First Adventure, The Case of the Missing Merchant, Session 001
Circling the Crescent City
This is an emergent narrative; this story is the retrospective recounting of a TTRPG Session that involved emergent play in an open world.
Opening Narration
Carnival in this Crescent City ain’t so much a celebration these days as it is a desperate, collective exorcism of the war’s lingering ghosts. By day, the town runs on caffeinated exhaustion and nervous sweat; by night, it fractures straight down the middle. You’ve got the elite negotiating fortunes behind silk domino masks in opulent ballrooms, while the waterfront boils over with the darker “Sporting Life”, floating faro games and bare-knuckle prize fights in the mud. And the whole affair offers the perfect, polite excuse to wear a disguise, which is an absolute godsend for the criminal, the spy, and the occultist needing to go about their business unseen.
Over the next twelve days, this frenzy is bound to escalate on a rather strict schedule. Weekdays simmer with private masquerades, while the underground fighting and gambling rings roar to life come Friday night. Sundays offer a deceptive, pious lull—the heavy Catholic veneer of the city demands quiet and a morning mass, though it mostly just covers up the frantic, last-minute hammering of the secretive Krewes. The real tipping point hits the weekend of February 9th, when the last pretense of civility is politely escorted out the back door. By Lundi Gras on the 12th, torch-lit mobs will claim the streets, culminating in the absolute, explosive chaos of Fat Tuesday—one final, glorious indulgence before the ash of Lent falls over the whole wicked enterprise.
Nature herself seems to be holding her breath for it. It has been the driest winter anyone can remember, and unseasonably cold, though the local sages will assure you with absolute certainty that this guarantees a boiling spring and a drenching summer. Down on the river, the docks are choking with commerce, and the Federal occupation forces are sweating through their blue wool trying to bust up smuggling rackets and keep some semblance of order.
It is a modern era, they say. Verifiable science and modern medicine are finally showing proven results, though you’d hardly know it from the abundance of quackery still peddled on every street corner. But then, this has always been a deeply superstitious town; and with the air this thick, who is to say if the spirits, the evil eye, or the hidden sight are entirely humbug anyway? Folks here respect the past, and antiquities of high pedigree are prized more than ever by men looking to buy a little history. Money is flowing back into the city, and mostly straight into the gutters—gambling, the sporting life, cocaine, and opium dens are doing a roaring trade. Prostitution, bad deals, a willfully blind local police force, and sudden, violent death seem to stroll hand-in-hand down the banquette, enjoying the sights together.
It is Thursday, the 1st of February 1866—or at least, that is what the masthead of The Daily Picayune claims, and they are usually reliable about the date, even if they take considerable liberties with everything else.
The front-page screams, “NAPOLEON IS ABOUT TO ABANDON MAXIMILIAN” It seems the French Emperor is getting cold feet regarding his little Mexican adventure. Funny how these grand, imperial crusades always seem to end with the grand architect sitting comfortably back in the throne room, while some poor sucker is left holding the bag and waiting for the walls to close in.
Right beside it is a piece of genuine, home-grown panic: “SENATE RESOLUTION FORCING RADICAL RIGHTS BILL UPON THE SOUTH” It’s a bit dramatic, especially for the Picayune, but Mr. Holbrook will happily remind you that his circulation is sitting at a very healthy 10,104 subscribers, and a newspaperman’s first duty is to give the people exactly the outrage they are willing to pay for. Though, to a reasonably sober mind, the notion that treating newly freed men like actual human beings might cause the sky to fall seems a touch overstated. The sky generally has a habit of staying put.
Then there is the grim news for the parishes: “DROUGHT FEARS GRIP THE DELTA.” It’s been a dry winter in the whole state, and the planters and farmers are concerned about their crops. I have always said that farming is just gambling with dirt, but this year the house has stolen the deck.
