cake to rival your sweetness.”
The tradesman’s daughter was quite amused at the boy’s gesture. Surely he could never make anything as sweet as she! Still, she would accept his gift and give it a sample, if for nothing else than to prove him wrong.
(*Ligeia giggles, unwrapping the box and taking out a slice of cake.*) “Dear apprentice, no sugary confection could even come close!”
“This is true!” (*Rostam proclaims, standing and facing away from Ligeia dramatically as they seem to take a bite of the cake.*) It is nigh impossible to truly capture such a sweetness, nor even hope to come close.”
(*Ligeia looks down at the cake, puffs out their cheeks, and pats a flipper to their chest as Rostam continues.*)
“But when we ran into each other in the market, I became helplessly enchanted by your beauty-- ...and grace. It sent my heart soaring! I can feel nothing but love in your presence!” (*He still doesn’t notice Ligeia as he speaks out towards the audience.*)
(*The Primarina motions like they are gagging, tongue lolling to the side and both flippers now by their throat.*)
“Though what chance could one such as I have to even be near a beautiful creature such as yourself? Truly, I had to try! I had to attempt to make something to show my feelings-- nay! My love towards you!”
(*Ligeia dramatically flops down behind the house prop with a loud thump.*)
“Every baker needs just the right sweetness for their goods-- And there is none that could possibly rival yours! I know this is a lot to take in, but please would you consider returning my love?”
(*Rostam stands in awkward silence for a long moment before turning back to the prop house.*)
“Miss?” (*He peers towards the window.*) “Zounds! Has she fainted at my proclamation?”
The boy only has moments to panic over this before a familiar voice sends dread running down his spine.
“Daughter?” (*The voice of Ohanzee shouts from off stage.*) “What on earth was that racket?”
(*There is a long pause as the Mightyena trots in from stage right towards the house prop, and Rostam turns towards the audience nervously.*)
“By the gods! What has happened here??” (*Ohanzee rushes the last few feet to where Ligeia is laying.*) “O cruel fates! Take not my daughter from me, as you did her mother! … Thank the heavens-- she yet draws breath! And what is this? Apples??”
Filled with a fury that he never knew, the tradesman frantically looked about for who would commit such an act against his precious daughter. It was then that he caught sight of the young apprentice staring into his daughter’s window.
“You!”
(*Ohanzee rushes around the side of the prop house and snarls at Rostam.*)
“Who is this scoundrel?! Is it he who has poisoned my precious pearl?!”
“Poison??” (*Rostam looks taken aback.*) “I would never poison one who I admire so dearly!”
(*The Mightyena turns to face the audience.*) “The scoundrel claims to admire, but he did not know apples are poison to my pearl!”
“What?? I swear sir, I could not have known! I couldn’t sir, honest! I- what can I do? Please, how can I save her?” (*Rostam falls to his knees and claps his hands together, pleading to the dark type before him.*)
The tradesman wanted nothing more at that moment than to see the boy’s repentance for what he had done to his daughter.
“If the scoundrel wishes to repent for his actions, he can find his redemption by curing my child.” (*Ohanzee snarls.*)
“But! The scoundrel will find no forgiveness from I. Now let him make haste, away! He is not welcome here, lest he brings the cure and my daughter he shall not see again!”
The tradesman turns, slamming the door in the apprentice’s face and leaving him in the dark and silent street. Overcome with guilt, the boy, for the second time that day, slunk off with his head held low. The idea of never seeing his beloved again filled him with anguish! The memory of her... graceful form filled his mind.
(*Ligeia goes bopping along the back of the stage, as if to remind the audience of what they were missing.*)
(*Rostam turns towards the crowd, a troubled look on his face.*)
“I know of two people who could help… but--”
There were but two locals who could possibly have the knowledge to cure such an affliction. However, both came with their downfalls. The first, an apothecary, renown for being quite skilled!
“But how could I possibly afford one of their cures? Would they even hear me out on such a predicament? Would they care?” (*Rostam muses.*)
And the second, an old hermit on the edge of town, reputed to be a kindly practitioner of herbs.
“But I have heard they are such an odd individual... Will they even understand what she needs? They may be known as kind, but can they be trusted?”
(*Rostam spread his arms wide.*)
“I cannot bear to fathom my love to never bop again! But from whom should I request aid?” (*He folds an arm over his eyes.*)
: And that is the question we pose to you, our dear audience! Who must the boy ask for a cure? The doctor or the hermit?
: Choose wisely, for the boy’s and daughter’s fates are in your hands!
: Let us hear your thoughts, everyone! Speak now, tremenda così forte!
Act 3
: Silenzioso, silenzioso! Your voices were quite unanimous this round. Let us continue!
The choice, in fact, was quite easy to make--
“I shall go to the hermit!” (*The boy snaps his fingers.*) “Though they may be odd, they should have the knowledge needed to save her!”
