Chapter Text

"A five, six, seven eight!"

Peggy Peaseblossom watched from the wings as the first group of dancers twirled gracefully across the Oasis stage. Her large halfling feet twitched, marking the steps. Step, push, step, step, touch, kick—

She whispered a prayer. The anxiety of the other auditioners was a palpable thing, suffusing the air along with their sweat. They were all taller than her, of course. Younger and thinner, too, she thought. And they've already been to the sparring grounds. "How many people does he need…?" she had heard them asking, in the waiting room. "How many dwarves, how many elves?"

She closed her eyes, picturing her home back in Green Fields, and rickety carriage that had brought her all this way, just for a chance to make it in the big city. She got by with part-time work and odd jobs while she waited for her dreams to come true, but now— now, she was done with waiting. She needed to make her dreams come true. This WAS the moment, that momentous moment...

I really need this job. Her fingers brushed the small pendant she kept tucked into her tight-fitting dancer's garb, an image of the Crowned Orb etched onto shiny copper that was still too new to tarnish. Please, Gale, I need this job.

I've got to get this job…

"A five, six, seven, eight!"

Gritting her jaw in determination, she bounded on with her group, pushing forward into the front row, elbowing her way past a willowy blond elf who stumbled and lost her step. Peggy didn't pay her any mind. She wasn't here to make friends. She was here to be seen.

"Turn, turn, right, left, whirl-step!"

She popped her hip, extended her toe out to make her reach as long as possible, arching her back and throwing fierce glances towards the table where the production team sat. A plump older human, chomping on a cigar, a bespectacled gnome in a dark, high-necked tunic and a long scarf… were they watching her, or looking at her resume? Did they like her? Was she good enough to…

No. No! The time for self-doubt was past. She would get this job. She knew it. She would be the biggest star. She would see her name in lights. The name on everybody's lips was gonna be: "Peggy."

And why?

That, she could tell them in one word…

AMBITION!

AMBITION! Ambition!

Ambition!

AMBITION! Ambition!

Ambition!

Who, day and night, keeps climbing up the ladder,

Schmoozing all their bosses,

Making deals at work?

And who's got to fight a bunch of rats in basements,

Just to get a level up?

THE MORTAL! The mortals!

AMBITION!

The MORTAL! The mortals!

AMBITION!

Dai-dai-dai-dai…

Dai-dai-dai-dai…

Dai-dai-dai dai, dai-dai-dai-dai-dai……

Chapter Text

The first morning of rehearsals, Peggy woke up in her little apartment, feeling the way she always did: hungry for something that she couldn't eat, not even for Second Breakfast. That rhythm of the city outside her window was such a powerful beat that she could feel it in her fingers, in her feet…

She touched her pendant again. That rhythm— that beat— felt almost like a message from high above: as if Gale himself were bidding her to go out into the streets that he himself had once walked. It was here that he saved the world, and gained possession of the Crown, and thereby ascended to godhood. So there was something of Him here, of His holy ambition, and that made it as fitting a place as any for her to launch her career. As she made her way toward the theater in Little Calimshan, she felt giddy, almost skipping over the cobblestones… and she couldn't contain the song that burst forth from her heart:

Good morning, Baldur's Gate!

You're the town that will make me great!

You're the city that Gale once knew!

You're the city where dreams come true!

Good morning, Baldur's Gate!

And one day when I seize my own fate,

Faerûn's gonna wake up and see…

Baldur's Gate… and me!

~

"My fellow artists… I welcome you to our very first read."

Peggy craned her neck to sit up at the table. Everyone around her was taller, except for the man speaking, who she remembered from auditions as the playwright and director, Paulus Dapplebottom. Saer Dapplebottom was a slender, dark-haired gnome with a serious face, wearing spectacles, a black high-necked tunic and a long, gray scarf.

"This production will re-open the Oasis after several… ah… problems over the past few years," he was saying. "You may have heard some rumors involving the theater's previous… series of impresarios and some… outside funding. But we are happy to say that those troubles are behind us, and Saer Flukefield has graciously agreed to produce this show."

He gestured to the portly human man sitting in the audience, who Peggy also remembered from auditions. He was older, balding and with a round belly, and finely dressed in layers of silk and velvet. He chomped his lit cigar between his teeth to free his hand to give a wave.

"And today, my fellow artists…" Saer Dapplebottom continued, "We stand on the precipice of a new chapter in theatrical history. Here on this stage, we've seen bardic variety acts, we've seen plays, we've seen the occasional opera… but this new piece of mine is of a genre heretofore entirely unknown in all of Faerûn. Imagine this:"

He framed an invisible picture with his hands.

"A multidisciplinary work of theatrical performance art, where the narrative is conveyed not only through the spoken word— no!— nor solely through singing. Rather, you— the actors— will sometimes talk, and then sometimes sing, and— as often as not— you shall dance. Through this art form, we shall capture the full spectrum of the mortal experience: the wittiest humor, the darkest depravity, the thrill of victory, the tears of most abject despair. We will call this genre: Musical Tragedy."