But down at the bottom of the page, you’ll find a tease for the news this city actually cares about: “CRESCENT PHANTOM IS 3-1 AT METAINIE!” See Page 3, it says, complete with a spectacular spelling error from the typesetter. Never mind the United States Senate, the Emperor of France, or the bleak outlook for agricultural futures; the true existential crisis in New Orleans is whether or not a temperamental roan stallion is going to bankrupt half the sporting gentlemen in town before the spring meets are over.
It is eight o’clock in the morning. The sun is up, the air is unseasonably chilly, the gutters are blessedly dry, and the good, the bad, and the thoroughly indifferent people of this city are begrudgingly dragging themselves out of their beds to go to work on a Thursday.
Session 001 Begin.
08:00 – The Dual Summons (Lars)
No. 18 Carondelet Street was a respectable, well-maintained three-story brick building, the exact sort of address that marked a man as holding solid professional standing. Its street entrance boasted a freshly painted, solid oak door complete with a polished brass knocker and a clean glass transom. Neat stenciling across the pane advertised the “Insurance Company of North America (INA), 232 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.” Inside, Lars Heinrich Prittwitz’s office was a model of dignified efficiency. Scrubbed pine floors peeked out from beneath a durable woven rug, while the walls were lined with neatly organized shelves of maritime law volumes and boxed INA claim files. A sturdy, polished desk sat beneath a large window offering a clear view of the street, flanked by comfortable leather-seated chairs that signaled a solvent, orderly business to any visiting client.
It was in this quiet professional sanctuary that Lars’s day began with a double delivery. The first was a formal letter from his local Pinkerton superior, Henry Allworth, the Chief Operative in New Orleans. The crisp missive carried a singular instruction: Lars was to present himself at a specific, high-end suite at the St. Charles Hotel at exactly 10:00 AM. The second delivery was a coded telegram routed directly from Chicago, bearing the signature of George H. Bangs, the General Superintendent of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Sitting at his polished desk, Lars carefully worked through the cipher. The translated message was brief and absolute: “CHANGE IN MISSION STOP SEE ALLWORTH FOR DOSSIER AND DETAILS STOP”.
08:50 – On the Walk to the Hotel – The Alleyway Encounter (Lars & Caleb)
Lars decided to head to the hotel early to secure breakfast and coffee before his meeting. While navigating the humid morning streets from Carondelet toward the St. Charles, a distinct, rhythmic thud of bare-knuckle sparring echoing from a shadowed alleyway caught his attention.
Stepping into the mouth of the alley, Lars spotted his former corporal. Caleb Grayson was working in a makeshift dirt ring, sweating out the morning heat while training with three local budding fighters. Caleb had partially adopted his in-ring persona, Ivan “The Razer” Razin—his head shaved bald, his massive Cossack mustache bristling, wearing heavy, sweat-stained canvas trousers and his iron-shod work boots. He was grappling a larger man, demonstrating the brutal, blacksmith-strength holds that earned him his purses.
His sparring partners were a colorful, theatrical assortment: one man, Bert, was dressed in the stereotypical garb of a street burglar; another, Ansen, wore a leopard skin like a wild man of the jungle; and the third, Cray, sported a gilded Confederate army jacket. Lars stood quietly in the shadows for a few minutes, watching the men spar first agog at the sight and then laughing heartily.
Before Lars could announce his presence, a sharp, uncompromising voice cut through the grunts and the humidity.
“Mr. Grayson!”
An older, sharp-featured woman—Madame LeBlanc, the proprietor of No. 610 Julia Street—marched straight into the dirt ring. She was entirely unbothered by the brawlers, clutching a small, black ledger to her chest.
“You are short on last week’s ledger, Mr. Grayson,” she demanded. “I want the thirty dollars in arrears, and I want the thirty dollars for this coming week in advance. Sixty dollars. Now. Or your trunk is going out onto the Julia Street cobblestones by noon.”
