The town of Stratford-upon-Avon could not have asked for more beautiful weather for the annual Midsummer Festival. The sun was just drawing up on the horizon, painting the cloudless sky with brilliant pinks and oranges, when families began the yearly march to the town square for the night’s entertainment. Stratford didn’t have many terribly outstanding qualities (besides the river walk, which was second-to-none amongst the little villages on the Avon), so the town went all out for the one festival of the year. That weekend, shops stayed closed on their own little holiday as parades promenaded down the river and children participated in any of several activities, all run by the town hall. At night, fire-breathers, acrobats, magicians, and musicians set up along the banks of the Avon and in the town center, wowing those out for a stroll.

The first night of the festival, that Friday, was traditionally kicked off with a fireworks display, followed by a masquerade in the town center. It wasn’t really a masquerade, more of a dance recital for the ever-popular Stratford Steppers, who took over the square with glitter, costumes, and mask making tables for the young and young-at-heart. The real masquerades began later that night, at parties thrown by the rich and powerful of the town. The noise, booze, and (more often than not) conflict kept the police on their toes, but it provided an outlet for those who needed it, and it wasn’t that difficult to not get caught—if you were clever.

This is our scene, and here we begin. Seven o’clock. Midsummer. The air is heavy with anticipation of the festival, and perhaps things further off. Love, betrayal, murder… who’s to say, until we step out on that stage?

Lights up.

-----------------------------------------------

Enter Lavinia Andronicus.

Lavinia stepped out of her house with a backpack on her shoulders and her stump hidden in the sleeve of her jacket. It was almost too warm for a jacket, but Lavinia had gotten good at making excuses for wearing them — surely, it would get colder as the sun set, and she would regret not wearing a jacket then, wouldn’t she?

Slowly, she started making her way to the town square, where a few other people seemed to be migrating. Honestly, she wouldn’t be going to this thing if her brother and her nephew weren’t in town. Her dad had made her promise to go meet Lucas and Lukie before the fireworks display, though, and she wanted to be there for Lukie’s first real Midsummer Festival. She’d pull through this, and hell, she might even enjoy it, because she was on her way to recovery.

The square was bustling, full of people, chairs, food, and some early-arriving performers, around which people flocked. Music blared and people chattered, and the place just looked so alive. Lavinia searched, but she couldn’t find Lucas, at least not in the spots where people weren’t swarming. He was probably just running late — classic Lucas. She decided to wait for him around the fringes of the crowd, where she could be alert but still enjoy some people watching. A three-piece band was set up not too far from her, playing a song she recognized. Liv was happy; she hummed along.

Enter Macbeth

Fin Macbeth walked about the festival tents, greeting some people, nodding at others. He stopped in front of a magician for a few seconds and looked at him. The chief of police Duncan had assigned him and Henry Banquo to watch over the festival and make sure nothing went wrong.

Duncan was an excellent policeman and a worthy superior, though he was getting on a bit. His once black hair and moustache had gone to complete grey, and his stride had been tainted by an old age limp. There was actually talk of who would become the next chief of police. Fin hadn't heard the odds, and didn't want to. It wouldn't be him anyway.

He saw, across the square, that Banquo was joining in the festivities. He shouldn't let his guard down. A good policeman is always vigilant. Some rowdy villagers or other accidents had happened in previous festivals and gatherings. That's why he was glad to be there to protect the townspeople. His eyes wandered, and he turned his attention to the band playing near him, and saw Lavinia. She was alone, and seemed a bit lost. It wasn't easy with her being handicapped either. Being a good samaritan, he walked over to where she was standing.

"Hello Miss Lavinia, do you need a hand?" He blinked twice and he sighed, realising his mistake. "Damn it. Sorry, didn't mean..."

