Raziela Liron glanced back at the pale maned wolf striding purposefully behind her. Neurotic little Pan had decided, as always, to accompany her on her trip to while away some of her extra time down at the theater. They both knew that there was nothing Raziela enjoyed as much as the atmosphere that the Players generated, the merriment that accompanied them seemingly wherever they went. As a Noble, there were few proper duties that filled Raziela’s time, and her days consisted of little more than acting proper – engaging in diplomatic talks with other Nobles, attending Noble festivities, should she be invited – and the rest of her time was usually hers to do with as she pleased.
As often as she could, she made her way down to the theater, if only to try and catch a glimpse of the Players rehearsing their lines, working through the intricacies of their next performance. Even if there was nothing scheduled for the public, she had come to realize that there was always some movement there, some creature lounging about the stage, playfully going through the motions of their parts.
There was life there, like there wasn’t near the mountain where the Nobles resided, an unstructured way of life that Raziela could only barely imagine. And she knew she never would, for her lot in life was different from the Players’, and she had accepted it long ago. She had grown up with the principles of Nobility drilled into her, and she had never paused to consider whether that was truly what she wanted. It didn’t matter, anyway. Fate had dictated that she be born purple, and that was what she would be until the day she died.
“Are you certain you want to accompany me, Pan? There are more entertaining methods to pass your time, I’m sure.” The lioness said worriedly. Though the maned wolf was her servant, he had grown to be one of her closest friends, and she cared deeply for the little canine’s wellbeing.
“Sure, Miss Ela,” Pan wuffed from behind her, shaking his head. “I can find something to do down there. I won’t just be listening to the Players the whole time like you do.”
Raziela smiled, and let the matter rest. Not only would she be unable to convince Pan otherwise, but they had rounded the bend and the theater had come into sight. She never ceased to feel awe at the sight of it, this almost sacred place of art and performance, of entertainment and joy. More than anything, she hoped she would someday come to understand a little bit more of the lives of the Players and the creatures they tended to associate with.
As she had suspected, the theater was alive, with several lions scatted through the area, some gesturing wildly and others seeming more subdued. Most of the Players had come to accept her presence there. Some tended to give her passing nods or glances of recognition, and she was pleased that they no longer queried the attention she afforded them.
Her ears pricked as she scanned the area. She recognized many of the Players by face, if not by name, and she was glad to see the now-familiar form of a pale lion whose coat was speckled with tan. His mane was an impressive blue, not quite purple, though it was debatable, and he had always been a personal favorite of hers because of the fiery gazes his bright, intelligent eyes could give. He was a tall, handsome lion, known for his openness and complete lack of inhibitions about anybody. Absolutely anyone could approach the pale lion and come away with a friend – or at least a trusty acquaintance.
“Are you finally going to talk to him today, Miss Ela?” Pan’s voice sounded querulously from behind her, startling her from her reverie. The one that she had sunk into while watching from afar as the talented actor paced with measured, powerful steps.
Raziela directed an uncertain glance at the maned wolf. He knew the inner turmoil she went through every time she saw Derasan, knew that she debated endlessly with herself whenever the opportunity to speak to him arose. Because there was something different about meeting him; something more sacred about that than meeting any of the other Players. She had watched Derasan mature both as an actor and a member of the pride. One of her earliest memories of the theater was of herself being caught up in the story of a young lion fighting to survive in a harsh world. The childhood version of the character had been played by Derasan, and even then, she had thought he had managed to capture the very essence of the conflicted character and the very meaning of drama.
Now, of course, he had grown, and she had grown. She had become the Noble she had been born to become, while he had thrived on the thrill of acting and become, in Raziela’s opinion, one of the finest Players in the pride. Rarely would she miss a play in which Derasan had a role.
“Do you imagine today would be the right time, Pan?” She said uncertainly. This was clearly an suitable moment, but the right one? She had grown up idolizing this lion, and now… now she was on the verge of actually speaking to him for the first time! And he was a handsome creature to boot. Already, she could feel herself become flustered, wondering how to put her words so she didn’t come off as nothing more than a snobby Noble – which she dearly hoped she was not.