Lars stepped forward from the shadows and smoothly intervened, paying the furious landlady the sixty dollars to settle his old corporal’s debt. Satisfied, Madame LeBlanc turned on her heel and departed. Distracted by the commotion, Caleb’s demonstration of staged combat went awry, and he accidentally hurt Bert in a grapple. Deciding to call it a day, Caleb dismissed the bruised fighters. Lars extended an invitation to join him for breakfast at the St. Charles Hotel. Grateful for the bailout, Caleb dressed in his respectable civilian suit, and the two men departed the alleyway together.
09:00 – A Valuable Antique (Leopold)
Across town, Leopold Schuyler opened the doors to the “Bureau of Antiquities and Universal Translation,” located on the ground floor of No. 418 Chartres Street. The shop was a quiet labyrinth of floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with yellowing vellum, fragmented stone tablets, and jars of ancient coins.
Just as Leopold settled in for the morning, his associate, Étienne “Tinny” Boudreaux, arrived. Approaching the counter, Tinny unrolled a scrap of velvet to reveal a stunning, terrifying piece of antiquity: a thick band of heavy, unrefined gold alloyed with dark, meteoric iron, deeply inscribed with chaotic, shifting Mesoamerican glyphs.
Drawing on his expertise, Leopold carefully examined the piece and deduced that the ring’s foundational craftsmanship was actually 18th-century European Baroque, making the addition of the Mesoamerican symbols highly anomalous. Fascinated, he tried to convince Tinny to leave the artifact behind so he could conduct proper research.
Tinny was entirely unconvinced. He refused to part with the heavy band, stating instead that he would have a runner drop off rubbings of the symbols later that evening. When Leopold pressed him on exactly where he had acquired the piece, the fence remained stubbornly close-mouthed.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Tinny retorted.
However, he offered to cut Leopold in for a ten percent share of any eventual sale if the antiquarian could determine its true market value. He asked Leopold to ask around the city, reach out to his network, and see what he could uncover.
“But I want some real sources, my friend,” Tinny warned with a knowing look. “I know you, remember?”
Gathering up the velvet and the ring, Tinny departed the shop at exactly 9:31 AM, according to Leopold’s watch.
09:00 – Breakfast at the Hotel St. Charles (Lars and Caleb)
Lars and Caleb entered the hotel, but their arrival in the St. Charles lobby triggered immediate friction. Caleb was a massive, barrel-shaped man with a shaved head and a bristling Cossack mustache, dressed in sweat-stained canvas trousers and heavy, iron-shod work boots. In the glittering, highly aristocratic environment of the St. Charles, he looked exactly like a dangerous dockside brawler who had taken a wrong turn. Almost immediately, a hotel porter intercepted him, politely but firmly insisting that tradesmen and laborers had to utilize the rear service entrance. Lars smoothly intervened. To keep Caleb at his side, Lars leveraged his respectable cover as an INA adjuster and his solid professional standing to personally vouch for the hulking man.
After the brief confrontation, they checked in with the concierge for their upcoming appointment and made their way to the dining room. Lars ordered sausage and biscuits, a request that visibly pained the refined French waiter. However, when Caleb bluntly ordered twelve hard-boiled eggs, the waiter looked as if he had just had a vision of his mother on her deathbed. Recovering his composure, the waiter politely suggested, “Our famous Poached Eggs on thin toast layers with Hollandaise Sauce”. Caleb readily agreed to the compromise.
While waiting for their food, both men noticed and recognized former Confederate General James Longstreet walking past them. The famous general was then greeted by an older man in civilian clothes and the US Army Provost Marshall, Major Gideon Caldwell, before sitting down at their table. Caleb quietly adjusted his chair, shifting his heavy frame to keep his face turned away from the officers.
