The Bay of Stars is awash with riotous noise as revellers see in the small hours of the morning, relieved that they were not subject to a question or trying to drink away the recollection of the truth they told. This year’s Mask was a great success – many of the high and mighty took part in the festivities.

Of particular interest at Big Bertha’s bar on this most festive (and busy) of nights was the arrival of Mr. Stargazer at the festival. The old man staggered into the circle of firelight as though unsure where he was and among many catcalls and whoops proceeded to drink the place dry. Of course, it had to be Mr. Fancypants who ruined it all. The disgusting man sidled up to the astronomer, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth and asked, “Tell me true old man, what does the future hold?” A hush descended on the congregation of revellers. No one had ever asked such a thing of the Celestial Philosophers before – who wanted to know? Someone threw a cabbage at Fancypants, leaving a muddy trail on his filthy blazer; another shouted “Idiot!” in a strangled voice. But Mr.Stargazer’s eyes came into focus for the first time that evening. Raising his arms above his head, he laughed, and the echo produced by the wood of his mask chilled the blood of those assembled.

Finally, the old man stilled and in a sober voice said, “Yes, I have seen the future and the future has teeth.”

After that, things got a bit more subdued, as old friends and old enemies drank away the night and the old man staggered back to his tower. Only later was it discovered that he had scrawled ‘the future has teeth’ on the tower wall for all to see. Scout, Captain Farstrider and Mr. Deep-Pockets did not seem very amused by the evenings carry on. Why is anyone’s guess, but they left early and kept to themselves.

All this talk circulates around Big Bertha’s bar, between whores, trailblazers, philosophers, glider pilots, charlatans and arm-breakers, who are gathered in small groups to see out the night. Many plans are laid, alliances cemented and contracts sealed on this night – the night of truth.

One such group is gathered in a shaded corner – perhaps a little too merry for their own good, but comfortable in each others company. They talk of many things. Some things past, some present and some of the future. They are but one group among many and this is their story.

That story starts in earnest with the arrival of Sergeant Yeller – drunk as usual. He stumbles through the tables outside the bar, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand, sparing disparaging looks at those unfortunate enough to have blond hair.

“Whoresons,” he mutters drunkenly. “Watch out for them!” he adds in a much stronger voice. “They’ll stab you in the back if you don’t keep an eye on them!”

Eventually he makes his way to the table where Mr. Deepdelver sits with his new friends, “And you!” Yeller spits, “What are you hiding hmm?” He casts a withering glance over the companions sat with the Trailblazer. “What’s that - dye? Dyed your hair have you?”  

The drunken Sergeant then slumps heavily against the table, spilling wine over the scarred wood. “Stay away from me,” he yells, “You’re as bad as that old fool philosopher. The future has teeth! Ha! The future has hair. That’s what I’m saying. Just you see.”

A chorus of laughter follows the Sergeant as he staggers away, but some sharp looks follow him also. Some from Mr. Deepdelver's table

"Filthy little git!" says Mistress Roundheels as she glares at the Sergeant's retreating back. "I hope he strangles on his own vomit. Or someone else's. I'm not picky."

"I think it means fangbirds. The proh... prop... propheshy, I mean." - Scout Capitan Soarhigh babbles while hovering his head unsteadily over the bosoms of a young wench as if his neck was about to give way and bury his face in between the two orbs. "Fanngbirds. They got teeth. And fly. On wingssss... Very dangeroush. I reckon a flock must be heading this way. Thatsh' how I interpret the prop... phecy. Off ye go now."

Shooing away the lass, he turns back to the others. "We should prepare for it. I suggest" - he slurs.

"Fangbirds?" exclaims Mistress Roundheels. "What are fangbirds, pray tell, good Captain?"

Mr. Deepdelver simply sighs as the sergeant retreats - and sets about returning all of the table contents to their pre-stumbling-sergeant position.  It's what he does to calm his nerves. Then he looks up at his compatriots.

"Fangbirds aside, and no offense Good Scout Captain I'm sure you're right about the existence of such creatures, I think I should discuss this with Captain Farstrider."

A meaty hand plonks down on Mr. Deepdelver's shoulder and a muffled voice says "The captain and Scout have pissed off somewhere, i saw them hurry away earlier."

