A motley collection of vagabonds gather on the rooftops. You join them from the shadows, and mingle. But as you are raising a pilfered glass of wine to your lips, two bruisers lift you by the elbows and escort you off the premises. Vertically.
[…You] mingle, a pilfered glass of excellent wine in your hand. Few of the partygoers are what they seem. Flashes of fine silk or velvet under the rags; a scent of Eau de Champignon. Isn't that really Lady ___? And the Magistrate? […]
