Masks, Merchants and a Menace

“Are you sure about this, boss?”

The room in the Cavernous Seashank is small and dank, the guttering candles spread across the room providing only modest lighting. Carl eagerly holds up a large beaten bronze plate, shifting this way and that to catch what little light there is, while his master studies his reflection.

“My dear Carl, don't you worry - this will go splendidly!”

Menace has changed his appearance and inspects the results. Where a shady Tiefling - bowed and scurrying in an old grey coat - may have entered the inn, a lord - erect and measured - will leave.

He has dropped his coat-of-many-pockets onto the hard bed, and forsaken his usual utilitarian studded leather clothes, instead donning a black silk doublet and matching pants, silver stitchings marking floral patterns across the chest, shoulders and along the seams. Old, sturdy travelling boots have been replaced with fine grey calfskin leather loafers; and his black hair, usually hidden under the hood of his coat, has been well combed, parted, braided and looped around his small backward curved horns he usually keeps hidden. He has woven pearls into the braids - glass, but of good quality; no one would be able to tell the difference.
On the small bedside table, he has arranged the tools of his transformation magic: unfolded, a case containing neat arrays of small jars and pots, filled with cosmetics, hair dye, and small props, stands ready to imbue him with whatever looks he desires - and for this evening, he desires a mustache. Daintily picking up the small facial toupe, made from real human hair, dabbed with a hint of adhesive sap, he carefully arranges it on his upper lip, pressing it into place, until it looks as if it had always been there. A bit of pomade, and the hair has been twisted and furled into two sharp prongs on each side, rising up and piercing down at the edge of his lips.

“What do you think?” He says to Carl, pleased with the result of his transformation.

“You look very lordly, boss.” the apprentice says, awe and worry mixed in equal parts. “But are you sure no one will see through the disguise? You are going to a gathering of nobles and highborns after all. I… I’m just worried, is all.”

Menace smiles at his worried apprentice and gives him a reassuring nod.
“It will be alright Carl, trust me. In my experience, people tend to see what they want to see. If you can sell them a vision of what they ought to see, then their mind will be eagre to buy. It is all about the attitude really, the rest is icing on the cake. And now - for the cherry…”

He bends down to his pack and picks up a shiny black mask in the shape of a raven. The beak and eyes are decorated with silver lines that give the mask more facial expression than any bird-man could muster. He daintily places it on his face and takes a last look into the mirror - the transformation is complete.

“Amazing…” Carl sighs, he has never seen clothes so rich and delicate. And to think all of this is a disguise…?
“What will I wear?”

Menace chuckles and gives Carl a sad little smile.
“I am sorry my boy, I can't take you with me on this little excursion. It requires a level of finesse you just don't have yet. One day though! And anyway, I need you to deal with the fish.”

Carl doesn’t hide his disappointment. “That sack of fish the fisherman dropped off? What do you want with that?”

Menace wags his finger. “His name is Stedd, and he has very kindly donated a good part of his catch to us. Take them to Getrude in the kitchen downstairs, I have arranged with Jedd to feed the urchins this week with the tavern’s leftovers in exchange for all that fish; I expect it will be chowder all week. And tell Sally to watch! Jedd may be a crook, but Gertrude knows how to tickle a mean meal out of even the dregs of a larder, I daresay Sally can learn something from her. Then have all the kids line up with their bowls. Nothing like a warm meal in the tummy to remind them who looks out for them. And then...” he flicks Carl a gold coin, “...have yourself a proper meal at the Laughing Hog cookshop. You deserve it.”

The boy catches the coin and holds it fast in his little hand. He is 14 now, and before he came to work for the boss, he never in his life held one of the big, heavy golden coins; and now he gets to spend one, all on himself. Truly, life has started to look up for him.

“I will be back tomorrow morning and meet you at the pawnshop. Now run along, before the fish starts to smell.”

As the door shuts behind Carl, Menace takes a last, long look at himself in the mirror. “Truly, this will be a night to remember…”

---

“And who may I announce?”

The seneschal bows low, as he accepts Menace’s (expertly forged) invitation.

“Parvenu d’Argent, lord mercantile of Waterdeep.” he says, striding past the stooped down steward who would have sneered at him a day ago on the streets. What difference a change of posture and clothes can make...

The saloon of the Flourished Hook, splendid even on average days, is positively radiant in its opulent grandeur, having been transformed into a ball room. The grand chandelier shines warm light onto the assembled masked guests, the crystal shards sparkling like stars in the night sky. Indigo garlands have been hung for that purpose from the ceiling, tied to the balustrade of the mezzanine, shrouding the ceiling in lavishly dyed cloth. The usual tables and red leather booths have been pushed to the walls to clear the floor for the masked dance. White liveried waiters weave through the crowd, balancing trays of fine wines and colored liquors; a troupe of musicians plays a merry song, and the guests laugh their fake laughs, dressed in the most ostentatious displays of wealth they can muster.

As he makes his way to the bar, a lady in a swirl of white silk blows past him like a blizzard, “watch where you step!” she begins with a snarl, but then composes herself and summons a cold smile, as she realizes that she does not know the gentleman. “Pardon me, I may have been a bit too brusk. I am lady Cellica Krislee, and who might you be? I daresay, I have not seen you at our small social gatherings here before?”

