The fading twilight stretched across the city of Rhoscara, glittering among its crimson and gold spires. Beneath them, the work of the city began to die down, after another frenetic day of creation and trade. Carpenters and masons, bakers and chefs, most daytime workers began to close up shop and head for home. Gradually, they streamed from their workshops and their patisseries, leaving only the fading dust of a hard day’s work in their wake.

While the working public of Rhoscara closed their doors, another kind of resident began to open theirs.

The nightlife.

Unique among the Five Points of the dwarven Principality, Rhoscara possessed a thriving night culture that catered to those that sought entertainment under the moonlight. Street lamps were gradually lit by lamplighters, made much easier in the modern age since the invention of enchantment discs. Where before they needed to painstakingly light each individual gas lamp, these days they only needed to activate individual discs that required a specific key.

Taverns and dens of iniquity opened their doors en-masse, eager to welcome in the hardworking dwarves of the city. They were equally eager to take their coin. Carousers and drunks of all sorts came and went from establishment to establishment, either seeking more amusement or having worn out their welcome. It was a common sight among Rhoscaran pubs for disagreeable patrons to be literally thrown out the door by one of the employed guards.

Bront Stonebin was one of those guards. A former military dwarf, he’d served in the Rhoscaran guard for three years before being court marshaled over a simple misunderstanding, if you asked him. All he’d done was a bit of flirting, after all. How was he supposed to know that dame he’d goosed had been a Count’s daughter? All those hoity-toity types looked the same to him, after all.

After he’d done his time, Bront had drifted as a tough for hire among the underbelly of the city. But after a while, Bront’d had a thought. ‘Bront,’ He had thought to himself. ‘Bront, yer getting’ on in yer years, and ye ain’t going to be gettin’ many more levels. This is it fer you, bucko. Time to settle down.’

And so he had.

Bront had looked for honest employment among the scenes he had been most familiar with and had eventually ended up as a guards-dwarf for The Gilded Mare. He’d known that most bars in the city were always looking for ex-military to help handle people that’d had a little too much to drink. The Mare was a decent bar that paid decent wages. It wasn’t as high-end as some of the places that the nobs went to, but it wasn’t a slum bar either. Today, he was working the outside door.

Bront was pretty happy with his life these days. He’d settled down and found gainful employment, astonishing his poor old ma. He’d even started making inquiries about a nice girl he fancied. Marva Kegborn worked over at a bakery on fifth street, and hadn’t spat in his face when he’d given her flowers!

He was sure they were going to get married any day now.

Bront snapped out of his daydreaming when he heard the sound of a loudly singing group coming up the road. Shoving off the wall next to the door of the Mare he’d been resting on, he directed his gaze that way.

He was pretty puzzled by what he found.

It looked like a group of nobs. Like, the really fancy ones, even.

All dressed up in crimson silk and more gold than Bront was sure he’d ever see in his life, their faces were even painted in the new style that was all the rage with the higher class. It must have been a group of at least ten dwarves, in all. He couldn’t tell though, because they were surrounding one dwarf in the center of them pretty closely.

The group was singing at the top of their lungs in the old tongue, so Bront didn’t understand a word of what they were saying. Uppity lot this, then. Only people that deliberately didn’t want to be understood turned off Language Adaptation. They weren’t very good, anyway. Bront had heard better from some of the regulars, once they’d gotten a few ales in them.

Once the group reached the street in front of the Mare, they started to make their way to the door, without a care in the world. Bront stopped them, for the simple reason that he had stepped in front of the entryway. The group of nobs halted, with some of the group visibly shocked. Hell, some of them looked as if they had only just now noticed them.

“Oi, oi,” Bront grunted, crossing his beefy arms across his leather-padded chest. “What are you lot thinkin’, then? We’re full up, yeah? Shove off, and find someplace else to get yer piss on.”

A few of the group looked more astonished than ever. A couple of them even began to look around, as if they were looking for someone. One of the nobles spoke up, though. “Now, look here-”.

“No,” Bront said, unfolding his arms and looming over the foppish noble. “You look here. Fook off, all of ye. I won’t tell ye again.”

