Act 1. Masks

Luna, you move through the lower edges of the grand reception hall with practiced ease, your livery crisp, your bearing attentive but unremarkable — just another servant in the flow of a noble event. At first, the guard seemed simply vigilant, like any competent sentry at an event of this caliber should be. But as you continue to orbit, placing yourself near pillars and passing through clusters of low-ranked guests, you track the pattern.

He’s not watching the room.

He’s watching him.

Briar.

The guard is an older human, trim, with a silver-threaded beard and a lightly worn gambeson under his surcoat. He bears no insignia beyond that of the house, but his posture — slightly more relaxed than a parade-stance soldier, slightly more tense than a butler — marks him as one of Dannemar’s trusted interior men, not just a posted doorwatcher.

His movements are smart: slow, indirect, non-obvious. He never walks toward Briar, only near him, timing his steps with the rhythm of the event, weaving into side spaces where he can see but not be seen.

Most tellingly, at least to you: he's not looking at anyone else. There’s no evidence he saw Raoul directly. But he definitely saw Briar react to something. And that was enough to put him on high alert.

So far, he hasn’t raised alarm. Which means one of two things:

1. He thinks it’s nothing — but he’ll be ready if it turns into something,
2. Or… he’s seen this kind of game before so he’s just waiting for an excuse to act.

Briar meandered gracefully through the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses, his posture straight, his expression carefully composed. He moved with practiced ease, plucking two crystal flutes of chilled rosé from a passing silver tray. The wine shimmered faintly under the golden glow of chandelier light.

His eyes settled on an older noblewoman standing near a tall window draped in velvet, observing the party with the calm detachment of someone used to being the most important person in any room. She was regal—tall, silver-haired, with a face that wore age like fine jewelry. Her gown was deep amethyst silk, embroidered with silver thread in curling floral patterns, the cut classic but flattering. Her mask, a delicate arrangement of lilac feathers and polished pearl inlay, did little to obscure the proud, hawkish sharpness of her cheekbones.

Briar approached smoothly and offered one of the flutes with a respectful incline of his head.

"Madam," he said, voice warm and refined, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, "a fine evening for a gathering, if I may say so. The stars themselves must be envious of the company."

He handed her the wine, pausing just long enough for the gesture to feel natural. "I am Jareth Morlain, Viscount of Redfen Hollow," he continued, enunciating each syllable with polished precision. "And I must say—your ensemble is a masterwork. That gown suits you perfectly, and the mask... it enhances your presence rather than hiding it. I’d be remiss not to inquire after your tailor. I have a few pieces in desperate need of hands so skilled."

Briar, as you deliver your greeting and offer the glass, takes the flute of rosé with practiced grace, her gloved fingers delicate on the stem. For a moment, her storm-grey eyes study you behind the filigreed veil of her mask.

The pause stretches just long enough to test your poise.

She does not sip yet, but holds the glass lightly, her gaze sliding past you for a half-second, likely registering the room’s attention. Including, perhaps, the subtle but unmistakable weight of the Vaerlen house guard watching from across the floor.

She returns her eyes to yours.

"I am Lady Dhalessa Anteos. Widow of Lord Tharion Anteos, may Tymora favor his next roll of the dice." A faint teasing edge there.

"The tailor is Melitta Fenroven. You'll find her studio discreet, but impossible to impress with praise alone. She only takes clients she likes, Lord Morlain. I’d advise truth over charm, should you try your luck."

She raises the flute in a polite half-toast, but still does not drink. Her eyes glitter knowingly. "Now tell me. What does a Viscount of Redfen Hollow seek in Waterdeep this season? Surely not only silk and starlight."

From the periphery, the estate guard shifts again. Still observing. Still patient.

Luna watches the complicated interplay of the guard, Briar, and the tiny fey. Oh dear, he thought, here I am supposed to be training my ears on juicy tidbits of gossip for the Harpers, and instead, my partner in crime is the subject of not one but two "admirers". I need to get closer, but discreetly.

Watching Briar approach a clearly noble lady, Luna grimaced internally. So much for a quick whisper. Time for plan B. Turning to one of the temporary waitstaff whom he had greeted and informed earlier, Luna took his tray of hors d'oeuvres, and whispered wait here for a moment. Taking the tray, Luna circled closer to the pair, keeping an eye on the guard. He knew enough not to make a beeline for Briar, as that would give up the game immediately; especially with the keen eyes of Master Dannemar's trusted sergeant. Rather, he circulated with the tray more chaotically, but doing his best to keep eyes and ears on Briar and the guard and gauge any danger. At this point, the phantom fey was almost out of his mind. He knew he could only do this for a scant few orbits before he had to return the tray. That guard was too experienced.

Briar let out a soft, genteel chuckle at her pointed jest, dipping his head in a show of graceful humility.

"Well said, my lady," he replied, eyes glinting with appreciation. "And noted—truth over charm. A rare instruction, but a welcome one. I shall tuck it away should Mistress Fenroven ever find me worthy of her attention."

He raised his own glass in return, though like her, did not sip. The gesture was ceremonial, not indulgent.

"As for my presence here," he began, lowering his voice just enough to match her air of discretion, "it is my mother, the Dowager Viscountess Morlain, who was originally invited. But alas, she’s taken ill—nothing grave, the usual troubles of changing seasons—and so, in her stead, I’ve been dispatched to represent our house. I fear I’m more at home with ledgers and land matters than with moonlit dances and feathered masks."

A faint, self-effacing smile tugged at his mouth.

"I won’t pretend I came here knowing all the right names or dances. But I do know this: friendships, or at least mutual regard, are often planted in such places as these. If flattery helps water the soil, then I’ll be sure to scatter enough to find out which way the garden grows."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a touch of vulnerability that made his words feel less rehearsed. "In truth, I am here to listen, to learn, and—if I’m fortunate—to earn a few future conversations worth remembering."

Lady Dhalessa's expression shifts. "Well, if you’re seeking to learn and listen, then let me offer you a touch of both."

She leans in ever so slightly, as if drawn closer by some faint magnetism of intrigue—or simply by the thrill of discretion.

"They say the Vaerlens keep a mage in their employ now." She glances toward the grand staircase for a heartbeat, then back. "Not unheard of, of course. But rather unusual for a family so rooted in textiles, shipping, and lands. They're not relic-chasers, enchanters or alchemists."

She gives a soft, almost conspiratorial exhale—too refined to be a laugh.

"He’s a man of a certain age—late forties, perhaps. Handsome, in that dark, quiet way that draws the eye before you realize you're staring." Her gloved hand idly adjusts the stem of her flute. "No sigils or robes, nothing so gauche. He wears black. Always black. The sort of man who looks like he belongs either at a tower... or a funeral."

Her eyes linger on yours again, weighing you.

"Some say he’s a foreigner—Tethyrian or Damaran, perhaps, though no one’s pinned it down. No one knows precisely what he does. He does not teach. He is not seen casting. And yet…"

She lets that word stretch, implying more than she says.

"...he is always nearby when Lady Vaerlen hosts her private discussions. And she never fails to speak to him before making a decision of import. If he’s not an advisor, then he’s something even more intimate. A spiritualist, perhaps. Or…"

She pauses, letting the silence do the rest.

"...perhaps it’s just the color of his eyes."

Then, with a graceful pivot that only a noble with years of social sparring could pull off, she straightens her shoulders and finally takes a tiny sip of the rosé.

"Mediocre, but drinkable," she declares. "Now then, Lord Morlain. If I wanted to be caught talking to someone interesting, I believe I’ve succeeded. Shall we circulate before the evening becomes too full of proper conversation?"