Exposition (in C Minor)

The city of Westgate, one of Albion's major port cities, in the autumn of the year 1712; it had been a cold, windy dawn, and the thief had stood at the outer wall of the Wrest estate, the threshold between the common public and the nobility, watching the movement of the footmen and servants at the front door. They adjust the collar beneath their hood, apprehensiveness hidden behind calm, steady breaths, condensating into rolling clouds that drift on the chill breeze.   In the city itself, the witchhunter seats his cloak upon his shoulders, pinning it with a brooch marked with the cross of his order. He meets the gaze of his reflection in the mirror afore him, and it stares back with the familiar feeling that gnaws at his gut - something was stirring.   The musician awakens from his slumber, to the familiar sights of roads he knew, and the city he called home. He gazes through the window of the carriage, his mind set on the events of the day before, while his heart yearned for the comfort of home.   As the shadows of Westgate's townhouses and warehouses recede, the city begins to return to the full spirit of the daily events. For those who wait, and feel for a moment, the smell of adventure hangs thick in the air.   The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. And yet, all seems calm.