Act 1. Masks

The tailor gave a small, knowing smile and inclined his head. "Ah, yes—Master Legolas did stop by." He stepped around the counter and gestured for Briar to follow him toward a raised fitting platform flanked by tall mirrors and bolts of fabric stacked like scrolls on lacquered shelves.

"For you," he continued, studying Briar with a measuring gaze, "he requested something in gray—practical, unassuming. His words, if I remember well, were ‘a shadow among peacocks.’ So we’re working with a dove-gray fabric from Everlund—soft, durable, catches almost no light. It’ll slip through a crowd unnoticed." He lifted a sample of the cloth between two fingers, the weave so fine it barely seemed to exist. "Deep-lined sleeves, side vents for ease of movement. Generous pockets, of course."

He looked back at Briar with a quiet smile, amusement just beneath the surface. "Ten gold for the full ensemble. Five more for a mask, if you want. I have one of charcoal silk, smooth contour, nothing flashy."

The elf began taking gentle measurements, fingers deft and impersonal, as he added, "Now… he also left word about a second outfit. Asked me to prepare it just in case. Fifteen gold. Crimson, gold, a touch of sapphire. Sleek, flamboyant. Cut to flatter and… tease." He lifted a brow ever so slightly. "The collar alone is just wide enough to be scandalous."

He tilted his head, a question in his eyes. "But... Should I assume your friend is not coming?"

"Master Legolas has had a change of heart—he won’t be attending the party after all," Briar said with a wry smile, his tone laced with both casual ease and a hint of frustration. "Our other companion is still uncertain; he's working on alternate arrangements, but if those fall through, he’ll be meeting me here to be fitted as well."

He reached out, running his fingers over the fabric with practiced familiarity—testing its drape, feeling the grain. A pleased hum escaped him. "This is excellent," he said, nodding slowly. "Perfect in every way. I’m glad Legolas managed to track you down—you clearly have a reputation worth chasing."

From within the folds of his cloak, Briar produced a fine velvet mask, rich in tone and subtly detailed with faint crescent moon motifs embroidered in silver. He held it out carefully. "I brought this with me. I don’t think it matches the look you’re planning, but it means something to me. Do you think there’s a way to make it work?"

Luna replied, "Assignment acknowledged. Query: Is task-specific accoutrement required or available?"

Meiroth’s Fine Silks, Trades Ward - Morning
The tailor took the mask delicately. His eyes lingered on the crescent moon embroidery, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Exquisite craftsmanship," he murmured. "And more personal than anything I could stitch fresh from a bolt. Yes… yes, I can work with this."

He turned back to Briar, already mentally rearranging color palettes. "We’ll shift the base to a matching black—something deep and clean with just a hint of luster under certain light. Still subtle, still practical. Same sleek cut. Same generous pockets.Come tomorrow afternoon, and it will be ready. Sharp enough for any court, quiet enough for any shadow." His smile deepened.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful," he said with genuine appreciation in his voice. "You can keep the mask for reference if needed—just in case any last-minute adjustments need to be made to either the outfit or the mask itself. I'd rather everything match perfectly than stand out for the wrong reasons."

He took a moment to glance around the shop again, fingers absently brushing along the edge of a silk swatch draped nearby. Then, turning his attention back to the tailor, he asked with a slight lift of his brow, "Now, how much will I owe you for everything? I just want to make sure I’m square before the night of the party."

Meiroth’s Fine Silks, Trades Ward - Morning
The tailor offered a graceful nod, folding the mask with care and setting it aside on a velvet-lined shelf. "Of course. I’ll keep it safe and use it for reference as I finish the outfit—no thread out of place, I promise."

At Briar’s question, he folded his hands and replied with a serene certainty, "Ten dragons for the ensemble. The mask you brought is already finished, and a fine piece besides. I wouldn’t dream of charging you for what you already own—though for reference, something of that craftsmanship would typically increase your expenses by five dragons."

He glanced up with a polite smile. "You can pay now or when you pick it up, whichever suits you best. But I’ll have it ready by tomorrow afternoon, as promised."

Briar reaches into his satchel and pulls out five neatly stacked gold coins, setting them gently on the counter with a soft clink.
"Five now, five once everything’s finished?" he offers with a raised brow and a faint, easy smile.

"Of course." - replied the tailor.

Stepping out of the tailor’s shop, Briar adjusted the collar of his worn cloak and took a deep breath of the cool morning air. The city was already alive with motion—the rhythmic clatter of cart wheels on cobblestone, the distant chatter of hawkers, the scent of fresh bread and roasting meats wafting on the breeze.