Enter Demetrius

Everybody was all in a dither preparing for the Midsummer Festival, and Demetrius would've been perfectly happy to let them dither along without him if it weren't for Helena, who had pulled him aside and began her ceaseless, giddy yammering. Naturally, Helena’s casual assumption that there was no way Demetrius would abandon her to join in with such a tedious, irksome part of Stratford life had the opposite effect. Demetrius was going to find a way to disentangle himself from her, even if it meant having to associate with his inferiors. Maybe he’d even find the experience entertaining, though he thought that highly unlikely. Still, it was worth a shot -- anything was more tolerable than Helena.

Not-so-surreptitiously wrenching his arm free from his companion’s grasp, Demetrius sent her on her way with nothing more than a glare and a few choice words. Always so sensitive, that one, though she would surely return to his side within the next fifteen minutes. ...When does she not? If Demetrius knew anything about Helena, it’d be that she was the one person in the world more bullheaded than he was. Of course, some would argue that her undying devotion towards him was a quality, not a flaw; but they weren’t the ones who were on the receiving end of it, were they?

Lighting a cigarette, Demetrius took a few moments to take in his surroundings. There were a couple of stalls; some selling fresh produce, others selling handmade trinkets.The town square wasn’t full quite just yet, but it was starting to be. People streamed in from each of the connecting streets, streetlights flickering on as the sun dipped down below the horizon, streaks of orange and purple splashing across the sky. Demetrius made a beeline for where most of the crowd was gathered, the heels of his Louis Vuitton wingtips clicking against the cobbled streets. Perhaps he’d be able to lose Helena there, when she inevitably came looking for him, once again. There was also the added bonus of putting himself in close proximity with a vendor selling toffee apples. He was getting a little hungry, after all, and he always did have a sweet tooth.

Then, he noticed someone. Two someones, in fact. Constable Macbeth and… Lavinia, was it? Demetrius had heard of the tragedy that befell her, though that was pretty much a given. One had to be living under a rock to be ignorant of such an event, and he found it particularly ironic that one of the perpetrators shared his name. Part of him wondered how Ms. Andronicus would react to this coincidence, perhaps he’d make it his business find out, after the Constable takes his leave, but for now, he simply stayed put, filling his lungs with smoke.

One of the benefits of Iago Armin's new home was unexpected and unplanned, but still attractive. Namely, unlike his native Australia, here in Britain he was perfectly free to drink in public. Indeed, as the festival was beginning, plenty of others were indulging themselves as well. Most of the others he saw with alcohol were sipping tins of domestic lager. Iago, however, had gone a different route, instead opting to carry a delicate goblet carved from Swiss crystal, filled with a generous portion of his family label. The man took a moment to appreciate the fragrance of the shiraz, then took a slow and measured sip. He was no lush, nothing as vulgar as that. He simply appreciated the fact that what he was doing was illegal in many parts of the world.

The festival looked to be exactly the sort of hayseed crap he expected from a town like this, the kind of thing where people wandered around drinking tins of domestic lager. Not exactly high society. But perhaps it offered an opportunity.

One gentleman in particular caught Iago's eye. By his dress, the bulky man had that rare combination of money and taste. By his posture, the wealthy man also had a terrible temper, an innate capacity for violence.

Iago took a sip of wine to hide his grin. He had just struck gold.

He decided to go introduce himself. Flicking imaginary dust from his cream-colored lapel, Iago strolled up to the smoking man. "Lovely evening," he said, his Australian accent noticeable even over the sounds of the growing crowd.

Lavinia didn’t see Constable Macbeth approaching; she was focused on the music. She’d remembered where she’d heard it before. Before the accident, she used to dance. Ballet and jazz, mostly, but she had some friends in the Stratford Steppers and probably would have joined eventually. She danced to this song, way back in high school, and had gotten in a huge argument with her instructor about the choreography. She was surprised she could actually still remember what she wanted to change. She’d almost forgotten about it entirely.

