Leorik had always loved beautiful things. He had always been interested in fashion, painting, craftsmanship; it was why he had become an artist himself.

There had been a time when he thought his daughter was the most beautiful thing in the world, a time when she had been his true muse. That all changed with the painting.

He could still remember the first night he saw it. He had been returning from a trip to the local bookshop, it was close to dusk and the city was racked with storms and a downpour of rain. In an attempt to escape it, he had ducked into a cramped alleyway - one of the thousands that crisscrossed the city - and had noticed the most intriguing sign jutting out of the alley wall and swinging in the evening air. There was no shop name or advertisement inscribed upon it, only a peculiar symbol that made the back of his neck tingle. A hypnotic black spiral, slashed across with a line that cut directly across to half it from the outermost point.

Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and when he entered the shop he had discovered that it was a fine art gallery, but not like the many Leorik had attended elsewhere in the city. Here, the patrons were just as beautiful and imposing as the art that lined the walls and the sculptures resting upon its displays. It seemed that no matter where he looked there had been high cheekbones, defined chins and beautifully symmetrical features. None of the other patrons had so much as looked at him, mingling in tight little groups that seemed to him to be impenetrably private, and gossip and chatter that he did overhear was perplexing and queer.

“Did you hear? The Lord of Lost Dreams was wearing starlight tonight. How gauche.”

“The new violin is delightful. Stringing the bow with the hair of a woman who never found true love was a divine idea.”

“-set of new eyes. I think, this time, I might go for something Elven. He looks positively common with a griffon’s eyes.”

The words were spoken in a tone he had recognised, the tone of hushed nobility he had overheard at other artistic events, but the content was confusing rather than banal. Logically he knew that this should have unnerved him, but he had felt totally at peace. The art had been strange too, in styles he had never seen before and which he couldn’t quite recall even after leaving, there had been paintings of grotesque acts of violence that had reminded him of the most intimate portrait of an artist’s lover, there was a sculpture - titled ‘The Future Fate of Telavingia’s So Called Magician’ - that depicted a man with a twisted expression of pure agony having his eyes poked out by bloody clawed ravens. The sculpture was so life-like that he could have sworn the ‘man’ was alive, or at the very least the work of an expert taxidermist.

He was not truly transfixed until he saw the painting, though. What he saw there was indescribable to mortal eyes. It was perfect, every red brushstroke placed as if it had been made for him specifically, every piece of white paint contrasting and highlighting the subject of the painting. Leorik was quite certain he had stood there for at least ten minutes, simply experiencing it, basking in its presence.

“It’s a wonderful piece, isn’t it?” At first he had been irritated to be approached by a thin man with starkly white hair, and deep, utterly dark eyes, but the fellow had an aura that seemed firm and commanding. The artist would have sworn the Thin Man had slightly pointed ears, and the indescribably mystic air of the Elven about him, but it was hard to recall all the details of those features. Their hair was long, and silky, and as white as bone. When the Man smiled he never revealed his teeth, and it didn’t quite reach that intense black gaze. “I acquired it some years ago in Yilnar. It’s rather unfortunate, the artist went irrevocably mad after he finished it. I was hoping to commission at least another three pieces from him before that happened.”

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” Leorik didn’t realise the Snakemen of Yilnar even had the capacity to produce art as sophisticated as this. “How much are you charging for it? How many numas?”

“My friend. I’m afraid you don’t have the currency to pay for anything here. I’m also rather sure you weren’t on the guestlist, I was very particular about who would be invited here tonight.” The Thin Man had brought a hand up before he could protest, and though Leorik had wanted to, he had felt instantly compelled to silence. “But this may be a happy coincidence for us both. Your hands are those of an artist.” The Thin Man had taken Leorik’s hands into his, and Leorik had shivered at the icy chill of his grip. “Are you any good?”

“Yes. If I say so myself, I’m one of the best artists in the city. No, in the entire Empire. My work lines the walls of Emperor Theodoro’s palace.”

