Part One:
Night falls over Lukasport, with a crisp breeze and the tolling of bells. The Syrenfall district is crowded as usual, with the lilting tales of balladeers sailing through the air on threads plucked on taut lute strings. Voices rise and fall, and the wanton laughter of harlots punctuates the din rising up from the taverns.
A stretch past Syrenfall, the Front grows quiet. No less crowded than the lavish quarters of Syrenfall, this place was teeming with dockworkers and sailors…now with nightfall, the city’s hidden economy springs to life. Gambling dens and taverns catering to those who shun the ample lamplights of the Lukasport, open their doors.
Behind the ornate gates of the Sifford district, the gentry of Lukasport stream up Bonfire Street where stone houses extend in neat rows on a lane adorned with trees and polished oak benches. At the top of the hill, a large estate with a gated entry terminates the street.
This is the estate of Solomon Beard, one of Lukasport's richest merchants…a man who has made his fortune acquiring and re-selling spices, textiles and…other things from distant lands. He is said to have boasted, that if it exists and not nailed down to the floors of Hades…he can produce it for sale.
The garish opulence of his estate stands as a testament to his success meeting the promise of his boasts.
The gates, the posts of which are sculpted in the shape of naked giants, swing open and permit entry to Solomon’s guests. Tonight is his annual gala, an event as regular as the seasons and as anticipated. Already the music fills the district and as in the city beyond Sifford’s gates, merriment and laughter shimmer in the cool evening air.
The guests press into the great hall, lit with wondrously mirrored lamps from above, where musicians and prestidigitators entertain them. The food is served in an adjoining hall, where seating is provided at a series of round tables…draped in silk and adorned with silver.
On the balcony above the great hall, flanked on either side by sweeping marble stairs, Solomon holds court with his wife on his arm and his son, Rupert at his side. His daughter is nowhere to be found. While Rupert's wife, Freya clings to her husband’s arm with a smile pressed onto her face, seemingly enduring the social event only barely.
The center of the great hall is cleared and the musicians alter their tune, the evening’s first performance by The Tumblefoot Trio is about to begin.
Till Tumblefoot
Till and the rest of the Trio wait in a small room adjacent to the galley, servants race to and fro around them, re-stocking the banquet tables outside perhaps. The arrangements for the Tumblefoot Trio were made much in advance of this night, requested by Miriam Beard, Solomon’s wife.
Till
Gaius Octavian Cicero
Waiting, that’s what Gaius finds himself doing. In a garishly decorated sitting room in the rear of the house. He had entered by way of a rear entrance when the music was just beginning, now it sounds clearly that this gala is well under way and still, Gaius is waiting for his audience with Solomon Beard, and Gaius is not alone. Across the room he sees an imposing bearded man, with tanned, weathered skin, wild hair, and vivid, blue Pictish tattoos that encircle his deepset grey eyes.
Gaius
Imbolc Taloran
The storms that sought him out a fortnight ago were full of auspicious signs, and led Imbolc south, down the edge of Canysfane moor with its howling wolves and into the Taegish woodlands…it was there that his Master’s message reached him. The message brought him to Lukasport, and after a day of inquiry to the estate of Solomon Beard. The gatekeeper brought him in, through the back entrance of the estate, most perplexed at the druid’s appearance on the night of the gala, without invitation…but as custom on the night of the gala, no effort was made to turn Imbolc away…he would wait for his audience, but he would have it. Into a garish sitting room he is brought, looking across the room, and sees a gaunt man, with long-hair, and dark-eyes.
Imbolc
Mort Timos
Mortimer Timos left the Necropolis in the southern reaches of Dwarfhold, and made haste to Lukasport. On his way, he had opportunity to save a young woman from a roaming beast…it was in its first life a worg…but some foul necromancy had brought it back as something else. His urgency would have spurred him on his way, but the chilling embrace was on him and he was reminded of his vows. He still feels the chill as he joins the two men in Solomon Beard’s garishly decorated sitting room. The sound of clapping hands wafts in from the great hall through a set of heavy double doors opposite of the one he was brought in through. One of the men in the room is seemingly a foreigner, judging by his gaunt tone, long-hair, and dark-eyes; the other a similarly striking figure, with tanned, weathered skin, wild hair, and beard. Vivid, blue Pictish tattoos encircle his deepset grey eyes.
Mort
Christoph Buhrer
Christoph feels out of place, but the food is good and his stories, when he feels he must share them with the curious gentry that shuffle about him. Not three nights ago he was drinking swill and eating stale bread in a tavern called the Rusted Nail…now he is here exchanging such pleasantries as he can muster with the city’s elite. He looks across the great hall, as the Tumblefoot Trio is about to perform and sees Rupert Beard. Rupert is the reason he is here…Rupert who apparently likes to dress down and take risks in the city’s most dangerous quarters. Perhaps it is more than gratitude for saving his life from that cutthoat in The Front district, that made Rupert invite Christoph to the event.
Christoph