The drinks were flowing at The Rested Zone. Not a nice pub by any means, but any hovel with a keg of ale raced to the top of Venn's favourite places in all of Questlandia. Latency Lager, Server Shutdown Stout, and Venn's favourite, Rollback Rum. Each one paired nicely with the backing track of a half-competent lutist.
Venn and Issil had been grouping together for about a week now. Issil's positivity still grated like a dull blade, but lately he caught himself waiting for it.
The pair traded jokes and jibes, downing tankard after tankard. For a vertically-challenged elf, Issil could drink her body weight in ale, and go a few further if her organs were feeling brave.
She was red-faced, unsteady, and somehow doubling her volume with every sentence. Venn couldn't even follow the jokes she was telling, something about a dirty old man trying to buy her socks, but it didn't matter.
What mattered was that her laugh had made the room feel slightly less like a waiting room for hell. Venn frowned at the feeling in his chest, then drowned it in ale..
As the bard finished his final ballad, a mob of humans clambered onto the stage, now comically far too small for them.
"Diverse" Venn thought, with many of them landing somewhere between "cruel biological experiment" and "needs their orb history checking".
Lanky men with their thick-rimmed glasses shaking in the breeze, women wrapped in dirty curtains with somehow dirtier hair, and hefty fellows, easily mistaken for Dwarves if Dwarves lacked basic grooming standards.
All of them, Elves, allegedly. The prosthetic ears barely recognizable due to the clumped candle wax they seemed to be moulded from.
While Issil's curved gracefully at the tip, still mostly hidden by her silky golden hair, these ears were monstrosities in comparison. Some crooked, some bending at what felt like impossible angles, while others were so straight and stiff they collected islands of filthy hair atop them, like baobabs in a greasy savannah.
"Magical tidings and… fair travels to you blessed patrons" wheezed the leader. He tried to push the regality of his words, but his intermittent coughing, filled with such density of mucus that it raised the humidity of the room, was falling short.
Venn took a long and weighty drink. "If I end up paying attention to this, stab whatever part of my brain does that". Venn's words landed like sarcasm, but Issil wasn't sure if that was the intention.
"We, The Grand Society of The Great Elven Lore, will be performing our historically accurate recreation of the crowning of Queen Geraldine". The speaker raised his glasses slightly as he spoke, his words trying to emit a level of superiority that couldn't be found.
"I require complete silence from the room. Complete concentration is needed to appreciate the intricacies of this piece".
Without so much as a glance at the audience for acknowledgement, the crew began getting into their positions.
It started as you'd imagine, a long drawn out piece of exposition, each speaker taking turns trying to catch a glimpse of what it felt like to be important.
Issil's giggles started like hiccups, and then came the pointing.
"They think elves live a thousand years! That our ears sense running water"
Venn tried to drown his laugh with more ale, but he was long dry by now. The troupe kept going, voices trembling with knock-off superiority.
"Let us bathe the new queen in the urine of the moon geese!"
Issil's fist came down. The table answered with CRRK, splitting cleanly in two. Tears streaked her face; Venn chose "laugh along" over "enrage the toadstool".
"Mockery of heritage! Heresy against the First Tongue!". The troupe shot daggers in her direction. Venns' hand was planted firmly onto his scabbard. Just in case.
Thankfully it wasn't needed. The troupe just stared at Issil, muttering something in unison under their breath, like a group of nerdy scholars trying to summon a demon. She was rolling on the floor now, dust and dirt now staining her otherwise immaculate cloak.
[SYSTEM] Player Issil's group has broken RP in a restricted area. Penalty: Perform an educational re-enactment to restore community immersion.
In a flash the stage had been cleared, the troupe now sitting front and centre with notebooks in hand. Venn scattered his eyes trying to gain his bearings. Latex ears clung to his skin, his brigandine replaced by silken robes that let every stray breeze give an all-inclusive show to the audience.
"Perfect". His head had already started drooping in defeat
Beside him, Issil's "authentic" costume materialized, the classic female armour set–bare shoulders, cutouts, ornamental clasps that protected nothing but happily declared war on modesty.
She looked down at herself, then at Venn, whose eyes were firmly targeted below her neck.
"Typical, right?".
She awaited his response, but his cheeks bloomed red and his brain blew a fuse.
"Eyes" she commanded, snapping her fingers with enough force to shatter a window. "Up".
"They're up" he lied, then quieter "Mostly".
She sighed, giving up on the idea of getting any amount of maturity from Venn.
"I think I went too far again…" she muttered.
"Just pretend the crowd is full of rich old disgusting men you're about to fleece!" Venn prodded, his eyes still holding position against the mental tug of his self-preservation.
"Pretend?" she murmured, half chuckling to herself.
"Issil, Venn" The leader of the troupe beckoned out. "We'll be expecting a damn good showing for the interruption you've caused today. Good luck."
They took their seats, paper and quill in hand as if they were about to write their magnum opus. The hypothetical lights in the audience dimmed, and the pressure on Issil and Venn was ready to boil over.
Words flew across the front of the stage. "The Elven Romance of Moonbrook". Issil & Venn locked eyes, his momentary lack of willpower having completely sobered up. This was going to be something.
Venn's opening line was a measuring stick for how things were going to progress.
Venn cleared his throat. "Enters the room and bows graciously."
"Psst," Issil hissed, still loud enough to be heard two taverns over. "Stage directions are actions, genius.".
They trudged through dialogue like knee-deep snow. When Venn mangled a line, the troupe came alive with commotion and forced a redo. Issil bounced corrections back at their leader, convinced they knew that "Elven Foot Appreciation" wasn't a real thing.
The final scene approached. The two had gotten this far, voices hoarse and bodies covered in sweat. The end was in sight.
"Hill overlooking Moonbrok, Sunset". The words flew across the stage like a swan song, and the troupe was on the edge of their seats.
"Lady Gwendolin, As the moon goddess beckons me, and the leaves of the forest command me, my body compels me to", he winced, "kiss you".
The words registered in his head as they came out of his mouth. This wasn't the way he'd act with someone he was smitten over, never mind his bashfully positive drinking buddy.
"Knight Leotard, The tides flow through me like an elk sprinting through the forest, fast and explosive". Issil delivered her lines with grace, like she was being absorbed into the role. Her eyes now locked tightly with Venns, as they approached each over slowly on the stage.
The next direction popped into Venn's head. Kiss the fine lady passionately. "Of course," he thought to himself.
He leaned in, their lips so close not even a gust of wind could pass between them. He closed his eyes, heart beating in his mouth.
"CRACK".
Issil's fist met with his cheek, almost sending him into low orbit.
He woke moments later, nose-deep in an ale-puke cocktail. Gasps rolled over him like surf; the troupe looked bereaved.
"I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try it," Issil snapped, face burning. "It's acting, Venn. Not one of your Companionship Establishments".
Magical frost manifested and hissed off her shoulder as she turned away, walking off the stage.
The troupe chatted quietly amongst themselves for a moment.
[SYSTEM] Re-enactment exited early. Affected members must start from Scene One.
A few words managed to make it through Venn's beaten body. "Outstanding. This time she's going to kill me for real".