Act 1. Masks

Act 1. Masks
Briar – Scouting the Villa
Briar moved through the narrow streets of the North Ward like a shadow, his hood pulled low and his gait relaxed but alert. He stopped a short distance from the villa, leaning casually against a tree as if simply resting. The estate was grand—two floors, high-walled with a well-kept garden, tall iron gates, and a pair of guards flanking the main entrance.

The stables sat to the side, attended by a sleepy stablehand and a few idle horses. He circled slowly, eventually finding the rear alley—quiet, unguarded, and curiously untraveled. He lingered there a while, noting sightlines, counting windows, and smirking faintly to himself.

"No servant’s entrance," he muttered. "But maybe the back door isn’t a door at all."Lunareth – Gathering Rumors and Allies
The Misty Beard Tavern buzzed with its usual symphony of clinking mugs, fluttering sprite waitstaff, and the low murmur of exotic voices. Lunareth Væloria leaned casually on the bar, sipping a glass of moonwine as his eyes scanned the eclectic crowd. The tavern’s strange magic and wild patrons made it the perfect place to hear whispers about high society happenings—especially something as grand as the upcoming masked soirée.Legolas – Tailored Intentions
The bell above the door chimed softly as Legolas stepped into the tailor’s modest shop. Fine elven robes hung like art on the walls, delicate embroidery catching the light in silvery thread. From the back, an older elf with wise eyes and green-tinted robes emerged, smiling gently. "Legolas," he greeted. "The Emerald Enclave always has a place here. How can I help you?"

Yes you can indeed. First of - would you be so kind and keep it secret that I belong to The Enclave when I will visit you next time in a company. Legolas state in a friendly voice, with a smile.
Then he turn serious and continue: Would you happen to have recent orders to make fancy outfits for a Masked Soirée. I would need one for myself and two of my acquaintances - simple but fitting.

Legolas
The tailor’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with a glint of understanding. "Discretion is a fabric I keep well-woven, my friend. We are alone here. None shall know of your ties unless you wish it."

He moved toward a rack and gently brushed aside a sheer curtain, revealing bolts of cloth in hues of moonlight, midnight blue, and deep forest green.

"As it happens, yes — I’ve had several commissions recently for a most exclusive affair: the Masked Soirée at Vaerlen Villa. Lady Alenya does not host lightly. Her events are spun as finely as her silks — elegant, dangerous, and full of meaning beneath the surface."

He paused, then added in a lower voice, "I’ve stitched for nobles, merchants, and at least one client who paid in coin too old and foreign to pass through any market. There’s talk at least one Masked Lord might attend this one — if the rumors are to be believed."

He turned back to Legolas, measuring his frame with a practiced eye. "For you and two others… Uh... I can create designs that whisper status without shouting, that suit the dancefloor or the shadowed alcove. Masks with meaning, but not enough to betray. Do you have preferences — colors, motifs, symbols?"

Is it so obvious Lord is my motive. Hope others can't read me so easy. Legolas admits.

He makes a pause considering the choices. First is simple: Something gray for half-elf to hide in shadows. With large enough pockets to hide plenty of objects. he struggle with the second The other one would be an opposite: bright, maybe something to attract women. I trust your taste. He finally think of himself: For me. I don't know. Perhaps I would look like a holy warrior a paladin of sorts, all in white. May trigger some reaction and reaction could tell a story...

He finally asks if/when would he need to bring the other two and how much this will cost them

Luna sipped his wine slowly. While he was no stranger to alcohol, he wanted to keep his mind and ears sharp and focused. Where to start, he pondered. Well, in every tale and fable, the one to ask is always the one behind the bar. Wasn't it Branric he set me on this path, after all? Luna thought back to the barkeep of the Tiny Tavern. Leaning back in, he took another sip and tried to get the attention of any of the mixologists.

BriarBriar found a three-story warehouse just across from the Vaerlen estate. It was quiet this time of day, the alley alongside it empty save for a few empty crates and a dozing stray dog. The building’s upper ledge, half balcony and half forgotten maintenance scaffold, was just wide enough to stretch out on. He scaled a drainage pipe and then a weather-worn trellis, fingers finding handholds with instinctive ease.

When he reached the ledge, Briar settled into the shadow of a rusted chimney, pulling his coat tighter against the wind. From here, he had a commanding view of the estate—its manicured grounds, high walls, and winding garden paths bathed in the golden light of early evening.



He waited. Watched. Let the patterns of the manor unfold like a play with too many actors. And what a cast.

