The blood flows from his wound, his breath wheezes through his pierced lung, and as he looks up to face his slayer his eyes light up with realization…
… and then Trevelyan says something extremely deep and moving and dies in the arms of Valonia who swears to avenge his death. Curtain down, end of act I.

What the hell is the man supposed to say upon realizing who has just ended his life, and upon realizing what the motives are?
Corentin never ceased to wonder why on earth he loved writing drama so much considering how much he often sighed and hated the pretentiousness of it during the entire writing process. Probably it must be the magic of drama and the theatre which induced this bittersweet hate-love-thing. Bittersweet, by the way. That was a good, classical word. Could be used in some line in the play, perhaps.
It was not even two hours since he arrived with his tiny travelling theatre troupe in the Sapphire City. The troupe was now alarmingly small, since Corentin, Simon and Jim were the only actors left after the fourth one resigned without much of an explanation. His frustrations knew no limits: There were so many things he wanted to do, so many plays he wanted to write and put on stage. All he needed was the resources, that is to say, he needed bloody actors. And there was the problem with Simon constantly complaining about having to play all the female roles nowadays…

Desperately searching for new actors the journey had led him to the Sapphire City, and now he was wandering around brooding over a new play which was budding in his mind and keeping an eye open for potential actors. Thus far, he had had no luck on either of those two subjects. Though he was gloomy he could not help admiring the beautiful architecture and the splendour of the famed city. The surroundings were optimal for inspiration (he hoped) and after all, he always got so much more inspiration from walking about outside than sitting locked in his old horse-pulled caravan and staring at his old battered writing desk.

The wind rose, making the colourful banners lining the streets flap and blowing Corentin’s dark curls into his face. Tightening his flapping neck scarf and blowing his hair out of his eyes he continued his aimless stroll through the busy streets until he reached a bustling market. People were always a source of inspiration, and thus the troubled playwright began a slow walk down past the various market stalls studying the people rather than the merchandise. Now and then he paused and produced a piece of parchment and charcoal to scribble a few notes.