Act 1. Masks

The Misty Beard, North Ward - Morning
"Affirmative. Task-specific accoutrement: required. Provision of said items: delegated to Majordomo Elric Dannemar. Distribution scheduled: day of Soirée event. Personal modification or substitution: not authorized. Conformity to uniform standard: mandatory."

Lunareth
Elric Dannemar did not look up at the sound of Luna’s voice. His finger continued tracing a line of entries in his ledger as he spoke in a precise, clipped tone.

"Step into the light, lad. Tell me, do you know how to read? Let me check your diction. Speak clearly, please."

Lunareth
Elric remained unimpressed, letting Luna's florid Elvish hang in the air without comment. His piercing grey eyes narrowed briefly.

"Your Elvish… is ornamental, not functional."

He sighed quietly, a thread of exasperation creeping into his normally icy tone.

"In fact, your Common bears a heavy Elven lilt. If you speak under your breath, the servants will misunderstand you and the guests may find it charming — but not clear or useful. Speak in Common. This is a household of practicality, not pageantry."

Then, in a brisk, no-nonsense motion, Elric straightened and nodded toward Luna.

"Now… show me your hands."

Luna understood what this meant. Elric was not looking for softness or weakness in his hands, nor the hard, leathery grip of a warrior. His duties were going to require a delicate balance—a grip strong enough to carry a heavy tray without faltering, yet nimble enough to navigate a labyrinth of crystalware and porcelain without a tremor.

Majordomo Elric Dannemar said nothing for a long moment. He studied Lunareth’s hands like a jeweler might inspect a gemstone—looking for cracks, flaws, inconsistencies. Without a word, just a subtle smile, he turned and motioned curtly for Luna to follow.

He led them through a short hall and into the adjoining kitchen—a large, immaculately organized space abuzz with restrained activity. Copper pans gleamed from overhead hooks, and a couple of cooks moved with deliberate, efficient purpose. The scent of fresh herbs and rising bread permeated the air.

"Here," Elric finally spoke, stopping at a long, waist-high counter near a wide cooling rack. Upon it sat a tray laden with a set of porcelain cups, each resting in a thin silver saucer. They rattled softly as the tray shifted slightly from heat or movement in the room.

"You will take this," he said, stepping aside. "Walk once around the kitchen. Do not spill. Do not lose composure." His tone was flat, impassive. The tray was subtly off-balance, and the cups not fixed in place. The floor held the usual kitchen hazards—damp spots, scattered crumbs, a cat underfoot—and the presence of bustling staff meant unpredictable motion.

It was a test not of strength, but of grace. Elric crossed his arms behind his back and watched.

Elric Dannemar's expression barely flickered as Luna completed the circuit, though the faintest glint of approval flashed in his sharp eyes. The majordomo observed every step, every subtle shift of weight, every slight correction, all cataloged with military precision.

When Luna addressed him, Elric responded with his usual clipped efficiency, voice smooth but as unyielding as polished steel.

"Set it down here," he instructed, tapping the counter. Once Luna complied, Elric took a small step closer, his hands folding neatly behind his back.

"You handled that adequately. Now, theory." His gaze pinned Lunareth like a hawk regarding a field mouse.

"Three scenarios." His tone remained utterly neutral. "First: A guest is visibly intoxicated but demands more wine. Second: Two guests engage in an argument escalating toward violence. Third: You overhear mention of a forbidden or dangerous topic—necromancy, assassination, sedition. Quick answers. What do you do?"

Other servants cast sidelong glances, though they pretended not to eavesdrop. It was clear Elric was not only testing Luna's etiquette—but his discretion, intellect, and instincts. He waited, the image of cold patience.

"Your first two answers are serviceable," Elric began, hands still neatly clasped behind his back.

"Insubstantial, but serviceable. You understand the principle: delay, de-escalate, defer. Acceptable for basic waitstaff."

His eyes locked onto Luna's.

"But your answer is also incomplete." He tilted his head, a test lurking behind his precise words. "What if you are the head waiter? What if there is no one else to defer to? No superior to fetch? What do you do when you are the chain of command? When the responsibility—discretion, containment, consequence—rests with you?"

Briar
Branric appeared from the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a stained apron, his brow furrowing as he took in Briar’s stiff posture and the carefully hidden but unmistakable signs of recent injury—the tight grip on the bar, the subtle wince when he shifted.

"Briar?" he said softly, stepping closer with a quiet concern that didn’t quite mask his surprise. "You don’t look like you’ve had a good morning… or afternoon, for that matter. What’s the story?"

Branric let out a low whistle, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes narrowing as he took in every word.

"Gods, Briar, when you stir the pot, you don’t half-measure it, do you? That’s a hell of a day… You trying to cram a month’s worth of chaos into one day, or are we running on one of those ridiculous ‘all in twenty-four hours’ epics the bards sing about? You know, the ones where no one sleeps, and somehow the hero’s still standing after stabbing fifteen people and dodging fireballs? Tell me there’s at least a silver lining buried somewhere in all this mess?"

Branric's brow lifted slightly as Briar mentioned wererats and Beholders, but the older man wisely kept his skepticism behind a practiced barkeep's smirk. "Well, if it is a Beholder, remind me to pack up and retire somewhere with fewer eye tyrants and more sunshine," he quipped, the edge of his mouth curling into a crooked grin.

At the sight—and sound—of the heavy coin pouch, he reached out. "Course you can leave it here. My lockbox stays shut tighter than a noble’s purse, and I’ve got no love for thieves poking around my place." His tone sobered to match Briar's as he added, "You handle your masquerade business, and I’ll keep your gold breathing."