Over the next few hours, an ever-shifting parade of exotic figures passed through the Vaerlen gates. If the goal was opulence and spectacle, Lady Alenya was succeeding before the party even began. First came a pair of lizardfolk in ceremonial garb, scales gleaming with polished oil, bearing heavy wooden crates that smelled faintly of spices and brine. One of them hissed at the guards with amusement before lumbering off toward the servant’s entrance of the mansion.

A short while later, a faerie dragon no longer than Briar’s forearm swooped overhead, trailing wisps of sparkling dust that made two passing nobles sneeze uncontrollably. The dragon perched on the villa's garden wall, chittered to itself, then vanished in a shimmer of glamoured mist. Then came a small procession of myconids carrying trays of exotic mushrooms and glowing flora. The guards looked uneasy but said nothing as the myconids waddled silently past, bioluminescent spores drifting lazily in their wake.

Just after sunset, a rickety cart arrived, pulled not by horses but by zombies—four of them, gray-skinned and mindless, their harnesses etched with arcane runes. A pale human necromancer walked beside them, sipping wine and chatting idly with one of the villa’s half-elf staff, who seemed completely unbothered by the smell of undeath.

Briar narrowed his eyes, adjusting his position slightly. This wasn’t just a noble’s whimsy—it was a statement. Lady Vaerlen was deliberately gathering the rare, the strange, the impossible, and folding them into the illusion of elegance. But beneath it all, the regular staff moved efficiently—humans and half-elves, mostly. Calm, practiced. These were professionals. They weren’t enchanted or enchanted-looking. They were the spine of the villa: cleaning, organizing, guiding the flow of employees and cargo alike. Briar noted their entrances, their body language, how they deferred to one another and to the guards. These were the ones who’d know the layout inside, who’d know what "normal" looked like behind all the glamour.

It was clear the soirée’s labor force wasn’t local. Most were brought in, maybe even auditioned for the night’s performance. That meant chaos. Disarray beneath the polish. Perfect.

Legolas
The tailor moved to a nearby table, began sketching quick silhouettes on a scrap of parchment as he listened. "Gray for the half-elf — practical, unassuming. I’ll use a fabric that catches little light and slips through a crowd unnoticed. Deep-lined sleeves and side vents for easy movement... generous pockets, of course. Sounds like someone who prefers the exit always in view."

He flipped the page. "And for the bright one — something to draw eyes, yes? I see crimson, gold, a touch of sapphire. Sleek but flamboyant, cut to flatter and tease. Leave the collar just wide enough to be scandalous, perhaps."

Finally, he looked up, nodding thoughtfully. "A paladin in white... now that’s a bold thread to pull. I can give you the lines of a knight, subtle silver detailing, a mask shaped like a sunburst or a celestial helm. You’ll glow like virtue walking — and that tends to make people uncomfortable. Useful."

He folded his hands, the sketches laid neatly before him. "I’ll need to see your companions tomorrow to get proper measurements. Midday is best — the light tells me more than their words will. As for the coin…" He tapped the table. "Fifteen gold apiece is fair, given the work and the occasion. As for payment, I can offer you two options: ten gold now for all three outfits, on the condition you return them after the event and owe me a favor down the line… or, if you’d rather keep the garments, pay the full price — fifteen gold each — but you can settle the debt after the soirée. "Lunareth
Leaning in, Luna set his goblet down and raised two fingers in a subtle wave to draw attention. It took a moment, but sure enough, one of the bartenders—an iridescent faerie dragon wearing a black silk vest and a monocle sized comically small for its snout—drifted down from the far end of the bar in a lazy spiral of shimmering wingbeats.

"You rang, moonborn?" the dragon said with a grin, its voice like chimes in a breeze.

That was part of the Misty Beard’s charm. Patrons never knew who—or what—would serve them. It was half the appeal and all the magic. As the dragon floated closer, Luna noticed a couple of the winged sprite waiters zip overhead, chattering in Sylvan and complaining—loudly—about Waterdeep’s sewer stench and how it clung to their wings.

Behind the bar, a pair of tall, stoic lizardfolk were working in perfect unison, pouring drinks and ignoring the hustle like seasoned veterans. One of them bore a sash with the Marlpar crest—the family that owned the tavern. Their father, Munzrim Marlpar, had once bought it from a pair of half-elf sisters and ruled this bar with booming laughter and a tail that knocked chairs over. His children now ran it with a quieter, sharper grace.