Capitalizing on the quiet moment, Lars asked Caleb to do him a favor in return for the sixty dollars he had fronted him earlier that morning. He asked Caleb to travel to the Garden District to check in on Lars’s father-in-law, apologize for Lars’s absence due to his pressing work, and simply look in on the sad old man. Caleb agreed and wrote the address down
09:10 – The Argument and the Missive (Madeleine, Dr. Mercier and Leopold)
Upstairs at Dr. Alphonse Mercier’s leased consulting rooms at No. 418 Chartres Street, a fierce familial dispute was underway. Madeleine was visiting her father, actively arguing for a fair share of her earnings. He was keeping far too much of the profits, and she desperately required the funds for new dresses and her own upkeep. Dr. Mercier earned a comfortable enough income, but because he constantly drained his finances to project a ruinously expensive, aristocratic illusion, he was perpetually desperate and strapped for cash.
Right in the middle of their argument, a private courier arrived bearing a high-quality, perfumed envelope addressed to Madeleine Marie-Clare Mercier.
Naturally, Dr. Mercier intercepted it. Breaking the burgundy wax seal bearing a French aristocratic crest, he read Comtesse Élodie’s desperate plea for an immediate, private reading at her St. Charles Hotel suite. The concluding line—”Name your price in gold”—hit his desperate, debt-ridden avarice like a physical blow. Cynically viewing his daughter’s genuine paranormal talents strictly through the lens of his own financial survival, he instantly began plotting to aggressively negotiate a massive fee.
Wielding his silver-topped cane with the theatrical confidence of a stage performer, the doctor stormed downstairs with Maddie in tow, bursting into the Bureau of Antiquities just moments after Tinny Boudreaux had departed. Driven entirely by his single-minded focus on the impending St. Charles payout, Mercier demanded that Leopold drop absolutely everything to act as Maddie’s formal chaperone. He insisted they make all speed to the American Sector immediately to secure the highly lucrative client before she could change her mind.
Sensing her father’s vulnerable desperation, Maddie deliberately dragged her feet in getting ready until he finally surrendered and promised her a new dress. Overcome by the prospect of such a massive payday, Dr. Mercier refused to let the two go alone; he insisted on accompanying them to personally secure the gold, intending to act as their manager during the initial meeting. Hastily gathering their things, the trio departed by carriage for the hotel at 9:35 AM.
09:45-10:10 (Maddie, Leopold, Lars, Caleb, Dr. Mercier)
The grand lobby of the St. Charles Hotel served as the opulent, beating heart of Reconstruction-era New Orleans. Beneath its towering ceilings and massive gas-lit chandeliers, the room was a chaotic, swirling hub of colliding worlds. Union officers in brass-buttoned blue wool and Northern carpetbaggers smoking expensive cigars mingled with ruined Southern planters trying to maintain their dignity and wealthy foreign opportunists seeking to capitalize on the city’s post-war vulnerability.
Madeleine Marie-Clare Mercier arrived, projecting the flawless, unblinking poise of a Venetian noblewoman. Meticulously styled in a structured silk day dress and a tilted Fanchon bonnet, she perfectly masked the desperate, hand-to-mouth reality of her family’s finances. She was accompanied by her official chaperone and antiquarian handler, Leopold Schuyler, whose discreet and casual Knickerbocker bearing looked completely in place with the surroundings. Madeleine’s father, the tall, thin, and ever-theatrical Dr. Alphonse Mercier, was also present. They proceeded to sit in the lobby, where Dr. Mercier, treating Leopold somewhat like an assistant, asked him to check in with the concierge. While Leopold was at the desk, Lars and Caleb exited the dining room and entered the main lobby. Catching sight of Lars, Madeleine waved him over, and the group began making their introductions.
While those introductions were taking place, Leopold stood some fifteen feet away at the concierge’s station and alertly caught a hushed but frantic conversation nearby. He overheard a frustrated desk clerk complaining bitterly to the head clerk over a leather-bound registry.
“Two Westerners were just in here, flashing Wells Fargo credentials,” the clerk whispered. “Big Irish fellow practically threatened to break the desk if I didn’t let them look at the guest ledgers from November. Kept asking if we had a ‘Cumberbatch Santiago’ registered, or any pale, dark-haired scholars from California. The nerve of these corporate detectives!”.
