You scatter through the streets of Elizabethian England, London. There’s yells of ‘After him!’ in the distance, and you can’t help wonder what’s going on.

A young male, with light brown hair, a brown tunic slams down on a crate of hay. You jump back at the sudden noise.

“Oh crap-“ You catch his eye, and his brown gaze meets yours. “Your not.. one of Francis’ soldiers are you? I’ve kinda been framed - by- by my friend, Christopher Marlowe.”