“I imagine, Miss Ela, that if you keep putting off, one day you’ll both be dead and he’ll never have known you as anything more than one of those Noble girls up in the mountain.” Pan said frankly, placing his bottom firmly on the ground, as if to say that he would go no further and if she wanted to use this opportunity, she had his blessing.
“I suppose you are being reasonable, Pan,” she murmured, steeling herself for the decision she knew she would begin to regret. “I believe I shall. Talk to him, that is.” And with a firm nod, she strode forward. She couldn’t help but marvel at how absorbed he was in his work, how carefully he was mapping out his steps. A small frown riddled his brow as he gently recited his lines, pairing suitable motions to the words.
“To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream – ay there’s the rub,” The pale lion shook his head, eyes tilting contemplatively upward as he allowed a brief hesitation puncture his step. “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause…” A full pause this time, but he shook his head again and stopped, apparently displeased with his efforts. The rest of the lines came in a muttered flow under his breath, until he half turned and his bright eyes caught sight of Raziela’s hesitant, approaching form, and he finished his lines, “… with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. Soft you now, the fair Ophelia!” He raised his brow meaningfully in her direction. “Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.” And in the same breath, he added with a deep incline of his head, “Good morrow, my lady.”
“Good morrow, kind sir,” Raziela replied, a shy, most unbecoming smile spreading coyly over her face.
Derasan responded with a brief laugh. “Please, my lady, I am nothing if not a Player, and never in my life have I been a kind sir. A kind player perhaps, but certainly no more than that.”
“Well, if that is the case, then perhaps it would be prudent to offer proper introductions,” Raziela replied. “My name is Raziela Liron, daughter of Mwita Maua and Kivunjwa Kivuli.”
“Derasan,” he said simply, as if there was nothing more to it than a name, as if he had no ties, nothing he felt obligated to name.
“I cannot express how pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Master Derasan,” Raziela admitted frankly. “I have been an ardent follower of your work since I was a child. Even then, I thought your talent exceptional, and I do even more so now.”
“The pleasure is mine, fair lady,” he said, genuine surprise alighting upon his face. “It is always a pleasure, after all, to meet those appreciative of my work. Few outside of the Players ever approach us to congratulate us, and you are a Noble, no less.” He inclined his head toward her curiously, as if expecting an explanation of sorts, though Raziela expected that if she declined to give him one, he would have accepted the decision and moved on to a more comfortable topic. He was just that kind lion – charming, eloquent, empathetic, keen, tactful… the list went on, and though Raziela was certain that Pan would have dismissed these as the preconceptions of a mind addled by hero worship, the lioness knew that she couldn’t have simply been imagining things all these years.
“Theater is one of my passions,” she admitted, not caring to test out her theory. It was their first official meeting, after all, even if she had seen him in so many plays she felt as though she had known him all her life, and it wouldn’t do to prove Pan right. “I enjoy spending time here. The atmosphere is wonderful, even if there is nothing to do but listen to Players rehearse.”
Derasan nodded understandingly, and then recognition lit his face. “But of course. I’m certain I have seen you here before.” He said. “Though you do not always talk.”
Raziela almost beamed with delight at the notion that he had recognized her. Her, of all creatures! And here, she had thought most of them paid her little attention. “I try not to interfere. I know hours of preparation must go into a performance, and I would hope not to distract from it.”
Derasan aimed a sideways glance at the dark lioness, smirking. “You needn’t worry, lady,” he advised with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Schedules and appointments mean less to poor Players than they to Nobles. We can afford to lose some time if it means welcoming a connoisseur into our midst.” He caught the look on her face, sensing that she was about to protest. “I mean it, Miss Raziela, if you don’t mind my calling you that. We love to act, but we can have fun instead, we will do it. Just talk to us. We welcome it.”
Raziela shut her mouth, smiling. “Maybe I will, then.” She said, more to herself than anything.
“Well, you should.” Derasan told her firmly, as if that was the end of that. And it was. He had thoroughly convinced her, though she had needed little encouragement to begin with, and better yet, she standing witness to what she hoped would blossom into a friendship between the two of them. It was a wonderful day to be alive.
WC: 1859