He makes a curt bow. “Parvenu d’Argent, lord mercantile of Waterdeep, only recently arrived in this… lovely town.” He sneers as he says it. “Quite charming, really.” said with all the conviction of a damp washcloth.

Lady Krislee raises one long, immaculately plucked eyebrow. Her tall and graceful elven physique lend the tiny movement ever so much more of an impact.
“My apologies Lord d’Argent, it must be all rather quaint for one who has made the long journey from Waterdeep. I daresay though, we are ever endeavouring to make the most of it.” she says, with a wave to the assembled crowd. “And what brings you here, my lord?”

“Yes, what would a lord mercantile from Waterdeep want all the way out here?”
Menace directs his gaze downward to the dwarf that has joined their conversation. Even for a dwarf, this one is short, standing hardly taller than a halfling, a wispy beard fighting a desperate rearguard action to hold on to his chin, the elaborate and clearly oversized ruff doing nothing to instill a sense of awe and respectability.
“Dolmur Coppertongue, pleased to meet you” the little dwarf says, blowing his nose into an embroidered handkerchief, “I represent the interests of the Coppertongue Mining Corporation here in Kantas.”

“Pleased to meet you, master Dolmur; I have done business with the Coppertongues in Faerun, their wealth is known far and wide. But today I am here to establish the prospects for an expansion of my trade arrangements to Kantas. It seems the land is awash in opportunity, and I intend to take advantage of any opportunities that present themselves.” he says with a nod.

“And what sort of business would you do here, if you don't mind me asking?” the little dwarf wheezes, before returning to his already sticky handkerchief.

“Why, rare and valuable goods of all kinds: spider silk, darkwood, and whatever else that catches my attention. My activities range as far and wide as the noble pursuit of profit requires.”

Lady Krislee sighs in exasperation. “Business, business, business! It seems that is all that is being talked about here at the frontier of civilization. Decidedly too low brow for me” she says, giving a pointed look to the dwarf beneath her, “I shall not deter you gentlemen, enjoy the party.”, and rushes off.

“Bit flighty that one” Dolmur grumbles, “and no head for business, but what can you do with these elven socialites, eh?” he says cackling without waiting for a reply, “Though she does have a nice neckline…”.


The party goes on through the night, each dance more elaborate, and each wine course more exquisite than the one before. Lord d’Argent weaves through the crowds, making introductions and shaking hands left and right. In the small hours of the night, as guests begin to leave, he makes his way up to the mezzanine, looking for an empty room to reassure himself that his fake mustache has not budged from its assigned position. But as he approaches a door, he can hear hushed voices from within.
“...yes, right there…”
“...can you just...yesss…”
He steps through the door and closes it behind him, rousing the surprised couple in a flurry of disarrayed silks and disheveled hair, pointedly knocking from the inside.
“Why, these Kantasian nights are full of surprises, it seems.” he says, with a wry smile.

“This is not what it looks like!” Lady Krislee, struggling to her feet and frantically trying to straighten out her dress, spits out, her voice struggling between shrill and hushed tones.

“Certainly not! We were just… paying tribute to each others company.” Dolmur tries lamely, as he struggles with his fabulously embroidered pants.

“Oh, absolutely, paying tribute is exactly what this situation seems to suggest.” Menace says, his smile widening. “I can imagine, any suggestion to the contrary would cause quite a stir in these social circles?”

Lady Krislee seems to deflate and turning a shade paler, while Dolmur, still wheezing from the struggle with his buttons, takes on a crimson tone instead.
“Why do you meddle?? This means nothing to you!”

Menace’s smile goes wider still, exposing his incisors to measured effect. “Oh quite to the contrary Master Dolmur. I told you I was here to take advantage of any opportunities that present themselves, and this certainly qualifies.” Cutting the dwarf off with a wave of his hand, he continues “do not worry, your secret is safe with me. I do not intend to stay in this pitiful little hovel for much longer anyway. But I do intend to collect on this debt, in due course. I will send my local representative, Mace, when the time comes. I expect you will treat him with all the respect and deference you would afford myself.” he pauses for effect, letting the weight of it sink in, before yawning with great aplomb. “But it is getting late. I leave you to… continue your mutual admiration. Just make sure you lock the door next time, eh?” he says with a chuckle, “I bid you adieu.”

He closes the door behind him, the lock shutting with a heavy thud.

---

A fresh dawn rises over Port Ffirst. The seagulls cry the news of ships arriving and leaving, the waves lapping up against the shabby docks of Old Port. Last night’s refuse has yet to develop its pungent smell under the new day's sun, and the dogs have slunk off into the darkest corners of Old Town’s alleys. And there goes, transformed once more, a tiefling in an old grey coat, hood drawn over his head, whistling a merry tune as he goes. He knows these alleys like the back of his hand, never hesitating before making turns, skilfully sidestepping old turds and sleeping mutts alike.
But as he arrives in the narrow alley, the well known sign of the pawnshop swaying in the morning breeze, he stops, the song dying on his lips.

The door to the shop stands ajar.

Inside, shelves are overturned, goods strewn across the floor. His eyes quickly scan the damage, establishing what pieces have gone missing. But one absence hurts most of all.

“Carl…?”