A tall, almost gangly-looking man is hunched over in one of the armchairs. His clothes are simple but sturdy homespun, everyday wear for a moderately prosperous merchant or craftsman; they appear clean except for what looks like an acid burn through one of the shirtsleeves. His hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, and he wears a rather unusual pair of spectacles - one lense is see-through, the other tinted and opaque. Also, he seems to be engaged in a spirited argument with himself, switching between two distinctively different accents in rapid succession.<br/><br/>"No. For the last time, we will not be fighting an ogre on stage. We're in a theatre, not a gladiatorial arena."<br/>One of his voices is smooth and cultured, with hints of an educated accent around the edges.<br/><br/>"Quit being a coward, it'd be a good fight!"<br/>The other is rough, almost a guttural growl from the back of his throat and a rumbling sense of restrained violence.<br/><br/>"An ogre is twice my height and four times my weight. It would smear us across the stage like a rotten fruit."<br/>"Not if I smear it across the stage first."<br/>"And all over the audience as well, I'd wager. That won't earn us any applause."<br/>"Why not? Nobles like bloodshed as much as anyone."<br/>"Not when it can splash on them, you slack-witted thug."