In the warehouse, a few slivers of gray-white light squeezed through the high windows, barely illuminating the gloom within.
The porter, Borg, nervously tugged at his hempen clothes.
The fabric was coarse, making his neck itch.
'This is the so-called costume?'
He looked down; it was no different from the rags he wore when he fled to the Grey Marsh Territory as a refugee.
He scanned his surroundings from the corner of his eye.
The tall, skinny man who called himself a poet was puffing out his chest, trying to look profound, but his constantly wringing hands betrayed him.
The others were even worse, their necks shrunk down, looking just like a flock of chickens waiting to be slaughtered.
Acting.
Borg mulled over the word in his mind.
The Lord had said he wanted him to play Tumo.
Of course he knew that Tumo fellow. He was a tavern owner now, and doing quite well for himself.
'But half a year ago, wasn't he just another poor bastard grubbing for food in the mud?'
'Play him?'