She only jumped a little when he spoke. She wasn’t jumpy as a rule, but the adrenaline still poured into her veins and made her blurt “It’s okay!” before she even really registered what he’d said. It wasn’t a big deal, what he’d said—her dad always needed a hand, and said so—but something about the entire situation made her gut twist and her mood took a hit.

It really was okay, though. The constable hadn’t meant any harm. Macbeth was a good man—he’d been kind upon her and her dad’s return to Stratford, and Lavinia had even met Mrs. Macbeth once. Her dad probably considered him a friend; though she wasn’t sure to what extent the feeling was reciprocated. “Hi, Constable Macbeth. I’m fine, just waiting for my brother to show up. He’s bringing Lukie for the fireworks…” A little bit too much information. She took a breath. “How are you? Enjoying the festival?”

She was worried she might have made him worry. She really was fine. She just needed to stay sharp was all. She should thank him for that, at least—though Stratford was no London, she could still get overwhelmed and distracted, and then where would she be?

The chateau Gertrude called home nestled at the end of a winding road on the outskirts of Stratford-upon-Avon was delightfully silent in the summer air. She had given her only maid, a jittery freckle faced girl in her late teens, the night off to enjoy the festival with friends. After a glass of Chardonnay Gertrude had sat down at the grand piano that encompassed the entrance hall and played a few tunes, manicured fingers deftly plucking at polished keys, but her mind was elsewhere. Windows were often left open during the summer, and as thus not only did the smell of blooming gardens enter her home but of fried confectionery and burnt rubber courtesy of fireworks as well.

In the few years Gertrude called Stratford-upon-Avon home, she had not once ventured to attend the festival held every summer at the square, but something called to her this time. It might have been the loneliness pricking underneath her skin or perhaps the stuffiness of having been cooped up too long, but for whatever it was, Gertrude left a fine wine glass, half filled with a mauve lip stick stain tainting the glass on the lid of her piano to dart upstairs and get dressed in more appropriate attire.

Some twenty minutes an airy, pale canary sundress adorned her willowy limbs and a pair of simple, eggshell Jimmy Choo kitten heels adorned manicured feet. Hair, always coiffed to perfection, was touched up in a gilded mirror and necessities (as well as a small flask, for she would never drink the swill that they served in town) neatly put in a pearl enclosed clutch dangling from fingertips as she began the walk to the square. Driving would've been a much more sensible choice, but she didn't live that far from town, and how she hated to get behind the wheel. The flaxen haired woman breathed deeply, enjoying the assault of summer's aroma on her senses.

It wasn't long until kitten heels stepped gracefully onto cobblestone and crowds of gay merrygoers covered the streets around her. Other than nodding respectfully, no one approached her - that was to be expected, though. Gertrude hadn't made much of a name for herself as a gossiper or small talker. It was all the same to her that she be left alone to enjoy the festival, though there was something ironic in her leaving the solitude of her home only to feel it more sharply surrounded by people.

An almost sickly sweetness assaulted Gertrude's senses, then, and she sniffed surreptitiously, her nose guiding her to a stand selling toffee apples. She smiled warmly at the elderly man commandeering it.

"May I purchase one of your apples, Alfred?" Gertrude questioned, lilting British voice that had so often gotten her admirers when a young girl now tinted with undertones of thick vowel usage, having spent so long speaking Danish in Copenhagen. It still felt odd to her to go back to her mother tongue sometimes.

"Of course, Madame von der Maase." The old man replied cheerily, wrapping one up for the elegant woman that stood before him. Gertrude, waiting patiently for the man's arthritic hands, glanced to her peripheral vision to her left, noticing something odd. Two young men, finely dressed and lavishly accesorized, appeared to be speaking quite near the toffee apple stand she currently stood at, one with a cigarette dangling between fingers. Gertrude smiled faintly. The way he held himself - so self-assured, but with an aggravated stance. He reminded her of her Hamlet.