For Leopold, the words landed like a physical blow. The San Francisco escapades he had left in his wake had finally caught up with him.
Meanwhile, Dr. Mercier’s presence was a loud, theatrical spectacle. Wielding his silver-topped cane and dressed in his frayed but flamboyant velvet frock coat, Mercier attempted to project an aristocratic dominance that he simply did not possess. After Leopold returned to the group and was introduced, he produced a handkerchief to wipe a stray bit of Hollandaise sauce from Caleb’s mustache. Caleb remained good-natured, blaming his unruly facial hair, even though the gesture was an obvious, subtle social jab. Joining in on the social game, Dr. Mercier patronizingly asked if it was the first time Caleb had ever tasted the poached egg delicacy. Having had enough of the jabs, Caleb looked the doctor straight in the eye and coldly responded, “No”. Dr. Mercier’s overbearing hucksterism drew irritated stares from the genuine aristocrats in the lobby, forcing Madeleine to rely on her strict convent education just to maintain her own dignified composure.
Finally, a lobby boy arrived from the concierge desk and offered to escort Maddie, Leopold, and Dr. Mercier to Suite 314. Lars then checked in at the front desk, and another boy arrived to guide him to Suite 312. He and Caleb said their goodbyes, agreeing to meet back at Lars’s office at five o’clock that evening.
The two parties were directed up the grand staircase, their paths diverging on the third floor: Lars headed to Suite 312 for his meeting with Henry Allworth, while Maddie, Leopold, and Dr. Mercier approached Suite 314, the gilded cage of Comtesse Élodie de Valois-Bormes.
10:00 – Suite 312 “B&A Enterprises” (Lars)
The door to Suite 312 opened, revealing a male secretary who offered Lars a brief, professional greeting. Before any pleasantries could be exchanged, a commanding voice called out from the inner room.
“It’s a private matter with the insurance man, William. I’ll let you know when we’re through.”
William shot Lars a quick look and wordlessly departed. The heavy oak door of the suite clicked shut, sealing the room. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and the sharp, metallic tang of telegraph ink. Henry Allworth sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his presence matched only by the sprawling map of the Gulf Coast pinned to the wall behind him. A framed sign sat neatly on the desk, modestly advertising “B&A Enterprises, New York, New York.”
“Have a seat,” Allworth offered, waving a hand. “Don’t mind him, he spent all morning rearranging my calendar.” He slid a thick, wax-sealed manila envelope across the polished wood. “Did you read that telegram from Bangs? A direct one is pretty expensive, given it has to look like it comes from INA.”
Once Lars confirmed he had decoded the message, Allworth continued.
“Major Caldwell over at the Provost Marshal’s office just sent a flag up the pole to Chicago. A French aristocrat, some Countess de Valois-Bormes, came to him demanding help locating her missing husband. Caldwell dismissed her as a hysterical civilian. Says she’s a nice lady, though. But the husband runs—or ran—L’Agence Commerciale du Croissant down on the waterfront, and the Department of the Gulf thinks it may be a front.”
He gestured to the sealed envelope resting between them. “Go ahead and read this. Keep it. I have a duplicate. Burn it when you’re done copying it into cipher. Your cover stays exactly as it is, but your objective has changed. Use your initiative; you’d have reasons to look into these things using it. Inside that packet is everything Chicago has on the subject, which isn’t much.”
The Pinkerton chief leaned forward, his tone shifting to strict business. “The military just got handed a thread by a grieving widow, and they want us to pull it. Your mandate is to gather facts. And rumor. And report it. My advice? Chicago likes paper. Also, statements. You’ve got that address. Track down leads. We need to suss out where his network goes and if the French Ministry is using our docks as a staging ground. Do not alert local law enforcement, and file your reports timely.”
With his orders delivered, Allworth leaned back in his chair and reached over to a crystal decanter resting on a side table. He poured two glasses of amber bourbon, pushing one across the desk toward Lars.