Not to mention, their service would be cheap, an especially important fact for our poor, poor apprentice.
(*Rostam frowns at Lorenzo’s direction.*) “Yes, right... Off I go, to the forest!”
(*Rostam rushes off stage right and a flat prop that looks like a tree is quickly placed on stage left by a Machoke. Monifa takes her spot on stage, climbing up the prop and hanging in its “branches.”*)
With his mind firmly set on the path ahead, the boy ventured into the woods on the edge of the town to search for the hermit. Unfortunately, said path was unfamiliar and strange to him, and he knew not his destination, for trips to the hermit had declined in recent years and few spoke of their whereabouts, leaving the boy to wander alone.
(*The boy nervously walks around, shoulders hunched and hands clutched in front of his chest as he looks around with unease.*)
Eventually, a voice from the tree tops greets him.
“Hark, boy!” (*The cowled figure leans out from the branches so that they are better in the vision of the boy.*) “Wherefore do you find yourself walking these woods at such an hour in lone company?”
“Ah! You must be the hermit of these woods!”
“Nay.”
“Uh…” (*The boy paused, clearly confused.*) “Nay?”
“Nay.”
“What do you mean ‘nay’?!”
(*The cowled figure cocks their head to one side.*) “I’m curious what you think I mean when I say ‘nay’.”
“I-” (*The boy looks around.*) “So you are not the hermit?”
“Nay, why would I be?”
“You live alone in the woods and dress as if your hobby of choice is whisking children away into the night!” (*The boy motions to the cowled figure with a sweeping gesture.*)
“And you tromp through the woods asking dumb questions and wearing rags that you appear to have rolled around in the poppy’s powder in.” (*The cowled figure cackles at their own joke.*) “Mayhaps that would explain why your mind is so simply dazzled!”
“I-” (*The boy puts a hand to his chest and pauses dramatically, mouth agape in offence.*) “I will have you know that this is flour and that I am a baker and that is the optimal dress for my profession-”
That he could afford.
(*Rosham rolled his eyes.*) “And of you, you codswallop-spouting skamelar! Pray tell, if you are not the hermit of these woods, then who are you?”
“A collier!”
“A collier?! All the way out here!”
“Why, but of course, where else would I get the wood and distance to do my job? ‘Never start a fire where fools will run into it,’ that’s what my mum always said!”
The boy was flabbergasted by the cowled figure’s words and behaviours. There were no helpful answers to be found in their words, and no hints to be seen in their shrouded face, their true thoughts and ambitions hidden by the cowl, leaving only their eerily joyful smile to be seen.
He directed his attention to the branches behind the figure, so they might avoid gazing directly at their face, but still be looking towards them, when something caught his eye. Herbs of pale green and berries of bright red in jars hung from thin strings of rope from several of the branches of the tree.
“But hark!” (*The boy pointed at the herbs behind the cowled figure.*) “Those are herbs, are they not? Mistletoe and dill I see!”
“Hawthorn and thyme, but you at least got the colours correct.”
“Ah, yes! Yes I knew that, of course, but I was simply testing to make sure that YOU knew it!” (*The boy crosses his arms and smiles smugly at the figure.*) “A simple collier would know not of herbs-”
“You greatly underestimate the common knowledge of those around you, knave.” (*The figure chuckles and swayed in the branches.*) “A collier such as myself would know plenty of herbs, lest they prefer their meals to be bland as bread.”
“What kind of bread have you been eating?”
Although as a baker the boy was somewhat interested in the response they would give, he lost interest in the subject swiftly, for with the cowled figures swaying, the area of the tree directly behind them became visible, and, lo, there sat a collection of small vials in a woven basket.
“Those are potions!” (*The boy pointed again.*)
“They are not.”
“Oh REALLY?” (*The boy rolls their eyes over dramatically.*) “Is that TRULY the case?! My DEEPEST apologies, what are they then?”
“Jam.”
“JAM?!”
“With how much you echo others, I’m surprised you were not born a Chatot.”
“You expect me to believe that there’s jam literally, quite literally, after you just told me that your bread is bland?!”
“…” (*The cowled figure tilted their head from side to side.*) “I lick the jam out of the vials.”
“Enough!” (*The boy stomps his foot.*) “Why are you making this so difficult! You must be the hermit of these woods!”
“I’m NOT a hermit!!” (*The cowled figure waves the boy off.*) “Too many unsatisfied customers in that business.”
“If you’re familiar with the business, then you must take part in it, so you must be the hermi-” (*A small, dark object was flung from the tree, narrowly missing the boy. He paused his speech to stare down at the object on the ground before turning back to the figure.*) “DID YOU JUST THROW CHARCOAL AT ME?!?”
(*The cowled figure shrugged.*) “To my knowledge, it was thrown at the ground.”
