Tremendous grey clouds hung over the city of Grenforth, rain hammered down onto its cobblestone streets, cascading over slate roofs and running down into narrow alleyways.
A dark stone townhouse spilled warm red light and noise into the cold, wet street that it stood on. As whoops, cheers and laughter escaped its doors and windows, pedestrians stole glances into the decadence amid their hurried steps.
In a private room at the very top of the house, a man lay with his head on a whore's lap. She stroked his hair gently, occasionally stopping to twirl the wavy black strands that hung down the sides of his forehead.
"What's the matter with you? Anyone would think you didn't enjoy yourself." She looked down at him with a raised eyebrow.
"No," he reached a hand up and stroked her cheek, "I always enjoy our time together, it's just - word of my being here has no doubt reached my father already. And you know what happens after that."
"Oh, Art. Be patient with him, please?"
Alicia stood up, gently moving his head out of her lap. She walked across the room, her long red hair dangled down past her wide, swaying hips as she smiled back at him. She sat down at a dressing table, facing the man on the bed. Alicia had sharp features, a sleek jawline and a nose with a slight upturn, thick eyebrows and piercing green eyes.
"I don't want to," Art sighed, "he knows exactly how to piss me off, it's like... I don't know. He just knows somehow."
"You can't run from your responsibilities forever, you know. Your father could never give the title to your sister, and if you put it off much longer he'll be forced to pass you over for your brother."
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He swung his legs off the bed and lurched upright, letting out a dramatic sigh.
"Don't you fucking start with me too!" he snapped, pulling his shirt over his head. "As if I need it from you when already hear it from the rest of the Duchy."
Art looked at the golden cased clock on the wall as he struggled with his boots. He knew his father would no doubt be waiting for him to return, ready to lecture him about duty and reputation, and how he had none of the latter.
Hopping down the stairs and weaving through the other patrons, Art brushed past more working girls. He smiled and kissed a few on the cheek, promising to return soon and spend more of that noble coin he always had.
The heavy front door swung wide as he booted it open, smacking against the handrail with a dull thud. He scanned the moody, rain soaked street both ways before looking ahead and locking eyes with someone whom he did not want to see.
'Fuck.' He muttered aloud.
A rough looking man lent against a sleek black carriage with his arms crossed, he had a shaved head with a rough look about him. Art recognised him immediately as the captain of his fathers household guard. The man stared at him across the street, waiting for his mark to cross and greet him.
"Mi'Lord, your father has requested your presence."
"Oh for god's sake, Milton. Tell the bastard it can wait 'til morning, it's long past sunset and I need sleep." He tried to brush the man off with a wave of his hand as he spoke, then turned to walk away.
"The request was... very firm, Mi'Lord. I am not to take no for an answer."
The man took a step to the side and opened the carriage door, as if he already knew the outcome of the conversation. Sure enough, Art let out another dramatic sigh and climbed in. Milton slammed the door shut behind him and poked his head through the window.
"Perhaps if you were to spend less time amongst whores and degenerates, you might find more time for sleep... Mi'Lord."
Art stared at him, his frustration at the Captain's indigence was clearly written in his eyes. Before he could say anything though, Milton had already slammed the shutters down over the window and climbed into the drivers seat.