Rise of a Playwright
Any good kingdom needed a skilled bard to tell tales of heroic deeds and magnificent struggles. The Kingdom of Spora was no exception. Would Troubadour Quintus have what it took to become a bard whose tales and songs would be remembered throughout history?
Approach: Hard Work
To get to the essence of meaningful creativity, one must pay their dues. Exploring the dark depths and high peaks of the soul is a sure path to creative inspiration. It won’t be easy, but the personal and professional rewards will pay off in the long run.
Primary Hero: Troubadour Quintus
THREE AM. THE OCEAN.
If this doesn’t inspire a fellow, then what will.
The poem is written. It is called ‘Ash On Our Crowns’. It is ready to be performed before Art Critic Gaspar. There is nothing to fear -- the ocean has held the pen with us. This poem is perfect.
The poem was not perfect.
Ocean, you’ve let us down. Let’s try an inspirational forest stroll.
Mauled by a bear. Can we even hold a lute now?
But... feeling more alive than ever before! WE ARE AN ARTISTE.
WE MUST DRINK TOO MUCH AND EAT TOO MUCH AND KISS PEOPLE WE SHOULDN’T KISS.
The first two turned out to be a lot easier than the third. But we GOT IT DONE.
Does it count if it’s through a face mask?
Surgeon Stacia is literally praying that these two idiots will just get a room.
UNFORTUNATELY:
There’s only one room at the clinic. And it’s hers.
That’s all the highs of life in Spora: now for the lows. We must starve. We must FIGHT.
“SEAMSTRESS ALBREDA. THERE ISN’T ROOM FOR BOTH OF US IN THIS TOWN!”
“YOU KNOW WHAT -- JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE ONE DOESN’T MEAN YOU’VE GOTTA ACT LIKE ONE -- IF I WERE YOU I’D SUE MY PARENTS --”
“-- THEY WERE CALLED JUMPOLINES UNTIL YOUR FATHER JUMPED ON ONE -- AND I’M GLAD WE HAD THIS TALK BECAUSE YOU’VE REMINDED ME TO TAKE THE TRASH OUT. GOODNIGHT.”
I think we may have deserved that.
Honestly, we probably deserve this, too.
We’ve experienced all there is to experience. We’ve loved, we’ve fought, we’ve drunk and been merry -- we’ve starved in the stocks. Now’s the time to do it.
To write the poem of a generation. The poem of a kingdom. The poem that is True.
It is called “Capricorn” and it is time... to Perform.
Art Critic Gaspar... you know not what you do.
Time to sail.
And then return immediately when the ship is grounded for Troubador related reasons.
“Eat the bread, Troubadour Quintus.”
“It’s... super moldy. It’s more of a chemical than a food at this point.”
“Eat the moldy bread, Troubadour Quintus.”
Whoa... the ghostly apparition of our father... here in broad daylight... leading us toward the cemetery.
“Where are your shoes, papa?”
“Gooooooooo to the wooooooooods.”
“But I already tried that -- I got mauled by a bear, see, look at my arm --”
“The wooooooooooooooods.”
We go the woods. The bear is there. The bear says, in the voice of our father:
“Yooooou goooooot thiiiiiiiis.”
She is right. We got this. It is time to write a play.
Our BFF Barmaid Rosalyn thinks we’re taking this Art Critic way too seriously, but she agrees to perform with us.
She is a good egg.
The play is called “Glass Face”. It is time.
“Wow,” Troubadour Quintus said to himself as the critic staggered away from Spora, “I guess the play was a hit!”