She thanked the old man for the apple and held the stick between two manicured fingers, taking a seat on a bench near the two men and appeared to be enjoying the festivities around her, though her sharp ears were instead listening to the conversation a stone's throw away from her.

“Lovely evening.”

A quiet sigh of annoyance rushed past Demetrius’s lips at the interruption. All he wanted to do was finish his cigarette in peace, but in a place like this, it was apparently too much to ask for. That was one of things he hated most about the bourgeois -- their dogged need to make small talk with whoever happened to be present. With each passing second, whatever motivation he had for attending this little festival quickly evaporated, and the idea of hopping into his Rolls Royce and getting the hell out of dodge grew increasingly appealing. The Chiklis summer home was only a five minute drive away, after all, he could make it back before anyone noticed his absence. But when Demetrius turned to look at the source of the voice, who he saw was far from the sweaty, dirt-caked farmer he’d been expecting.

In fact, the man who stood before him was dressed to the nines, a very expensive looking crystal chalice cradled in his fingers. Demetrius’s eyes narrowed, just a little, though the subtle change in demeanour would never escape an expert’s scrutiny. Stratford saw its fair share of filthy rich merrymakers, especially during the summer months, so it wasn’t surprising that he happened to bump shoulders with someone who appeared equally affluent. Except… he’d never seen the stranger around, and that was what made his current situation all the more perplexing. As heir to the Chiklis dynasty, Demetrius was expected to know every last detail about their competition and allies, but for now, he was drawing a blank.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Demetrius murmured, taking a long drag of his cigarette. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the stranger, searching, before it finally flickered away, back towards the festivities. “Though I can’t say the same about the company. And you are...?”

Fin nodded, "Good, I'm sure he'll enjoy it. Is it his first time at one of the festivals?" he asked, before adding. "If you need anything, do tell."

He surveilled the area behind her and noticed Demetrius and a strange fellow talking. "I'm sorry, looks like trouble," he said, lightly tilting his head towards the stranger. "I'll be off."

The man was in a black dinner jacket and holding an expensive looking chalice. Demetrius, cigarette in hand, was talking to the stranger. His passive face reassured Fin slightly, but he still walked towards them, as if to approach something else behind them, then pretended to notice the two. The chalice shone in the light. Macbeth oggled the thing for a second, taking in it's beauty. If I were that rich, I'd have a bigger house, a porsche, a- He closed his eyes and focused.

"Hello, gentlemen. How are you finding the festival so far?"

"Forgive me, where are my manners?" Iago said with a smile as he extended a hand to the other gentleman. "Iago Armin. I'm new to your charming town. I've bought that rambling old manor house out in the bush, the agent tells me a Will Kemp used to own it." He gave a self-effacing smile, which turned into a small sneer as he looked over the crowd. If Iago was reading the other fellow correctly, he was a bit of a conscious or unconscious snob. A calculated gesture. "Quite a gathering," he said as he took another sip of wine.

He blinked as a constable abruptly appeared in front of them, hard to miss in his dark uniform with WARWICKSHIRE POLICE emblazoned on it. Damned plodder, showing up at an inopportune time. Oh well. Iago reminded himself he was here to observe and learn- launching schemes of any kind would have to wait. Besides, the plodder might be useful at some point. "It's quite lovely, Constable Macbeth," he said, squinting through the gathering gloom at the copper's nameplate. "This all promises to be a delightful evening."

Trouble? Lavinia thought, the word clenching in her stomach as she watched Constable Macbeth head off toward the two men talking. They were both well dressed, haughty looking types—not a terribly uncommon sight in Stratford. One smoked a cigarette with a disdainful look on his face, the other smiled easily and held a chalice of wine. Both were older than her but younger than Lucas; she pegged the smoking one to be around Quin’s age, but the smiling one was older.