Lunareth
When the meal concluded, Dannemar was waiting, posture erect, hands folded behind his back.

"Come along. You’ll be working here—it’s best you understand the lay of the land," he said with a slight incline of his head, inviting Luna to walk beside him rather than trailing behind like a subordinate. His tone remained formal, but less rigid, the edges softened.

They stepped from the Service Room into the Main Corridor (G6), the central artery of the estate. Sunlight streamed through tall, mullioned windows set into the whitewashed walls, illuminating the polished hardwood floors and tasteful runner rugs embroidered with the Vaerlen crest—a silver tree beneath a crescent moon.

"First, the basics," Dannemar began. "Guests should hardly know you exist unless they require something."

They turned left, approaching the grand Main Hall (G3). The space was breathtaking, with a soaring ceiling supported by carved marble pillars. The floor was a mosaic of polished stone depicting intertwined branches and stars. Noble family portraits adorned the upper walls, their painted eyes seemingly watching all who entered.

"Guests arrive here, through the main entrance. You, on the other hand, will rarely pass this way unless escorting or when instructed."

Further along, they came to the Study (G4). Its door was heavy oak, reinforced with discreet metalwork.

"Private meetings. House business. You knock, you wait, you never listen at the door, intentionally or not," Dannemar instructed firmly, but not unkindly.

Next came the Library (G5), its towering bookshelves stretching nearly to the vaulted ceiling. Rich, warm wood filled the space with a faint, comforting scent of parchment, ink, and old wisdom. Globes, maps, and delicate artifacts sat in glass cases between the shelves.

"One of the most valuable rooms in the estate. Only enter with permission—family or senior staff only," Dannemar warned, but his eyes glimmered slightly with pride at the impressive collection.

Moving onward, they passed the Guest Quarters (G7). The hallway narrowed slightly, the atmosphere quieter, hushed. The doors were of fine wood, the brass handles polished to a mirror sheen.

"Dignitaries, allies, high-ranking visitors stay here. You walk softly in these halls, understood?"

They turned next into the Dining Room (G8). The long, dark mahogany table gleamed under the flickering light of crystal chandeliers, already partially set with fine silverware and spotless porcelain. The chairs were high-backed, carved with the same tree-and-moon motif found throughout the house.

"Formal meals occur here. You’ll likely assist during the soirée. Timing and grace are essential—meals run like clockwork, or not at all," Dannemar explained, his tone practical.

Next, they paused at the Parlor (G9), a bright, inviting space with velvet lounges, low tables bearing flower arrangements, and walls adorned with tasteful tapestries. The windows looked out over the manicured garden.

"Informal gatherings. Music, conversation, sometimes dancing. You’ll circulate discreetly if assigned here."

They returned briefly to the Service Room (G10), then through to the Servant’s Quarters (G11)—rows of simple bunks and personal chests, but clean, orderly, and well-maintained.

Then, the Kitchen (G12) buzzed with quiet activity. Copper pots hung from racks overhead, herbs dried by the hearth, and a cook in a spotless apron monitored a simmering pot. The air was rich with savory scents.

Finally, they paused by the Food Storage (G13). Shelves held preserved goods, spices, and barrels of ale. A heavy, locked trapdoor revealed stairs descending to the underground wine cellar—its cool depths hinted at expensive vintages stored below.

Dannemar turned, folding his arms, eyes steady but not unkind.

"That concludes the ground floor." He said, before they made their way back and into the Servant’s Quarters (G11). "Temporary hires from the Misty Beard may rest here, though most won’t arrive until late afternoon."

His sharp eyes flicked over Luna's attire, not unkindly but with clear assessment.

"If you require anything—needle and thread, spare linens, perhaps soap or polish for your shoes—speak now. You can also leave and come back later. Otherwise…" Dannemar’s voice softened by a fraction, though still as measured as a clockmaker’s tools, "I suggest you change into the house attire provided. There’s time to prepare before the evening's duties commence."

He tilted his head ever so slightly, inviting Luna’s response.

Elric Dannemar listened attentively, standing with his hands loosely clasped behind his back in an officer’s rest position. As each of Luna’s questions landed, the silver-haired majordomo gave a small nod, filing them away in the order given. When the final one was asked, he answered:

"First: remuneration. Should the soirée proceed flawlessly from the guests’ perspective—without disruption, confusion, or embarrassment—you will be compensated ten gold dragons at dawn’s first light. If issues arise but the event is carried through with competence, the payment will be two."

"Second: the evening’s agenda and menu. Both are being finalized with the mistress at this hour, but I will place copies in the staff staging area by the next bell. Retrieve them there. The order of service and guest list will accompany them."

"Third: the temporary hires from the Misty Beard will arrive late afternoon. You may greet them in the garden and perform any orientation you deem necessary. You’ll be given time beforehand to prepare."

"Fourth: for the duration of your tenure, ‘Master Dannemar’ will suffice. I prefer formality on duty, but you will find I am not unreasonable."

"Fifth: no. You are not to carry arms during the engagement. No employee or guest should be. Only the Vaerlen house guard is authorized to bear weapons during social functions. We are hosts, not sentinels."

"Sixth: payment of temporary staff will be handled by me personally. You are not to concern yourself with coin. Your focus is function and form."

"Seventh: yes. If you leave your garments folded on your bunk with a note, the laundress will see to them by early afternoon. Please ensure all pockets are emptied."