“Bah!” Disgust dyed the Thin Man’s tone with a bitterness that had seemed more natural upon his face than those handsome features. “I have heard of this palace, but I have never been. It sounds like a dour place, one that could not compete with my own home. I can feel it in your hands though, you have a lifetime of experience. That isn’t much for your kind, but nonetheless…”

“Does that mean you’ll let me buy the painting?”

“No. I shall loan it to you. But you must promise me something first, you must let it inspire you before you return it. I have a commission in mind actually. You see, I’m attending a party soon. A very important party. I need a mask for it. Promise also to create a mask for me, and I shall let you take it from this place.”

“Thank you. Thank you! You won’t regret this at all, I’ll do as you ask.” He’d taken a strong grip of the Thin Man’s hand and sealed their agreement with a handshake before leaving with the painting.

It had taken pride of place above his mantelpiece, though Leorik knew that where it truly belonged was in the palace of a king or that of a God. That was the last night of sound sleep he’d ever experienced.

Over the next few weeks he found the output of his art increasing, and his skills reaching new heights - all of it thanks to the inspiration from the painting. He completed a dozen commissions in as many weeks and all had been met with critical acclaim. It might have been true that he was seeing less of his family, missing social engagements and finding himself awakening in the middle of the night with shivers and cramps, but observing the painting always seemed to soothe him. Others had told him they found it an unnerving piece and a person he had once even considered a friend mentioned that they thought it was ‘debauched’. That single word had hurt him deeply, but he had hurt them more in exchange.

He should have been bothered by the fact that his daughter had started to appear homely to him, and eventually even repulsive, the purity that had once inspired him sending a spike of anger through his heart, but his new muse was more than adequate. Unlike her, it was perfect.

The artist took to working in his living room, where he could appreciate the painting properly, where he could let it inspire him. If only he had seen the way his daughter had been growing callously jealous, the way she had grown to hate the most perfect piece of art in the world. She had started to spew lies and peddle dirty rumours about how the painting was ‘affecting him’, ‘changing him’.

And then one evening, while he had been catching fitful moments of sleep, she had thrown a bucket of blue paint over the masterpiece. She had ruined it.

Leorik had thought about how beautiful she once was, when he crushed her windpipe beneath his grip. The painting, his entire world, was ruined. Destroyed utterly beyond repair by a horrid little creature. But its spirit lived on in him.

Looking at his daughter’s corpse, at that pallid face, he had realised that he could make it all right again. That he could make another piece of art, and begin to work on that commission the Thin Man tasked him with.

And so he had erupted into a frenzied flurry of artistic work with a new set of tools. The knife, the bonesaw, the chisel. When he was done, after he had cut through the hatred etched onto her features and started to mould what was beneath he had sobbed out choked cries of joy. Finally, his daughter could be beautiful again.

“Have you seen what the Evening Standard is calling you?” Vespia tapped at the print on her table with a snerk, before taking a sip of her morning brew. She was taking her breakfast where she always did, two floors below her apartment at the Granite Coffee House. It was a quaint little cafe, snuggled into a corner just off Merchant’s Road. Its owner - a widowed Dwarven woman by the name of Arlene Silverpick - had a reputation that far outstripped her stature, with rumours about that she had once thrown a half ogre from the far flung plane of Xinyi out of the cafe’s upper floor window. In truth it had been a hairy foreign sailor, but it was no less of a feat. She had taken a bit of a shine to Renard.

“I’ve been avoiding the prints. Most of them are tabloid rags these days, anyway. The prints used to be respectable, now they all focus on rumour mongering.” Renard settled into the seat opposite her, groaning as he rubbed at his neck. Vespia had offered him a mat on her floor as a temporary sleeping arrangement after his break with his mentor Svenja the Sorceress, but Arlene had swiftly put a stop to that, claiming it could lead to ‘scandalous impropriety’ - something Vespia found positively hilarious. She had kindly offered the wizard her own spare room instead, and though he was happy to have a place to sleep, the cramped Dwarven sized cot meant he spent the night with his legs sticking over the edge of the bedframe and woke up with an arcing pain in his neck each morning.