She didn’t know why she followed Macbeth. She didn’t want to be anywhere near those two men, yet, when the constable was about halfway across the square, she started off behind him, taking a seat on a bench not too far from the drama. A woman in yellow was sitting there too, daintily gripping a caramel apple on a stick. She was alone, and Lavinia only wondered why briefly when she heard the smiling man’s response to Macbeth’s inquiry. His accent was foreign, and though he’d responded sincerely enough she heard a tint of irony in his voice. A delightful evening?

Perhaps he was one of those Montague boys, always trying to infiltrate the Capulet masquerade. Though the feud had gotten bad before, it had never involved neutral citizens, so she and her brother and nephew were safe. He could go have his delightful evening and she and Lukie would make masks. Right?

She was reading far too much into this. She sighed, noticing her hand was wrapped around the bench armrest in a death grip. She should have never followed the constable, she thought, as she relaxed her arm and leaned back. Now she’d spend the whole evening looking over her shoulder and lord only knew she didn’t need that. None of her family did.

Quite reluctantly, Demetrius took Iago’s hand, giving it two firm shakes before letting go. From what he’d seen so far, this new acquaintance of his seemed… interesting, to say the least. That sparkling crystal chalice? Bringing your own wine to a festival? Things like that took a special kind of old-money affectation, though he couldn’t say he blamed the fellow. All they seemed to serve in Stratford were ciders and ales -- the absolute, worst swill, as far as he was concerned.

“Demetrius Chiklis. It’s nice to meet you,” he returned in as sincere a tone he could muster, his lips arranging themselves into a smile that lifted lifelessly, as if by hooks. A bland, conventional reply, because he couldn’t be bothered to come up with anything better. Was he supposed to care about At Iago’s little comment, Demetrius’s bespectacled, blue eyes were drawn over the seething crowd before them. There were far too many people here, for his tastes, and it seemed as if his companion felt the same. Still, a shared distaste for crowds wasn’t nearly enough for him to warm to Iago. Unlike some people, he doesn’t fall over himself trying to befriend everyone he meets.

Before he could follow that train of thought any further, however, Demetrius spotted a familiar face in the crowd. And, much to his chagrin, he seemed to be headed their way. Constable Macbeth was one of the last people he wanted to see, right now. Granted, he hasn’t exactly been having the best time at the festival, anyway, but things could always get worse. Especially when it came to the constable, who had a talent for fucking things up. Both literally, and figuratively.

In the scarce amount of time it took for Macbeth to make his way over, Demetrius was unable to plot out an escape route. Worst of all, it now appeared as if were to be engaged in a most dreadful activity -- small talk. But until he could properly excuse himself from this little gathering, Demetrius had no other choice other than play along.

“It’s… great,” Demetrius replied, perhaps a little less genuinely than he’d intended. “But the real show’s yet to begin.”

(I will rarely use Danish with Gertrude, but I figured she lived in Denmark so long a few words would still slip into her vocabulary sometimes. I'll always provide the translation.

min kære - my dear

ingen - no)

~x~

Matte lips, a dark shade of posy lifted up at the corners lightly, eyeing the Constable Macbeth saunter towards the two men under lidded eyes.Gertrude herself hadn't had much contact with the fumbling constable - she wasn't much for small talking with blue collars - but she surmised from the few encounters she did have with him that he was a kind man, if not bit incompetent at his job. Still, the population of Stratford liked him well enough, something that it seemed the two gentlemen did not, judging by their hesitant, mechanic replies. They either weren't a fan of the police, or a fan of anyone at all.

Gertrude brushed a strand of silky hair behind her ear. It was probably a bit of both. Their actions were familiar of the men Hamlet, and of late, her husband as well had been in company of. Not entirely honest, filthy rich and with a crooked grin to hide their crooked ways. Gertrude wrapped her fingers around the stick of the toffee apple, musing. It was generally best to look the other way when in company of such man. The constable should learn that.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of someone taking the seat next to her on the bench, and Gertrude darted her eyes to the offender. The girl was unmistakably one Lavinia Andronicus - skittish demeanor, big hazel eyes and most notably, missing hand. Gertrude couldn't see it, but she knew it was there - everyone knew about Lavinia. Gertrude herself had been horrified by the act, but what could she have done? She knew more of the girl's father, Titus, than of the girl however. She had in fact enjoyed speaking to the man whenever she went to the butcher's shop, which by all accounts should have been done by her maid. Gertrude liked the fresh air, however, and the witty banter that the old man had provided. It was a shame he had cracked underneath the pressure of his daughter's attack.