“This is your top priority now, Prittwitz,” Allworth spoke quietly, raising his glass in a subtle toast. “Any questions? As your Priest, I am here for counsel and confession.”
Lars accepted the drink, formally confirming that he understood what needed to be done and would faithfully execute the agency’s directives. After a few minutes of polite small talk to maintain the veneer of a mundane business meeting, Lars gathered the sealed dossier and departed the hotel at a quarter to eleven.
10:00 – An Old Acquaintance? (Caleb)
Caleb lingered in the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel, preparing to leave, when he spotted General James Longstreet exiting the dining room and heading in his direction. Hoping to avoid the famous commander, Caleb quietly shifted to the opposite side of the lobby, anticipating that Longstreet would simply pass through to the street. However, the general’s sharp eyes caught him from across the room. With his massive frame, bristling Cossack mustache, and rough, common suit, Caleb stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the opulent, gilded environs.
Longstreet altered his course and approached. As he drew near, a flicker of recognition crossed his face; something about the hulking brawler seemed intensely familiar.
“Do I know you, sir?” Longstreet asked as he closed the distance, cornering Caleb in a quiet section of the lobby.
“I don’t know, sir,” Caleb replied, maintaining his aplomb and seamlessly feigning ignorance. “Have we met?”
“I believe so,” Longstreet noted, his assessing gaze easily piercing Caleb’s rough disguise. “You were with A.P. Hill’s Corps. Major… Major…” Longstreet paused, searching his memory for the right name.
“Stiles,” Caleb offered quickly.
“Stiles?” Longstreet repeated, his tone thick with polite, unmistakable skepticism. “I’m not sure about that. Are you doing well?”
“Yes, sir,” Caleb responded, deeply grateful not to be probed any further about his past. “The war is over. We do what we can.”
Longstreet looked Caleb up and down, taking in the sweat-stained trousers and heavy boots, and then glanced down at his own tailored civilian coat. He grasped his lapel with his right hand and offered a wry, knowing smile.
“Indeed, sir. We do what we can. I bid you a good day, sir.” He extended a hand and shook Caleb’s firmly.
The general turned and began to walk away toward the grand exit of the hotel. After a few paces, he called back over his shoulder, “We do what we can, and what we can is what we must, Major.” He continued walking toward the doors, that wry smile still firmly in place. “Stiles!” he added loudly, tossing the fake name back with a touch of amusement before finally stepping out into the bustling street.
10:00 – The Lady in Suite 314 (Maddie, Leopold and Dr. Mercier)
The heavy oak door to the St. Charles Hotel suite opened, revealing a young woman of fair complexion with her dark hair severely parted and pinned. Wearing a modest, dark-colored dress, her large brown eyes tracked the arriving group silently. She observed them with a clinical, protective intensity before softly and unobtrusively stepping aside to allow entry.
As the group stepped into the lavish parlor, they were immediately addressed by a man with a pale, powdered complexion and thinning blonde hair. Despite the oppressive Louisiana heat, he was dressed in an impeccable, heavy European wool suit, dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He carried himself with rigid, continental superiority, and his tone was clipped and formal as he demanded to know their names and business.
As the view of the room opened up, the final tableau revealed itself. Seated on a grand, velvet-upholstered sofa was a woman of striking, fragile elegance. She was dressed in heavy black mourning silks and lace veils. Her complexion was deathly pale, making her large, dark-brown eyes seem even darker as they brimmed with a mixture of terror and fierce determination. She wore a delicate gold crucifix at her throat and clutched a fine lace handkerchief in her trembling, gloved hands, though her spine was kept rigidly straight with ingrained aristocratic dignity.
As Maddie stepped into Suite 314, her innate sensitivities immediately washed over her. Beneath Élodie’s perfectly composed aristocratic facade and mourning silks, Maddie felt the raw emotional truth: a freezing, suffocating wave of pure terror and absolute isolation. She also effortlessly read the room’s secondary currents—the deep, exhausted exasperation of the lawyer, Maître Beaufort, and the fierce, mother-bear protectiveness radiating from the companion, Céline de la Croix. Céline had moved with soft grace to position herself immediately beside the Comtesse on the sofa, while the man in the heavy wool suit stood to their left, peering down his nose at the group with sharp, analytical blue eyes.