Lunareth could not help himself but grin widely as the dragon approached. The wonder of the Misty Beard bubbled within him like a glass of fine champagne. Luna knew that a faerie dragon's color was a good indicator of its age, maturity, and power, but between the rainbow iridescence of the scales and the perfectly tailored attire, Luna could not even begin to hazard a guess. I'd better play it safe. Although adorable, this creature is likely more powerful than it appears. Although it's so CUTE! Having given some thought as to a cover story, Luna turned on the charm and addressed the waist-coated, cat-sized dragon floating in front of him.

"Good afternoon," Luna began. "I must confess, the charm and atmosphere of your establishment is unique in my experience; one which I hope to repeat often! I am relatively newly arrived to this area of Waterdeep", Luna continued, thinking that is no lie; I've been in the House of the Moon most of my life. "Isn't Waterdeep amazing? The vibrancy and diversity of its denizens is richer than anywhere I have ever seen. The opportunities to watch, observe, and learn from members of society is unparalleled given the near constant array of masques, soirees, balls, galas, and whatnot." Here Luna's face falls. "Alas, I myself am noone—at least yet—and would not be worthy of an invitation even were my name to be known. However, I hit upon the idea that were I to be hired as help, I would have plenty of time to watch and observe—in between setting, serving, and clearing, of course."

"For example, I know that Lady Vaerlen is holding a masque shortly; who would know better whom to approach for an opportunity than the purveyors of the finest food and spirits in this section of the city—namely, yourselves! Can you help me?"

Luna gazes plaintively at the dragon, surreptitiously fingering his coin pouch to ensure he had a silver shard or two if necessary to lubricate the dragon's tongue.

LunarethThe faerie dragon’s opalescent wings beat slowly as it considered Lunareth with an expression somewhere between amusement and appraisal. "Flattery, my dear moonborn, will get you almost everywhere," it said, the monocle slipping down its snout before being pushed back into place with a dainty claw. "But here at the Misty Beard, we trade in more than just compliments. Silver, you see, has a melody all its own."

Luna offered two silver coins onto the polished wood of the bar with a practiced flick of his fingers. The faerie dragon tilted its head and gave a soft trill that could have been a chuckle—or a disappointed sigh."Mmm… close," it said, curling around itself midair like a hovering feline. "But knowledge comes at a proper price. The real tune plays at five shards."

Luna, suppressing the urge to groan, drew out three more coins and let them clink onto the bar beside the first two. The faerie dragon’s eyes sparkled."There it is." With a swish of its tail, the coins vanished—snatched by unseen magic or sleight of wing—and the faerie dragon leaned in conspiratorially. "You're in luck. That soirée at the Vaerlen estate? The very same. It’s our people who’ve been hired to cater it—well, at least the refreshments and some entertainment. No surprise really. Lady Vaerlen is a regular here. Has a taste for purple plum brandy and feywine-stewed meats."

The dragon’s voice dropped lower, wings giving a faint hum as it glanced around the tavern. "Some of our folk are already there now. Loading crates, preparing the banquet layout. Happening as we speak."

Briar lingered a moment longer outside the manor, his eyes tracing the flow of guards, the timing of patrols, and the subtle routines of the household staff. Every window, every shadowed corner, every unlocked servant's door was quietly committed to memory. He watched how the light played across the upper balconies, noted the creak in the side gate hinge, and the exact moments when the guards turned their attention elsewhere.

Satisfied for now, he turned on his heel and melted into the flow of city foot traffic, his hood drawn up to blend with the crowd. As he walked, he ran through everything he’d seen in his mind, filing it away with practiced precision.

There was still one piece missing: the Lady herself. Briar veered off down a quieter lane, heading toward a few of his more well-informed contacts—street whisperers, tavern informants, and old Harper sympathizers. It was time to learn more about Lady Alenya: who she was, who she trusted, and most importantly... what secrets she might be hiding.

Briar
By the end of the day, Briar had pieced together a portrait of Lady Alenya Vaerlen—not from official records, but from whispered words over mugs of cheap ale and muttered conversations in alleyways.

She was, by all accounts, a woman shaped by lineage and expectation. Born Alenya Cragsmere, daughter of John Cragsmere—a moneyed but minor branch of the old Cragsmere line—she had grown up surrounded by gold and etiquette but far from real power. Her family, while noble and comfortably wealthy, sat beneath the true movers of House Cragsmere, distant enough from the patriarch to matter little in the grand political machinations of the city.

Her marriage to Baron Vaerlen had been just that: a marriage. Not a union of affection, but a tightening of political bonds, sealed with signatures and shared property rather than love. The Baron, a practical man with an eye for land and coin, spent much of his time away on business across his various holdings in the Delimbiyr Vale. His absences left Lady Alenya with an empty manor and a great deal of coin to spend—something she did with enthusiasm.