“Calm yourself, my good dwarf.” A smooth voice echoed out of the circle of dwarven nobles. At some unseen signal, they peeled away in front of Bront to let the speaker step forward. It was another nob, but this one was different somehow. He was taller and was dressed in a way that was both fancier than the rest of them, and yet somehow less ostentatious to Bront’s untrained eye. But it wasn’t his clothes, or even his bearing that gave Bront pause about this new nob. It was his face. Unlike the other nobs, who were all done up in foppish cosmetics, he was different.

He looked like he was wearing war paint, instead.

The new nob smiled evenly at Bront before he spoke. “I assure you, doorman, we are expected by the owner. We have a reserved room.”

Bront shifted uncomfortably. Something about this new dwarf was throwing him off. “I dunno.” He muttered doubtfully. “I ain’t heard no-”.

Bront was cut off by the door slamming open behind him, causing him to jump. Before he could turn around to see who had slammed the door open, he was astonished to see his boss, and the owner of the Mare scurry past him to bow repeatedly in front of the painted nob.

“I’m so, so sorry milord.” His boss, Fanziel Brightbrew, stammered cringingly between bows to the nob. “I-I was busy in the back, and I lost track of time, and I deeply, deeply apologize for the actions of my doorman. He’s new, and-”.

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The painted nob laid a hand on Mr. Brightbrew’s shoulder and drew him upright. “None of that now.” The strange dwarf said with a small smile. “We have a business, don’t we? It wouldn’t do to delay it even more.” Turning his eyes back to Bront, the painted dwarf didn’t have to say another word. Mr. Brightbrew looked up at him as well, with a wide-eyed, murderous gaze.

Bront stepped out of the way of the door.

Not giving Bront another look, the painted nob directed Mr. Brightbrew back into the bar, followed closely by the rest of his entourage. A few of the other dwarves glared at Bront on the way inside, but he didn’t pay them any mind. He was still puzzled by what had creeped him out about the guy that Mr. Brightbrew had been bowing and scraping to.

After a moment, he managed to pin it down and shivered. It had been his eyes. The painted nob may have smiled at him, but his eyes had been dead. It was like they hadn’t even actually seen Bront when they were looking at him. Bront resolved to stay out of the way of that nob in the future and tried to put him out of his mind.

Thoughts of Marva Kegborn were much more pleasant, after all.

……………………………………...

Lord Olag of House Savoy calmly folded his hands on the table in front of him as the last of his subordinates shuffled into the room. The proprietor of this…hovel, shut the door behind the last dwarf to enter the room. Once he was finished, the commoner made his way to the corner of the room, where a chair was waiting for him.

It was good that he knew his place.

Olag waited patiently as his followers seated themselves along the sides of the long table that lay in the meeting room he had rented. Of course, he sat at the head of it. Once the last of his peons had seated themselves in proper silence, Olag let it stretch on for a moment longer.

Shifting his eyes to the dwarf closest to his right, Olag broke the quiet. “Report.” He said simply.

The ostentatious dwarf, the second son of some no-name coin counter, rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “Of course, my lord.” He simpered. “This week…”.

What followed was almost entirely drivel. For the next half hour, Olag did his best to pay attention as the worthless peons that had flocked to his banner prattled on about court gossip. Olag truthfully didn’t care a whit about who had diddled who, or who had been spreading rumors this week. However, it was important for him to at least pretend that he did. If he wished to retain the support of the merchant faction, then he needed to retain at least the image of cordiality with their scions.

Olag repressed a sigh.

These fops were so tiresome. They crowded around him for attention and praise, when he despised them in his heart. They aped the trappings of nobility after their families had purchased their titles, instead of inheriting them like true nobles. They spent money as if it was water that fell from the heavens in a vain attempt to appear important. Gods, they had even begun to paint their faces in cosmetics in a fruitless attempt to mimic his tattoos. That had irked him when they had first started that. He had made the commitment to permanently mark his face in the traditional manner of the old Kragsdwarves, and these fools thought to mimic him with powders? They likely knew nothing of their history, choosing to dishonor their ancestors so. He’d had to stop himself from challenging the fools.