Maître Julian Beaufort stepped forward, physically placing himself between the arriving party and the velvet sofa. He executed a precise, formal bow, though his posture remained rigid and his expression tightly controlled.
“I am Maître Julian Beaufort, representing the legal and financial interests of the Valois-Bormes estate,” he stated, his voice heavily accented. He looked expectantly at the group, waiting for them to present themselves according to standard etiquette. “You are the… specialists we were advised to expect,” Beaufort continued, making no effort to hide his skepticism. “If you would be so kind as to present your cards or letters of introduction to Mademoiselle de la Croix.”
Céline stepped forward silently, extending a small silver receiving tray. She did not speak, but her large brown eyes moved deliberately from face to face, scrutinizing their attire and demeanor as she collected their credentials. Once the introductions were made, she returned to the Comtesse’s side, presenting the tray with a soft curtsy.
Comtesse Élodie de Valois-Bormes did not stand, maintaining the seated dignity required of her station. She glanced briefly at the names provided before raising her head, her gloved hands remaining clasped tightly around the handkerchief in her lap.
“You have my gratitude for attending us with such haste,” Élodie said. Her voice was soft, carrying the distinct, accented French of the Côte d’Azur, trembling slightly with exhausted tension. “I am Comtesse Élodie de Valois-Bormes.” She gestured weakly toward the upholstered chairs arranged opposite the sofa. “Please, be seated. I will explain the delicate nature of our… predicament. Afterwards, Maître Beaufort will speak with the doctor regarding the more trivial matters.”
Leaning forward slightly, Élodie’s grip tightened on her lace. “My husband, Adrien-Luc, has always been a man of meticulous habits. Yet, late this past November, while I remained at our home on the Côte d’Azur, his regular correspondence and bank drafts abruptly ceased. After weeks of agonizing silence and unhelpful responses from Paris, I secured passage on a transatlantic steamer, arriving in this chaotic city just days ago. Upon my arrival, I immediately went to his firm, L’Agence Commerciale du Croissant on Carondelet Street. While the warehouse below was bustling with mundane commerce, I found Adrien-Luc’s private office locked, the lease paid through the end of the year, and the room itself entirely stripped of his personal effects. Furthermore, inquiries at the local banks confirmed that he inexplicably withdrew his balances and closed both his personal and agency accounts in late November.”
She took a breath, the strain evident in her dark eyes. “I have exhausted every official avenue available to a woman of my standing. I have endured multiple, fruitless meetings with Consul General de Montreuil and the Vice-Consul, receiving nothing but polite evasions. The local civil police claim a lack of jurisdiction over a missing foreign merchant, and the United States Provost Marshal essentially dismissed me from his office, refusing to commit military resources to my search. There are… whisperings among his clerks and the waterfront laborers. Ugly rumors that he was seen in the grip of base vices before he vanished, an assertion I wholly and firmly deny. Adrien-Luc is a gentleman. However, I was told his demeanor shifted suddenly in early October. I suspect the terrible strain of this Reconstruction environment has caused a severe nervous collapse, leaving him wandering these dangerous streets stripped of his senses. It is… troubling, but—” she paused, almost overcome by emotion. “We must order our affections. I have ample funds to secure your services to find him and bring him back to me.”
Drawing on her own rigorous convent education, Maddie effortlessly recognized the subtle signs of Élodie’s conditioning. She noted the Ursuline calming maxim—We must order our affections—the silver Serviam shield pinned to Céline’s dress, and the rigid tuck-and-fold method of Élodie’s written documents. Maddie responded in kind, discreetly displaying her own Serviam pin, an act that instantly earned the trust of both the Comtesse and her protective companion.