Her parties were infamous. Lavish affairs filled with silk, wine, and careful conversation. But Briar learned that they served another purpose beyond mere spectacle: they were distractions. With the Baron back in the city, Alenya would throw herself into the frenzy of event planning, keeping herself occupied and her husband at arm’s length. Guests whispered that they barely saw each other during these galas, and when they did, their interactions were polite but cold.

More than one informant hinted that Lady Alenya surrounded herself with flatterers and hangers-on, favoring those who could entertain or inform her. She trusted few, and even those she did were kept at a distance. No children, no heirs—just silks, secrets, and the flickering candlelight of the ballroom.

There were murmurs, too, of letters exchanged with figures outside her household, of strange meetings behind the privacy of garden hedges or shuttered rooms. Nothing concrete—just enough to suggest that Lady Alenya Vaerlen might not be as idle as she seemed.

Knight? Legolas is surprised about tailor's choice of his outfit. I do like both the sunburst and celestial helm, but...
He tries to explain his choice in details My father say - beware people who think to know what's good or bad for everyone. Dread if they believe their knowledge is divine. he explain that in their family Paladin represent religious fanatics - the most feared class of people, because they are not possible to argue with. Legolas admits that the way his family see the world may not be the same as the city people, so once again - he will trust tailor's choices.


Legolas also explain that he don't have money with him and besides would like to double check things with companions
I don't think we will ever need them again, but then again - I'm working with people I can't trust. So how about this: 10 gold tomorrow now and a favor and my promise to return them after the event. If - for whatever reason I can't return any of them, I'll owe you the full price. Sorry, I'm broke as of today.

Legolas
The tailor let out a soft chuckle, smoothing the edge of his sketch with a worn thumb. "Ah, but it was you who said ‘a holy warrior, a paladin of sorts,’ my friend," he said with a warm glint in his eye. "I merely followed the thread you offered. We can change it if you want."

At the mention of payment, the tailor waved a hand gently, as though brushing aside dust. "Tomorrow is fine. I’ve worked with the Enclave long enough to know their agents don’t carry gold so much as trouble. Come at midday, as agreed — bring your companions. We’ll take their measures, finalize the cuts. I’ll begin work after that. Now go, before you tempt me into sewing you wings" - he added with a mock bow and theatrical flourish.

Hi Brair, the easy coin person! Legolas talks back to Brair when they meet again.
He explain: tailor can make a suit and a mask for each of us for 15 gold per person. Best possible quality, but if the price is not good enough... Brair may need to look anywhere else.

Elf assure however that tailor promised to return most of the money return suites are returned unharmed. And if we are not caught wearing them and using fake invitations - I guess.
Are you investing 45 gold pieces? Legolas who has no idea Brair only have 30 asks sincerely considering that cost to be a bit too high for gathering information that could be gathered in alternative ways.

Lunareth veritably shivered in delight. Entering as staff would allow us to circulate most everywhere anonymously. Who notices the help? We may even be freer than if we had invitations! Responding to the faerie dragon, Luna said "I knew it! I knew that only an establishment as fine and well-stocked as yours would suffice for such a party. Please tell me you're still hiring? I even know a few others who may be interested at or maybe less than going rates. Speaking of which, what is the goiong rate?" Luna felt rather naïve at that question.

The faerie dragon twirled in the air, clearly pleased with Lunareth’s enthusiasm. It spiraled upward before gliding lazily back down to eye level.

"Now that is the spirit we like to see," it purred.
"You’d be amazed how few think to work with us."

"As for openings, yes—we’re still looking. The guest list is extensive, and Lady Vaerlen wants this to be the kind of event they sing about in wine dens from Luskan to Calimport."

The dragon held up one claw, ticking off points.

"We’re paying bards and entertainers two gold a day, with bonuses if they impress the right people. Unskilled help—runners, lifters, tray-bearers and the like—get two silver per day."

It leveled its monocled gaze at Luna.

"It’s honest work, but the key requirement is discretion. No poking into rooms you’re not told to poke into. And you’d best not be squeamish about the company—some of the guests and staff are not what you’d call...mundane."

The faerie dragon winked.

"This soirée’s drawn attention from many corners, and it won’t be just humans and elves sniffing the wine corks. If you and your friends can handle that, you’re welcome to apply tomorrow morning. Ask for Trelza in the loading courtyard out back—she will be handling the roster and making sure no one's too shiny to blend in."