A stranger has come...

... to the City of Gleamingrose. Such an event is not usually something to comment on. Strangers come to Gleamingrose all the time. It is on one of the more well-travelled routes of the Navigator's Guild, and ships arrive weekly, sometimes daily. But the ships that come and go are generally sailing ships, rather than huge galleys, and they are not generally crewed by small, furry creatures that look something like animated teddy bears with fangs and claws. The stranger accompanied the captain of the ship into the harbormaster's office, and registered all the proper paperwork. The ship, the 'Avenging Angel', was immediately placed on the list of ships available for hire. The stranger then took up residence in the Horn and Hound, a popular tavern with a reputation for good food and good music, and began sending messengers out across the city. One of those messengers came to you. He bore an envelope of black paper, marked with a small moon in one corner.

In-side, you found two things: A coin and a note. The note was unremarkable, and in light of everything else, not surprising. It said, simply, "The pleasure of your company is requested at the Horn and Hound tonight at nightfall."

The note was unsigned. The coin, on the other hand, was quite remarkable indeed. Were it only a hunk of gold as thick as your little finger and too big around to enclose with your thumb and forefinger, it would be impressive. The delicate inlays of mother-of-pearl and green lapis, however, mark it as a century coin, an incredibly rare antique. Legend has it that these coins were minted individually, one at each centennial celebration of an ancient realm called 'Amber'. This story doesn't bear much weight, however, as Amber is not so much a real, historical place as a generic land on which one hangs legends, akin to saying 'A long, long time ago in a faraway place.'

Those legends are probably just as true as the tales that say that owning one of the coins will make you immortal, or the stories that claim that the coins are cursed.

Whatever motivation drew you there, whether curiosity or something less pure, you find yourself at the Horn and Hound, regarding the man sitting next to the back fireplace smoking a long, white clay pipe. The man is old - very old - his body is bent, hair white, skin loose and leathery from a life spent in the outdoors. He wears a suit of fine black silk, suitable for the most elevated of noblemen, but he wears no regalia. A simple tri-corner hat hangs on a peg next to him, and under it an elaborate scabbard with an equally elaborate saber hilt. He sits down deep in his chair, legs crossed out in front of him on a small stool. His boots are black and well-polished, but show a great deal of wear, including worn spots on the sides of the heels where a pair of spurs might have resided for some time.

When you look back to his face, you find him smiling at you, his eyes twinkling. With a wave of his pipe, he indicates the stairs up to the private dining room. In a gravely voice, he says, "Go on up, I'll join you shortly."

The large sideboard is sumptuously laid out, with all the best food the Horn and Hound has to offer. Roast pheasant and venison are the centerpieces, with bowls of potatoes and squash, a board laden with brown bread, sliced onion and sharp cheese, a tureen of mustard soup, and a apple pie and raspberry tarts competing for the scarce table space. Flagons of wine and pitchers of beer and ale sit beside glasses and tankards. The heavy, round table has place settings all around, except for the chair closest to the stairs.

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