“They’re calling you Renard the Black! They don’t even mention me, or my part in the investigation. I think Vespia the Vile would have had a nice ring to it, even.” The Lieutenant tutted and folded the print up in mock disgust. She tapped him on the shoulder with the print when she noticed the downtrodden look on his face. “Cheer up, nobody believes what they read in these things anyway. And at least it isn’t what the Vatan Inquirer is calling you.”

Renard tilted his head at that, “Wait. What’s the Vatan Inquirer calling me?”

“Oh, you didn’t see? Nothing too bad, just uh. The Vile Necromancer.” Vespia cleared her throat, going in for another sip of her coffee. “Like you said, tabloid rags.”

“The Vile Necromancer? Oh, it just gets better and better. How am I supposed to find reputable work when I’m being slandered in the prints like this?” He placed his head in his hands, rubbing just under his false glass eye. “I ought to pursue a claim in the courts over this.”

“Well. You did perform necromancy in the middle of the Cathedral of Undine.” Vespia offered him an apologetic smile. She had helped him arrange the performance of said necromancy after all. “You’re looking at this the wrong way, I think. You’re known now. Your name is out there, I’m sure you can find some sort of work.”

“Not all of the prints are horrid, Mister Voclain.” Arlene called over toward the two, white streaked auburn hair done up in two knots as she approached with a tray filled high with bacon, sausage, beans, toast and all manner of mouth watering food. “Now, eat up. I’ve no idea what your mother fed you, to leave you all skin and bones like that.” She placed the stacked high platter of food before Renard, who was sure he’d have a heart attack if he managed to get through even half of it.

“Oh? What print are you reading?” He asked, poking at a black pudding thicker than his own wrist.

“The Dungaraz Telegram, of course. It’s the only news a respectable lady should read.” Returning to the cafe counter, she held up a thick newsprint that neither of them could read. The runic alphabet stamped into it was undoubtedly Dwarven though, and dominating the page was a crude etching of a handsome wizard pointing a wand at another hunched over, withered figure. “The law triumphs! Devious murderer brought to justice by Renard the Just!” Arlene read aloud. “Being responsible enough to put the law before family is a very mature thing to do, Mister Voclain. Most Humans simply don’t have the stone for it - no offence Vespia.”

“None taken. Is that supposed to be him?” Vespia pointed toward the heroic looking wizard with a smirk, it was a far cry from the skinny, introspective man seated before her.

“I think it pictures some of his true spirit.” Arlene replied, nose upturned.

“Thank you, Miss Silverpick.” Renard had managed a few bites of bacon and toast, but found he was entirely lacking in appetite. “But it doesn’t change the fact that if I don’t find work soon, I’ll have to take my chances peddling my magic with the charlatans down at the river barges. I can’t continue to take up your spare room forever, being useful to no one. I was going to see if the university had any open clerical positions today, perhaps. It isn’t much, but I can read and write in a number of languages. It would be a start.”

“You take as long as you need, dear.” She responded in soothing tones. “And for the last time, call me Arlene.”

“Personally, I need to get down to the watch station, I had a dispatch from the Captain earlier. Apparently there’s been some awful business at one of the workshops on Clockmaker Avenue.” Vespia donned her dark green, peaked cap as she stood.

Renard hastily covered up the mass of uneaten food before him with his tablecloth and stood up along with her. “That’s on the way to the University. I’ll join you.”

Arlene offered the two a cheerful wave as they left the cafe. The morning chill made them both shiver, and frost crunched beneath their boots as they passed through the morning throng of tradesmen, housewives, travellers and pilgrims that always clogged up Merchant’s Road.

“I don’t think I could take another day of Miss Silverpick’s cooking, or listening to her talk about all the eligible Dwarven girls she knows.” Renard had slipped his crimson tinted spectacles on, his usual tactic for hiding his unsightly glass eye. “Yesterday she invited me to a traditional Dwarven country dance.”

“Some people would pay a considerable sum to be subjected to Arlene’s cooking, Renard. Did you accept the invitation?”

“The issue is the quantity, not the quality. And I could hardly say no, could I? She’s already been trying to convince me that if I marry a ‘good Dwarven gal’ I could work with their father, in whatever profession they’re trained in.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Although, the country dance might not quite be the Palace Balls that you’re used to, mhm?” Vespia nudged him in the ribs at that, goodnaturedly.

