An early first foray out of Hargeon to the neighboring city of Marigold was the prevailing idea for Briar's relaxation. He didn't feel stressed by any measure - if anything, the little tremble in his legs as they fought not to bounce on each step argued that he would love to be doing even more - but his mother had tutted and his father hawed until he gave in and promised to do something nice with all that quest money he'd been saving up. It was nerve-wracking to venture out of Hargeon - he'd never left it without his family, losing some of his home-turf energy bonus that kept his steps skippy, but Marigold was beyond friendly to his venture.

Uhm, maybe he could buy a hat? He looked darling in his little coat and waving that big oak staff around - an item he seemed increasingly attached to for the additional comfort it offered - or so he'd been told. A little blush dusts his cheek, scratching at the side of it. Eheh ...

This, of course, didn't play out so simply. It wasn't long along the cozy streets of Marigold before he heard the call for a request and had a natural magnetism draw him to the cryer. This poor hall - Marigold's Great Theater, he recognized from a visit as a child - had been reduced from its once grand state, and Briar frowns reminiscing over the recent troubles. The people managed to be so happy, still, and he didn't think that fair: but a smile was a better gift to their efforts than a grumble, so he sucked in a breath and grinned wide as he stepped forward. "Hi there, pally! Is there something you needed help with? I-I'm a Blue Pegasus mage, and'm happy to lend myself to whatever!"

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The sequence of events plays out so:

/ Briar introduces himself to an older man in a silly old outfit - henceforth known as the Director - who's quite pleased to see him.
// The Director boisterously exclaims they're hosting an open play tonight and are looking to hire performers, which Briar would be so very perfect for. He goes on to explain that he's saddened by the dip in culture since Marigold's troubles and looks to bring back the energy and aplomb it was once known for.
/// Briar, being Briar, sympathizes greatly with this. He eagerly volunteers himself again, now with the added passion of being behind their cause, and the Director whisks him away with the other gaggle of hirees and a promise of payment. (Briar did not care as much for this part, but knows better than to turn down the graciousness.)

This lands him as Romeo in the play of '& Juliet': where an older woman introduces herself as his co-lead and seems just absolutely delighted. Briar blushes, unsure how to manage the attention of the other crew members and the crowd - all who are much more mature and experienced with this than him - and has to respectfully second-guess their choice of him to play such an important role. Everyone proceeds to assure him that he's far too fitting for this performance, and this only serves to make him redder - while subsequently skyrocketing his motivation to do right by their belief in him.

He learns his lines over the coming hours and comes to bond with the various other performers, performing mercs, and locals that were all too eager to share their stories with him too. There was such a colorful world even outside of his garden, and one he was making a note of interacting with more. ... If this night goes well, of course. He might never be able to show his face around these fair people again! Uwehhh.

Stage-fright is understatement for Briar under the light as he bumbles through his lines for the first act of the play; but the reasonable number of people in the audience support him along the process, and he starts to feel less like a professional with all the pressure that came with and more like a fellow friend among people with similar passion. How easily it became to fall into the arms of that shared excitement until his trembles melted from nerves to energy.

His next acts were stronger, and his lines easier to deliver, until he was expressing Romeo's woe and joy in each line as if it were his own. It, uhm, was. He really cried over Juliet. He wasn't quite prodigal - his movements ranging far too over-exaggerated and his voice struggling to carry the full venue - but he had the heart for it, and this heart the audience & his fellow performers gave him back in kind.

Upon the death of his fair love in the play's final act he brushes back his tears and the waver of his lips, holding his 'poison' to the heavens, and chugs it between two little hands before offering the actress' cheek the most feathery of kisses. "I'm dying!" He announces. And so he does, thrown over her body, until the curtains close.

Oh, they adored him, and it was not for his knack for theater. Dramatics, perhaps. He felt at home. Even if only for those few hours, even so far away from what he truly called such, he had found another place he belonged. They hooted and hollered the rest of the night, playful tears from laughter in the eyes of the real performers who'd pat him on the back, and he stumbled around with a bashful grin and a deepening flush until it was time to return to Hargeon.

He promised to come back and put on another show for them - and with the little rap tap tap of a dance he did with his staff out of town, they bid him farewell with a true hope for that repeat performance. Ah, boy.

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