"You're Titus's daughter, aren't you, min kære?" Gertrude murmured, delicately eyeing the young woman's grip on the bench they sat upon. "I used to buy my meats from your father. He was a good man. He still is, though perhaps a bit cracked. You can always glue together the broken, however." The elder woman was going to say more, but was distracted by the conversation going on behind her. Lips pursed, she rolled the toffee apple to the young woman sitting beside her and stood gracefully.

"Take it, darling. Something sweet to cheer you up." And then she walked over to the crowd of three whom had been behind Lavinia and her, tapping the constable on the shoulder lightly and flicking her eyes towards the other two men, steely grey hardening for a moment, as if a mother scolding her children, before focusing her attention on Macbeth.

"Constable! It's not very festive of you to be bothering these two lovely men on what is supposed to be such a cheerful night." Gertrude smiled softly. "Ingen, you should let them be. The commotion might upset dear Lavinia." And she tilted her heads towards the girl, as if to bring notice to her.

"Of course, the last thing we would want is commotion."

He looked at the girl and tried to put a name to her face. He couldn't. He noticed Lavinia had followed him, and decided it was probably best if she was away from these two strange men. He gestured towards the other end of the fair. "Why don't we look for your brother? He'll probably have arrived by now, looking for you."

He glanced at Gertrude again. She was beautiful, much more attractive than his rather plain wife. He'd married her since she was rich, after all. Another furtive glance at the two men convinced him: something was probably going to go wrong, and he'd have to mend it, as Banquo was somewhere else. "Why don't you come with us, Madam? I hear there's quite a good fortune teller we could try on the way to Lavinia's brother. Perhaps they can tell us what the fireworks will be like!"

Iago took advantage of the plodder's distraction to slip quietly away, wine still in hand. New players entered the game- the young cripple, and the glamorous older woman. Interesting. Very interesting.

He had taken a few mental notes about the Chiklis man. Enough to come back to later. "I would be delighted to accompany them, constable. I'm sure a man of your stature has much more important work to do. Another pair of eyes will surely help find the young man," he said, charm going at full blast. He smiled back at Demetrius. "It's been a pleasure. Perhaps we will have occasion to speak again." He stepped forward, gallantly offered an arm to Lavinia. "With your permission, madame," he said to the older woman.

Lavinia was feeling a bit overwhelmed. She would have liked very much to politely decline this gentleman’s offer to help her and head straight back home and tell her father that she would try again next year. Maybe Lukie would be disappointed, but Lucas and her father—they would understand, surely.

“I think I’ll look for them on my own,” she said, a little weakly. “Thank you all for your offers, though… I’ll be fine.”

She stood up, knocking the taffy apple to the ground in her haste, and started to walk away, back toward her house. By the time she was about halfway across the square, however, she was beating herself up. This certainly wasn’t helping. Those people posed absolutely no danger to her or anyone. She didn’t like the way they looked at her, like she was something to be pitied, but, honestly, they didn’t know her and she was sure acting like she deserved pity. She needed to prove to herself, and everyone else, that she was Lavinia and she was okay.

Going home would just be another ten steps backwards. She’d been prepared for this. She’d spent all day looking forward to it—something like this shouldn’t ruin it. Lavinia slowed her steps. She really regretted leaving that little group, but she certainly couldn't turn back now. That was okay, though! She’d find Lucas and if she ran into one of them again she’d apologize. Not a big deal.