He paused for emphasis, and the actors all took the moment to ooh and ahh obligingly.

"And from this day forth," he proclaimed, "Actors and singers and dancers will look back at this— the premiere of 'Legs, Legs, Legs!'—as The Moment when Musical Tragedy was born."

Peggy picked up her 'Legs, Legs, Legs!' script and thumbed through it as Saer Dapplebottom kept talking. On the cover was written:

Peggy Peaseblossom

Shambling Mound

Shambling… Mound? Dread pooled in Peggy's stomach as she flipped through the pages looking for a solo… a speech… a line… anything.

That's when she saw it. Her one line.

Shambling Mound: Help! I'm in shambles!

"And of course, I want all of you to meet Laeneth Lamouriel, our star, who has so graciously agreed to play the role of Princess Beautifica."

Laeneth Lamouriel stood up from her seat, the picture of Elven grace and elegance. She tossed back her waist-length silver hair and her green eyes sparkled.

"Thank you so much, Paulus, and thank all of you for being a part of this production with me," the star murmured. "I can't wait to work with all of you and get to know you better." Her voice was warm and mellifluous, and her speech was gracious and refined.

Peggy hated her instantly.

~

Prince Phenomeno: At last, my darling, you are mine!

Princess Beautifica: Oh, my love! Wait, what's this?! A mound, and it appears to be… shambling?

Prince Phenomeno: Never fear, my sweet. I—

"Excuse me, Saer Director! This rehearsal foam is… a little tricky to move in…"

"That's fine," said Saer Dapplebottom. "You only need to be able to shamble."

"I'm just worried that audiences might not be able to see… well, my face…"

"It looks good from here. Let's keep going with the scene."

Prince Phenomeno: Never fear, my sweet. I will keep you safe!

(He stabs the Shambling Mound with his sword, and it falls over.)

Shambling Mound: Help! I'm in shambles!

"Terrific, looks good to me," said Saer Dapplebottom.

"Excuse me, Saer Director!" called Peggy, out of the foam.

"Yes? What is it? We're about to move on."

"I just… I just need some help with this scene. My motivation—"

"You shamble on, you threaten the princess, you fall over, you say your line."

"Well I… how am I supposed to be threatening her? I'm just worried that with my height, it won't really read from the stage—"

"Don't worry," said Saer Dapplebottom. "Laeneth is so slender and delicate that it will read just fine."

Peggy sank back into her rehearsal foam, to hide her angry, contorted pout. This insult could not stand.

When a break was called, she walked up to the director's table, where he was deep in conversation with the producer, Saer Flukefield. "Excuse me… Saer Director?" she asked, putting on her perkiest smile.

"Yes?" said the gnome, turning to her.

"I… just wanted to take a moment to re-introduce myself! My name is Peggy Peaseblossom and I—"

"Yes, yes, I know who you are. I cast you. As…" he trailed off. Was Peggy's part so small that he'd forgotten its name already?

"The Shambling Mound," Peggy reminded him, tilting her head so that he could see the side with the dimple. "And I'm SO grateful for the opportunity. But… you know… auditions are so busy. You might not have seen everything I can do. You saw me dance a little, but I can sing, and I can do so many more things, that…"

The gnome sighed and took off his spectacles. "You want a bigger part."

"Oh, well, saer, I just want to prove that I—"

"Miss Peaseblossom… Peggy…" he took her hand between his. "You are a very talented dancer… considering."

"… Considering?" Peggy blinked.

"To put it bluntly— your feet's too big." He sighed. "I love you, but your feet's too big. Dance ten, foots three, as they say."

Confused tears pooled behind Peggy's golden eyelashes. "…Do… do they say that?"

"Peggy… what matters is what's best for the production. And, well… when people come to the theater… they want to see sex."

"Sex? Saer, but… I thought this was a groundbreaking, multidisciplinary theatrical—"

"Yes, yes, but first, we need to get the people in the door! And what audiences want are, well… elves. Elves are sexy. Or half-elves. Drow especially, those are very exciting. Tieflings too… and, well, humans will do in a pinch, if they have very special hair or eye colors and maybe something fascinating in their backstory."

"I… I don't understand!" Peggy's voice broke. In Green Fields, all the lads had thought she was quite the looker. "I'm young, and healthy…"

"And you've got charms," he agreed, "But… short folk like us don't sell tickets, Peggy. Not when we're top billed. But! You're a talented girl. You could have a VERY promising career ahead of you, if you work hard. Maybe someday, if you play your cards right, you could be somebody's wise grandmother, or their funny, wise-cracking sidekick."

"But… you don't think I could be… sexy?"

