Emla

Emla draws herself up to her full height, puts her hands (in fists, still clutching her lyre in her left) to her hips, and puffs herself up like an angry cat. Her eyes flash.

"I have trained under the finest artists and entertainers of the land!" ...who have happened to pass nearby, and been really hard on their luck... "How dare you impugn my professionalism! You, you are the one who thinks looking like a legendary, immortal, undead warrior will help you do great deeds, yet can't even stay in character long enough to avoid risking a lynch mob!

"Well let me tell you something! It's not about how you look! It's about style! It's about panache! It's about becoming the character, in your heart, in your soul! It doesn't matter how good or bad the costumes or makeup are - if the actor doesn't believe it, he can't make you believe it!

"And it's not killing monsters or doing great deeds that makes you a hero, either! Oh no! You know what makes a hero? Convincing everyone else that you're worth singing songs about after you're gone!"

She tosses her hair and gives a derisive sniff in Rowan's direction. "And if you're going to pull that off," she says archly, "you are clearly going to need strenuous instruction. Fortunately for you my fees are very reasonable.

"Now!" She brings up the lute in her left hand as though it were a sword coming down to signal a charge. "Exeunt! ...Thataways! We need somewhere out of the way to whip you sorry lot into shape before the show! And someone get Fred a dress. Nice falsetto, by the way."

((I am assuming mainiac has joined us outside the tavern by this point...))