“Let’s go over the plan one last time,” Syril said as they walked alongside a parade towards the Count’s castle.

  “I’d hardly call it a plan,” Ellen complained, swatting and an illusory miniature golden dragon that had been following them for the past block.

  When the dragon responded to the swat with an illusory gout of flames, she snapped her fingers and the little dragon began to melt. Despite not being real, the terror any creature would have felt when suddenly and rapidly melting was clear in its tiny eyes for a brief instant before those eyes too turned to golden liquid.

  An illusory pool of gold grew on the ground in front of Ellen, and she kicked it as she stepped through it, dispersing it into golden dust that quickly faded.

  Behind the group in the parade, the same scene played out a thousand fold as a swarm of illusory dragons of all colors melted one after another. What had once been a beautiful display of myriad colors making children giggle and laugh soon turned into a scene of terror as the dragons melted one by one. The brief terror they’d glimpsed in the golden dragon’s eyes was evident for far longer in the swarm as each dragon realized the impending doom coming for them as they watched their brood mates melt before their eyes.

  The dragons tried to flee, some attempting to clutch onto the nearby people as if contact would save them, but their claws swiped through them without making contact.

  Children wept at the scene, and people fled in panic. The horses pulling the more mundane parade floats before and after this scene panicked as well, and their handlers had to fight to keep them from trampling the crowd.

  “Nice work,” Grom said to Ellen who was staring at it all dumbstruck.

  “This is the shoddiest spell craft I’ve ever seen!” she shouted after a moment.

  The wizards responsible for the shoddy spell craft didn’t hear her, busy as their were trying to end the horrific scene early.

  “A single spell with self-awareness? What were you thinking? That’s like using a fireball to clean out an ant hill!”

  She took a deep breath, and realized the wizards were now looking around for the culprit of their spell’s failure. Turning around quickly, she began walking away casually.

  “Stupid illusionists,” she muttered to herself. “Thinking just because their spells aren’t real that they can throw high tier magic around in a city without any risk.”

  “Yeah,” Grom said, deadpan. “This is all their fault.”

  “So…” Syril said, still looking at the scene behind them. “That plan…”

  “Yes,” Grom said, “The ‘plan.’ We go to the party and try to find out if the Count is a vampire. It’s not very complicated.”

  “Well, sometimes the best plan is just a vague goal,” Syril defended.

  “Yeah?” Grom asked, “And what times are those?”

  “Right now,” Syril said.

  ***

  “Invitations?” The guard at the draw bridge to the castle asked as the group approached.

  “Oh, we’re on the list,” Syril said, confidently walking past.

  “There is no list,” the footman said, stepping in front of the elf. “And I’m sorry, its invite only.”

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  “We were invited,” Syril said. “By the Count, personally in his audience chamber.”

  “Then where are you invites?”

  “It was a verbal invite.”

  “I’m sorry, I was specifically told to only allow people to enter with invitations,” the guard said, with real regret in his tone. “And I will be asked under a truth spell at the end of my shift if I let anyone in who didn’t have an invite.”

  “But we were invited,” Syril repeated. “So you can let us in.”

  “I wish I could,” the man said.

  “But this whole party is for us!” Bill shouted.

  “He means,” Syril said quickly, shooting Bill a look to shut up. “That we are adventurers, and this party is to celebrate them in general.”

  “Be that as it may, I can’t let you in without a written invite.”

  “Psst,” Ellen said, getting Syril’s attention. “Can’t you—”

  She mimed playing a flute and then wiggled her fingers towards the man’s head.

  “I will do no such thing,” he said, offended. “That is highly immoral!”

  “You do it all the time, though,” Ellen said.

  “Yes, to people we are probably going to kill anyway,” he explained.

  The guard’s eyes grew wide listening to the exchange.

  “Syril,” Linar said. “Let me handle this.”

  Syril sighed and reluctantly moved out of the way for Linar to do his best. There was a constant fight between the two of them over who should handle negotiations and the like. While Syril was far more personable and often able to convince others to let them have their way, Linar had conversational techniques of his own.

  He reached into his vest and produced five envelopes, all with the Count’s seal.

  “Here are five invitations,” he said, handing them to the footman. “And a little something for you.”

  The footman examined the unopened invites, breaking the seals to confirm their validity.

  “Erol Mongerfort?” he read.

  Linar pointed to Syril.

  “That’s him.”

  He opened the next.

  “Gideon Monkweasel?”

  “The big guy,” Linar said.

  “William Ferguson?”

  He pointed to Ellen. When the footman gave him a questioning look at the clearly female Ellen, Linar shrugged.

  “It’s a family name.”

  “Phillip Conderwall?”

  “The dwarf,” Linar said. “He was adoped.”

  “And… Linar? No last name.”

  “That’s me,” he said, placing his palm on his chest.

  The footman looked at the invites, and then the coin in his hand, then shook his head.

  “Go along. Enjoy the party.”

  On the bridge, Syril turned to Linar.

  “Where did those come from?”

  “Like I said, I’m a businessman,” he explained. “And I find it good business to cultivate multiple identities.”

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