His brow furrowed in thought as he searched for the right euphemism. Finally, after far too long a time, he said: "You could be… cute."

He tapped her hand, as if that could satisfy her.

"And I'm so glad to have you in this production," he added, full of false cheer. "You're the best Shambling Mound I could have hoped for. You'll be swell! You'll be great."

And with that, he walked off into the wings.

Peggy sulked her way into the dressing room, where all the chorus girls were changing into their dance costumes. Not Laeneth Lamouriel, Peggy thought bitterly. She gets her own dressing room.

"That producer— Saer Flukefield— do you think he's with the Guild?" said one girl.

"That's why they say the last company folded here," said another. "Their producers owed too much money to the Guild, and they had to shut it down."

"That human may or may not be with the Guild," said a third, "But girls, I can tell you, he's a lech. The way he was eyeing me—!"

"Oh, he's looking for company, that's for sure. He told me that he was staying at the Purple Wyrm, in the Upper City, like it was an invitation! Say, Peggy, was it? What do you have over there?"

Peggy had sat down at her dressing station, and was in the process of setting out her little pictures and icons.

"Oh, these? These are of the god I just started worshipping."

"God?" asked the girl. "I thought he was your boyfriend! He looks like a regular fella! He's handsome!"

"He was a regular fella," Peggy explained. "He ascended to godhood, just last year."

Of course, Gale had always been more than just a regular fella. He was a childhood prodigy, then a professor, then a hero, and … he was handsome. VERY handsome. Peggy had blushed when she saw pictures of him in the broadsheets immediately after his ascension to godhood, and she had imagined… fantasized…

"Oh yeah, that… magic teacher, wasn't he? What was his name?"

A magic teacher… a magic teacher. "Gale Dekarios," she said.

Mrs. Gale Dekarios… Mrs. Peggy P. Gale Dekarios… the magic teacher's wife. Back when she had seen those pictures and read those articles, she had imagined herself wrapped in his arms, gently carried over the threshold of his wizard tower, laid down on his bed as a breeze swept through the gauzy canopy... The boys in Green Fields were simple lads who could never give her what she really wanted. They could never be as smart, or as strong, or as romantic as Professor Gale Dekarios.

Now, of course, Gale was a god. The God of Ambition! And while she could never have met him in person if he had stayed a mortal… now, couldn't he hear her when she prayed to him? He must have heard her prayers… after all, her ambition had gotten into the show, hadn't it?

Sure, her part was small, and sure, no one could see her face when she was onstage, and sure, Saer Dapplebottom had told her that she had no sex appeal and no possible way of making a name for herself, but… with Ambition, weren't all things possible?

"We're about to go on," said one of the chorus girls, a dark-haired tiefling. "Peggy, are you coming with us?"

"The Shambling Mound isn't… in this number," said Peggy. "I'll just do my makeup."

"Ugh, I hope that Flukefield doesn't stick around for the whole thing…" "Are you grabbing dinner after rehearsal?" "Did you see the way he…" The girls' conversation trailed off as they exited out into the hall.

Peggy sat at her dressing station, all alone, as echoes of their rehearsal echoed faintly in the distance.

Oh, the Ranger and the Druid should be friends,

Oh, the Ranger and the Druid should be friends,

One man likes to chase a cow,

The other turns into a cow,

But that's no reason why…

The producer… the lecherous human producer…

Peggy studied her reflection for a moment— the golden curls, the big blue eyes, the dimple on one side of her round-cheeked face. Was Saer Dapplebottom right? Was she simply too cute to be a star?

She had started to climb, but still had so much further to go.

"There's gotta be something better than this," she whispered to her own reflection. "There's gotta be something better to do." Then she folded her hands.

"Lord Gale," she said. "Please hear my prayer.

"I just want to tell you… I choose you. You're the god that I want! The one I need… oh, yes, indeed! I don't need any of the old gods, all the big-name gods, all the ones who have been around forever! A new god… what I wouldn't give to have a new god! All I want is a straightforward and honest god to be with me, as I ascend through my own ambition… And… if occasionally he'd ponder what I might have to do to be great…

"Him I would love till I die," she said, simply. "Him I would love till I die!" And she sang:

My God Gale,

Not a Lathander,

Nor a deva with wings,

Just someone to buff me,

Who is not afraid of some shady things!

My God Gale,

Let me climb to him while the others sit by:

Climb, and serve him,

Till I die!

Till…

I…

Die!"

Silent music started to play in Peggy's mind, and she gasped. Was this… was this the divine presence speaking to her?

A thought came unbidden to her mind.

Saer Flukefield…

The producer…

The Purple Wyrm… Upper City… Tonight at eight…

Peggy leapt up from her station, as if she were struck by a bolt of greased lightning. Her grin spread wide across her rosy, dimpled face.

Her god had spoken to her. She knew what she needed to do.

"I'm gonna fuck the producer!"

CURTAIN