“UGH, WHAT IS WITH YOU?! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THIS KINDLY OLD HERMIT WHO WAS GOING TO HELP ME!”
“Who gave you the idea that I was any of those things!...Especially a hermit, that one’s the most false!”
(*The boy puts both hands to his head for a second before he removes them to punch the air in front of him, and then turns around and proceeds to stomp around in a circle with his arms spread wide and a disgruntled look on his face. He makes two and a half laps around before he returns to the tree.*)
“Look, I am willing to pay you to work with me, so-”
“Pay what?”
“I, uh-” (*The boy checks his pockets.*)
The boy had no wealth on him, so he could not pay with gold. However, wrapped up in a swath of cloth was a slice of the applecake, an extra he had prepared in case the daughter had liked it so much that she had wanted more.
(*The boy pulls out the cloth, unwraps it, and presents it to the cowled figure.*) “I have with me a finely crafted slide of applecake!”
“Oooooh! That does look nice. Throw it to me.”
“Really?”
“Throw it t-”
(*Rosham doesn’t wait for Monifa to finish and lobs the applecake at her with a good deal of force. The Aipom quickly grabs the branches of the tree with her arms and uses her tail to catch the applecake, which splatters a little against her hand.
She pulls herself up to sit in the branches, brings the applecake towards her face, and takes a small bite.*)
“Mmm~ not bad.” (*The cowled figure drops the applecake into the basket of potions.*) “Now, what was it you needed help with?”
“A fair lass, with whom I find myself quite captivated with, has fallen ill, and I seek a way to cure her!”
“Do you know of the source of her ailment?”
The boy was well aware of the cause, for his actions were what struck down the graceful daughter. His applecake, baked with love and whatever ingredients within reach that seemed right to him.
 
“No?” (*The cowled figure gives an inquisitive tilt of their head at his response.*)
“I have no idea.”
“None at all?!”
“Nope.”
“Blast! With no clear source of the ailment, providing a cure will prove great difficulty.”
“Well, while I do not know what directly caused her to succumb to illness, but I do know it happened after she ate.”
“After her midday meal…” (*The cowled figure brought a hand to their chin to think. After a few seconds, they jump with alarm.*) “Alack! What she consumed must have been possessed!”
“Possessed?!”
“Indeed! She is ailed by daemons!”
(*The boy was still for a moment, before he shook his head in disbelief.*) “Are you sure?”
“Of course! There is not another explanation!” (*The cowled figure turns around and begins to rummage through the basket of vials.*) “This is a grand stroke of luck for you, boy, for I have seen this before!”
“You have?!”
“Yes! I fend off the daemons on a regular basis!” (*They pause their search to come up and clench their fist.*) “They are always present, the odiferous slatterns!” (*They hold their head in their hands.*) “Always with their scratching and their screaming, they never leave me!” (*They then turn back to the basket and continue to search through the vials.*)
The boy was beginning to question his decision to seek help from the hermit. However, before the boy could rethink his plan, the hermit emerged from the tree with a vial in each of their hands.
“Now,” (*The cowled figure jumps down from the tree carrying a vial of red liquid and a vial of blue liquid - both vials are covered in applecake from when they dumped it into the basket earlier.*) “either of these should be able to cure her of her ail- oops, these are a bit dirty.” (*Before he can react, Monifa shoves the cake-covered vials into Rosham’s clothing and wipes them off.*)
“-her ailments, yes, right. Anyway, I believe that these daemons have stolen her breath away! But, because you did not see her possession as it happened, I cannot know which of these remedies will be more effective. So you must choose which you think will work best!”
(*The apprentice looks quite skeptical.*) “Stolen her breath…? How can you-”
“Look kid, who’s the hermit here? Neither of us, but let’s move on-”
“Oh, I will be moving on after this, trust me.”
“So, the first, a blue vial.” (*The cowled figure held the potion in question out and gave it a gentle shake.*) “This is for if the daemon is not within her, but lurking around her, possibly even perched upon her! This will grant her the vigor needed to fight the creatures back and reclaim her breath.”
“The second, a red vial.” (*The cowled figure held it up for the boy to see.*) “This one would be if the daemon is still within her, hiding inside and coveting that which does not belong to it! It will force the beast and its wicked ways out of her and return her breath.”
“I, erm, could you explain these again? I don’t understand the difference between them, or if they work any differently, or- wait, do either of them have any side effects?”
“Oh but of course!” (*The cowled figure giggles with glee.*) “What would medicine be without horrific drawbacks?”
“Uhh, functioning as intended?”
“Shut your bloated noise-hole, you yeasty swob! You are maybe 14 summers, don’t tell me how medicine works! Besides, everything works differently for everyone, so I can’t possibly know!”
