“The theatre... is an art. Just like this is,” explained Glorfindel from the center of the practice field. His sword was drawn, an extension of his arm, shining, and polished just that morning. “This, gentlemen, is my stage, you, my actors, I, the director. This is rehersal; the battle is the play, and no matter what, the show must go on.”
“The uniforms are your costumes and your these weapons your props. There are but two differences, of course,” he continued as he motioned to various trainees, pairing them off for sparring. “Unlike most plays, we will use no script. Ad lib, I suppose.”
“And the other, sir?” asked one of the recruits.
“That you would not want to ‘break a leg’ on this stage.”
Author's Chapter Notes:
Glorfindel; others