“I’d rather be in my room, reading a good book.” Renard replied, “I was meaning to inquire, what are the details of the dispatch you received this morning?”

Vespia’s features darkened at that, “Down Clockmaker Avenue? It’s a nasty business, from what the Captain’s note said. A dead girl, apparently she was subjected to some form of mutilation. They haven’t been able to find her father either.”

“Merovik’s bones. Hopefully it gets resolved quickly.” The last thing the city of Vatan needed was some sort of frenzied killer on the loose, stalking through its midnight streets. “I mean, if the Captain has put you on it then I’m certain it will be.”

“You know I always appreciate flattery, Renard, but I couldn’t say anything until I have more details.” Vespia jerked a gloved thumb down a street that turned off of the main artery of Merchant’s Road. “This is me. I’ll see you later tonight at the coffeehouse. Good luck with the university.”

The wizard offered her a nod and a wave as she marched off down the street. “Tell Ulbert I said hello!”

When she was gone he brought a hand up to his chest, where the slim black tome he had pilfered from his now imprisoned brother’s study rested within the folds of his cloak. The truth was that he hadn’t really been putting in all the effort he could have in his search for paying work, instead he had spent the last week or so sequestering himself away in his guestroom or within hidden alcoves of the university library so that he could delve deeper into the necromantic secrets hidden within the tomes pages.

Renard certainly wasn’t obsessed with necromancy - even after using it to revive the murder victim Jacob Richter, and implicate his own brother in the killing - but the tome was the only book of magical knowledge he had access to since his banishment from Svenja’s service. His entire life had been spent focused on learning the craft of a Wizard, and now that he was without the patronage of a teacher, he was adrift in the world. The book was a familiar, fantastical thing in an unfamiliar, mundane world, it was something to focus him as he contemplated his new simultaneously exciting and daunting freedom. The real problem with freedom he now thought, was deciding what to do with it. He was determined that he wouldn’t become like the hedge mages that congregated upon moored barges along the river Vat, selling half remembered incantations and ineffective poultices to tittering socialites and impotent noble lords so that he could afford enough ale to coax himself into a stuporous sleep each night.

His contemplation was interrupted by the patter of midnight wings and a screeching caw as a raven landed on the window ledge of the hat maker’s shop beside him. Immediately he recognised the creature for what it was - this was no mere animal, but a magical familiar in the thrall of some magical adept. A creature with a deep and curious intellect. Its dark, pupiless gaze met his and it thrust out one of its talons toward him, wrapped around its ankle with a length of silken thread was a folded up piece of parchment. Renard leaned down and retrieved it, only to jump back as the raven promptly took to the skies, nearly taking his spectacles off with its fluttering wings.

A hum of interest escaped his lips as he unfolded the parchment, backing up against the window of the shop beside him and beginning to read the message.

To the illustrious Renard Voclain,

I found your display of magic within the halls of Undine’s Cathedral a most electrifying and intriguing display. It is rare to find a Wizard who not only is able to use their magic for the good of the Empire - for I assure you, this is what your actions were - but who is also willing to do so. I would like to invite you to lunch. Twelve thirty this afternoon, at the Royal Oak, corner of Merchant Road and Bulwark Street. You shall be expected by the concierge.

Signed, An Admirer.

PS. I wasn’t sure which of the new epithets the prints are branding you with is your preference, though my personal favourite is ‘Renard One-Eye’.

An admirer. That seemed at once ominous and promising. The Royal Oak was a prestigious and exclusive establishment, even when he had been working under Svenja it would have been near impossible for him to secure a table there and he remembered his brother Sigismund’s elation at first acquiring a reservation. His free hand dipped under his check and he retrieved his timepiece from the chain around his neck - the portable timepiece was one of the most expensive things he owned - and checked the time. Eight thirty. That gave him plenty of opportunity to pour through the black little book at the university library before arriving for this mysterious lunch.

With the message tucked into his pocket, Renard wrapped his cloak around himself to ward against the chill, and made his way off down the wide, cobbled street.