The huge figure of Cullum the Brawn sits down on a spare chair, making the wood groan in protest. His face is covered with a mask depicting a laughing visage and his voice echoes from behind it. With almost solemn ritual, he says, "So, tell me true, do you know what they are up to?" As if to reinforce his meaning, he taps his wooden mask. He is asking a question, which by tradition must be answered truly.

He looks around the group, "Well?" He then fishes in his belt pouch and produces a shiny gold crown. "Should you not know, i've got one of these for each of you if you find out. Discretion allowing of course."

"Oh, really, Cullum?" Mistress Roundheels purrs. "I've been a lot of places in my life, but I never saw a future with teeth. It sounds like a male nightmare. Futura Dentata..." She slips a grape up under the tooloo bird mask she's wearing and into her painted mouth. She looks longingly at the gold. One of those would go a long way towards realizing her fondest dream. "I wish you luck, Cullum dear, but the Sergeant doesn't confide on my pillow. His tastes run a bit... differently than the pleasures I offer. Perhaps Mister Deepdelver knows more, hmmm?"

Foxgrin sits in the at the table where it's closest to the wall.  His eyes and nose are covered by a mask of a Fox.  Between that and his red hair, his iidentity is rather obvious.  If anyone is keeping track, he's on only his second tankard of ale for the evening.  
 
The mask partially covers his eagerness, such a job well done could give him the boost he's looking for.  "Um, I can try to look into if ya like.  I assume this will have to be subtle work though - no heads bashed in - and my size makes me not terribly subtle.  But if summin would 'elp me out, we'd have a good shot at it."

"Subtle I can cover. It's muscles I lack, Foxy. The only muscles I have that get a workout are considerably south of my arms." Mistress Roundheels sips her wine, tipping back her tooloo bird mask slightly with her trademark cosmopolitan nonchalance  before setting it right again. "Nary a drop spilled, and if that ain't subtle, I don't know what is. The Sergeant apparently feels aiming more or less in the general direction of the mouth suffices. Perhaps like most other primitive reptiles, he can ingest liquids through the skin."

Cullum grins beneath his mask, "He don't get anything right but shoring up tunnels and sagging arches, that one. Well, i'll leave you to your revels. You know where to find me if you have any information on the good captain and Scout."

With that, the burly trailblazer lumbers away.

"Well, mates, looks like we have sum work" - Soarhigh blubbers, shaking his head vigorously as if that could clean it up. "And I have a cunning plan on how to acquire information about our two missing friends. Just watch this..."

Pulling his mask decorated with half a dozen bird wings, the Scout Capitan stands up and jumps onto the table, wobbling slightly but quickly pulling himself upright. Throwing his arms into the air, he bellows "Hey! Hey, hey, hey, everyone, mates! Yo! Anyone seen Captain Farstrider or Scout? I'm looking fo'rem. Anyone seen'em?"

"Subtle! Devious and cunning indeed!" murmurs Mistress Roundheels.

Foxgrin smirks.  Sometimes the obvious approach works, especially with drunks.  He gets ready to catch Soarhigh if he falls and to deflect anything thrown this way.

Mistress Roundheels and Mr. Deepdelver notice Big Bertha give the scout captain a sharp look at his drunken words as he wobbles on the tabletop. Sadly Soarhigh is a bit too inebriated to notice. A few good-natured cat-calls wing their way to your table, and a couple of sour looks also.

Eventually, the big bar owner wends her way to your table, sparing a quizzical glance at Soarhigh. Bertha starts clearing some empty tankards from the table. "I think that the captain and Scout went to talk to Mr. Stargazer about the foul gases permeating the tower. Myabe they think the vapours have addled his mind?" She chuckles softly. "His performance tonight certainly made an impression, anyhow. Perhaps our meddlesome Trailblazer Captain, no offense Mr. Deepdelver, thinks it's time he looked into the source of the gases."

Having cleared the table, Bertha moves off once more.

Miss Mooncalf looks up drowsily from the nearby table where she's been dozing off the evening's mulled wine.  Ratcheting her eyelids a little wider at the mention of the young Captain Farstrider, she casts about the room for a familiar face.

"Gases," she mutters in echo of Big Bertha.

!i!