He headed north up the High Road, boots clicking steadily as he moved with the lazy confidence of a man with nowhere urgent to be. His eyes scanned the crowd as he walked—merchants setting up stalls, noblewomen sweeping past in fine silks, urchins weaving through the press with practiced ease. There was always something to see on the High Road.

By the time he reached the Market, the thoroughfare had blossomed into organized chaos. Tents and carts spilled out across the square, filled with every sort of ware imaginable—brass trinkets, potion vials, carved statuettes, bolts of brightly dyed cloth, caged animals, and more. Briar wandered through it all with a relaxed gait, letting the buzz of voices wash over him, ears perked for anything odd or interesting.

He paused occasionally—examining a strange amulet here, nodding to a familiar street performer, and trying to stay out of any guards' wandering eyes.

Marketplace between Trader's Way and Bazaar street, Castle Ward - Late morning
As Briar drifted through the market’s tide of movement and noise, a flicker of recognition stopped him mid-step.

Just across the way—half-obscured behind a stall selling roasted nuts—stood a figure with a long, angular frame, face shadowed beneath the hood of a weathered charcoal cloak. They leaned casually against a barrel, seemingly engrossed in watching a juggler perform for a crowd of children. But something about the stance—still but alert, like a coiled spring—triggered a memory.

Briar’s eyes narrowed.

The wanted poster.

He’d seen it pinned to a board in the Watch post the night before, close to his cell. The charcoal sketch had been sharp enough to stick: a gaunt face, narrow eyes, a faint scar cutting from brow to cheek. Alias: The Pale Moth. Wanted for a string of killings from the Dock Ward to North Ward. Armed. Extremely dangerous. One hundred gold for capture, dead or alive.

And there he was, plain as day, not ten strides away. No guards in sight. No disguise beyond the hood. Just another ghost haunting the city’s daylight.

Briar slipped two silver shards from his side pouch, weighing them in his fingers as his sharp eyes scanned the bustling street. Among the crowd of shoppers, vendors, and travelers, he spotted a young man standing near a fruit cart—clean clothes, alert posture, and a sword at his hip that looked more ceremonial than used. The lad looked eager, like he fancied himself a future guard or adventurer, someone who might jump at the chance to be useful.

With a calm stride, Briar approached and offered a polite nod. "Good morning," he said, lowering his voice just enough to hint at urgency without drawing attention. "I need a quick favor. Important and quiet."

He held out the silver, letting it catch the light before slipping it into the young man’s palm. "I need you to find the nearest city guards—quietly, understand? Don’t make a scene. Tell them this: The Pale Moth has been spotted in the Market. That’s all. They’ll know what it means."

Briar leaned in slightly, meeting the lad’s eyes. "Do it fast, do it clean, and once the dust settles, you’ll have a few dragons waiting in your pocket. Can I trust you with this?"

The young man blinked once, then looked down at the silver in his hand, the weight of it sinking in with the seriousness of Briar’s tone. He gave a small, sharp nod.

"Aye," he murmured, closing his fingers around the coins. "You can."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and slipped into the crowd. He ducked beneath the flap of a spice tent, then reappeared moments later at the far end, striding with purpose toward the mouth of the street, where a pair of City Guard pikemen were stationed.

Briar moved with practiced ease, weaving through the crowd until he reached the edge of the alley. He paused at the corner, pressing his back to the wall, eyes narrowing as he listened for any sign—footsteps, breath, the rustle of cloth. Slowly, carefully, he peeked around the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pale Moth. If the bastard was still there, Briar would make his move.

OOC:

Is his alley a dead end?
I would like to sneak up on him or get the drop.
IDK what would be the best way depending on buildings nearby.
I could climb the building and jump down on top of him.
Sneak around the alleyway to get behind him.
If the alleyway is a dead end Push him into it and hold them there.

Briar kept his hood low and his stride casual as he moved with the flow of the bustling crowd. The market was alive with noise—vendors calling out prices, children weaving between carts, and the heavy scent of spices and baked goods hanging in the air. He spotted the Pale Moth standing stiffly near a spice stall, feigning interest in a pile of dried herbs, but his eyes were far too sharp and alert for a simple shopper.

Keeping his gaze forward, Briar walked past the Pale Moth without a glance, careful not to draw attention. His body stayed relaxed, but every step was calculated. Once he was several paces beyond, he slipped between two wagons, then ducked behind a display of hanging fabrics. He waited—counted the seconds, watched for any reaction—before circling around to a position behind the stall, weaving through the crowd like another distracted citizen