No doubt Ely knew how much the practice irked him, from the way she had to hide a smile whenever one of the dunces presented themselves to her.

Still, they had their uses.

Olag raised a hand to stop the current fool from rambling on, something about this week’s menu. “Stop. Repeat the last thing you said.” He said commandingly.

The fop stopped speaking to stare at him in surprise. “Ah, about the lobsters, my lord?”

Olag’s eyebrow twitched slightly in annoyance. “No. What were you saying before you began to speak of…the menu?” He finished, unable to stop a hint of distaste from creeping into his tone.

The painted fool cringed slightly before trying to rally himself, unconvincingly. His ‘peers’ watched hungrily, eager for any form of drama. “Ah, I-I was speaking about how that dreadful human knight has been spotted in the library recently?” He asked plaintively.

Olag hummed, leaning back into his chair thoughtfully. Ah, yes. ‘Sir’ Nathan Hart.

Hah.

That had been a very, very interesting series of events. Since the court session nearly a week ago, he’d done his best to keep eyes on the ‘knight’. From what his incompetent spies had told him, he’d spent most of that time either in the royal library or in the presence of Ely. His supposed liege lord, that lumbering oaf Azarus, had been busy with his usual contracts in the city and thus absent from the palace. You would think that a sworn knight would attend to the needs of his master, but no. The human had spent his time in the palace instead.

Olag wondered who he really was. A Herztalian agent of some kind, perhaps? Not everyone possessed either a skill or artifact powerful enough to veil his status, as he had so obviously done. Certainly not a 'low-level' hedge knight of no renown.

Still, let it never be said that Olag of House Savoy couldn't appreciate a good spot of subterfuge among the court. He'd intercepted a missive sent from a spy in the court about the recent going ons. He believed the rat in this case belonged to that Savoy deviant, Magnus. He'd had one of his agents do some careful editing of the message before sending it along its way. After all, if the human 'knight' was pretending to be Azarus's slave, no doubt he was also spying on that feculent toad. He wished him all the luck in that endeavor.

Really, he was almost disappointed in Ely. If she had wanted to insert this ‘Sir’ Hart into her court, she should have thought of a better cover for him. What was more interesting, however, was the role that Azarus was playing in this performance. Whatever could he have done to attract the attention of such a skilled operative?

Olag focused back on the fop in front of him. “Are there any other reported movements concerning Sir Hart?” He asked sharply. At the startled look on some of the faces surrounding him, he reigned his temper in and attempted a smile. “That is, if you’ve heard anything?”

The fool smiled back at him nervously. “A-ah, the only other thing is that I’ve, well, I mean, one of the servants overheard him telling the Prince he was leaving soon?” At Olag’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Ah, er, apparently Lord Azarus is finished with his business and they’re leaving? Soon?”

“I see,” Olag said quietly. If that buffoon was done collecting the rocks he needed to beat with his hammer, then that must mean that the ‘knight’ was finished with his business as well. Olag felt another surge of irritation with the incompetencies of his so-called spies. If only he had been allowed to bring any of his scouts into the palace, he wouldn’t have needed to rely on these fools for information. Alas, old Morok had ruled long ago that soldiers not under the command of the Prince of Rhoscara were barred from the palace. Ely hadn’t rescinded that order once the old man had carked it and she had risen to power. Honestly, probably a good idea, if not somewhat inconvenient for his purposes.

Olag made a show of nodding thoughtfully at the idiot’s words. “Very well then.” He said, rising to his feet. Everyone else in the room, even the proprietor in the corner, scrambled to copy him. “I believe that we’ve covered everything we need to tonight, my friends. I bid you goodnight.” He finished with a pointed stare at the door.

One by one, the painted fops began to bow in his direction before exiting the room. Before long, the only people left in the room were Olag and the proprietor. He bowed to Olag as well. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’ll have your dinner brought along shortly.” He said nervously. Before he could leave, however, he was stopped by Olag clearing his throat.

“Brightbrew.” Fanziel Brightbrew turned back to face the noble, anxiously. “You should begin looking for a new doorman. I’ll be having a word with Don Thraggec about your…current one.” Olag smiled slightly.

The smile didn’t reach his eyes.