“...Very well, then.” (*The boy says defeatedly, eager to leave as soon as possible, and cups his chin with one hand thoughtfully.*) “Let’s see, which one should I take…?”
: And that is the question we pose to you, our dear audience! Which potion should the boy choose? The blue or the red?
: Choose wisely, for the daughter’s fate are in your hands!
: Let us hear your thoughts, everyone! Speak now, tremenda così forte!
Act 4
: Zitto, zitto. Your words have been heard, let us continue-
The boy weighed his options, the red against the blue, the blue against the red. His lackluster knowledge of healing and daemons made the choice difficult.
“In truth, I know not how to judge these potions; their effects and nature are alien to me still. T’were I in other circumstances, I might ask the fair lady which potion she would think best to suit her needs - alas, she is both over a score of bow shots from me and unconscious, so that is not an option.” (*The boy sighs, and then casts the two vials a sidelong glance.*)
“And, given the nature of this ‘mon, I dare not take both potions. From what they have told me, both could have some sort of side effect, and I dare not expose the fair lass to both potions - in truth, it is only the desire to not leave empty handed that drives me to even pick one.” (*The boy hums in thought for a moment before he looks back to the vials with a newfound spark in his eyes.*) “Well, logically, even if the daemon is not within her now, it may yet find its way into her, at which point the blue potion would no longer have an effect - therefore, the red potion must be best!”
And so, the boy makes his choice and takes the red potion from the figure’s grasp. Quick as a flash, the cloaked figure shuffles backwards, tucking the other potion away and nodding vigorously.
“Good good,” (*The cloaked figure holds her tail up, palm spread.*) “Now just remember, all sales are final, so don’t be coming back and telling me it didn’t work.”
(*The boy raises a brow.*) “But you didn’t sell me anything.”
(*The figure smirks, swishing her cloak about her and jumping behind the tree prop, “vanishing” into the woods, all while cackling like a madwoman. The boy glances around in confusion, peering at the potion in his hand before putting it in his pocket.*)
With the cloaked figure gone as mysteriously as they had appeared, the apprentice takes his newfound cure and hurries back to town to deliver it to his beloved -- hoping against all hope that the figure had spoke, er, true and the potion would help the lady in need.
(*Rostam heads off stage left, and the house prop is brought back in on stage right. The boy reappears moments later -- and halts when he notices the merchant pacing back and forth in front of the house prop.*)
“Oh no, the merchant!” (*The boy frowns fearfully.*) “I hadn’t thought of this…”
No he had not, for although the spice merchant was well-known to hold a grudge, the apprentice did not anticipate the merchant’s blood to boil so hot as to make him take guard at his home. But there he was, clear as day, and looking none too happy.
“Should that rapscallion approach this house again,” (*The merchant growls*), “he will RUE the day he poisoned my darling daughter!”
(*The merchant casts a forlorn glance towards the house prop.*) “Oh my sweet flower, cling to life for as long as you can! I shan’t let you die today, oh please, heavens, do not take her from me! Send someone to save her, anyone!”
Well, he did say ANYone… The apprentice took this as his cue and approached the merchant, striking as heroic a pose as he could muster.
(*The boy eagerly obeys, stomping to middle stage and standing wide-stance with hands on his hips and head cocked upward.*) “Do not despair, good master! I, the baker’s apprentice, have returned with a cure for your daughter!”
(*The boy’s posturing is interrupted by the merchant’’s snarl, and the Gallade shrinks backward as he rears back on his hind legs.*) “he has returned, wretch, and with LIES no less!”
“Lies? I do not lie, sir,” (*The boy starts to pull out the potion*), “see, look here, I have--”
“More poison to infect my daughter! Has he no shame?!”
“No, no, you don’t understand--”
“Oh I underSTAND” -- (*The merchant steps forward, and the boy steps backward*) -- “I underSTAND that you want to KILL my precious flower” -- (*another step forward, another step back*) -- “and you will stoop to NO LOW to have your wicked way” -- (*more steps*) -- “so LEAVE and DON’T COME BACK!”
(*The last howl sends Rostam careening off-stage-left, backward-somersaulting into some prop and causing a loud crash. Ohanzee snorts with finality then trots back to the house, resuming his pacing and muttering to himself worriedly. Meanwhile, Rostam peeks out from stage left, rubbing the back of his head where a large bump grows.*)
“Well, that did not go as expected,” (*The boy grumbles*) “Whatever should I do? It seems he doesn't trust me--”
Can’t imagine why.
(*Rostam glares in Lorenzo’s direction.*) “--and if words alone will not convince him of my helpfulness, what can I do to get past him?”
: And that is the question we pose to you, our dear audience! What can our lovestruck apprentice do to get past the father? This is a free-for-all, so tell us whatever you can think of!
: Let us hear your thoughts, everyone! Speak now, tremenda così forte!
To be continued...