The Comtesse and Beaufort then provided two daguerreotypes: one of Élodie and Adrien-Luc, and an older image of three cadets at Saint-Cyr. When asked about the other figures in the older image, Élodie explained, “Oh, that is Xavier and Marc-Antoine. Xavier was Adrien’s best man at our wedding. A brilliant, wealthy man, terribly charming. Marc-Antoine was there too, though he barely spoke two words the entire evening. He was always more comfortable in a trench than a ballroom. They were inseparable in those days. I haven’t seen either of them since Adrien left for the Americas.”
When asked about the location, her tone suggested it was the most mundane thing in the world. “Oh, at Saint-Cyr? Yes, of course. It is practically an obligation for young men of his station in France. The aristocracy expects its sons to wear the uniform for a time. But Adrien-Luc was never truly a soldier at heart. Not like Marc-Antoine.” She gestured to the barrel-chested man on the left of the image. “Adrien-Luc’s mind was always far too restless for parade grounds and artillery drills. He served his commission, certainly, but he transitioned into the Diplomatic Corps as soon as it was respectable to do so. He spent years as a Trade Attaché for the Foreign Ministry in Washington D.C. before resigning to build this firm in the Americas. It was a small family interest of my father’s, but Adrien-Luc declared our house needed a new legacy and is determined to build it into something grand. He is a man of ledgers and logistics, gentlemen, not rifles.”
Dr. Alphonse Mercier had been poised to aggressively negotiate a massive fee before allowing Maddie to utilize her gifts. However, despite Beaufort’s doubtful looks, the Comtesse declared that money was no object. Instantly placated, Leopold and the doctor began to prepare the room for the reading. As Maddie readied herself on a couch with her sketchbook and charcoal pencils, the two men set the stage with theatrical flourishes, dimming the lights, closing the drapes, and draping blankets over the mirrors.
When they finished, they sat beside each other to Maddie’s left, while the Comtesse and Beaufort faced her across a central coffee table. Celine stood by, ready to assist.
Maddie chose the older 1850 daguerreotype, clutching it tightly for two minutes. Almost immediately, she inhaled the sharp, metallic scent of cold stone and brass polish, and the distant, unified echo of a military drumbeat filled her ears. She began to sketch rapidly, rendering a fragmented scene of the three men standing in a dimly lit, ancient-looking room. They were huddled over a crumbling, leather-bound journal, the atmosphere thick with an intense, unspoken purpose.
Maddie described her sensory experiences as she drew. Leopold interjected politely, asking if they might know what the journal was, but the Comtesse and the lawyer had no idea. Maddie stated clearly that her gift only revealed fragments; she saw no legible letters or finer details, only that the men seemed young and in uniform.
After twenty minutes of intense focus, the Comtesse volunteered a far more personal, sentimental item: a silver cigar box that had been a gift from Adrien-Luc’s father. “It went everywhere with him,” Élodie whispered.
Maddie asked for the item, and Céline went to retrieve it. While the room waited, Leopold leaned over and whispered to Dr. Mercier, “I have heard that our mutual friend Cumberbatch Santiago may have some difficulty in town.”
Dr. Mercier whispered back calmly, but with a snarky edge, “Our mutual friend Cumberbatch Santiago, if he wants any aid with his troubles, may want to focus on this current moment and ensure the golden goose keeps laying eggs.”
A moment later, Céline returned, and Maddie took the silver cigar case into her waiting hands.
10:10 – The Sporting Life Summons (Caleb)
Looking out through the glass windows of the St. Charles Hotel lobby, Caleb spotted a ragamuffin youth of about nine years old waving at him frantically from the street. A uniformed bellboy was already attempting to muscle the urchin away from the grand entrance. Caleb exited the hotel and smoothly intervened.
“I have a message for you, Mr. Razer,” the ragamuffin said, entirely nonplussed and undeterred by the rough handling.
“Let him go. He’s here for me,” Caleb said calmly.
“Well, we don’t need our business sullied by street trash,” the bellboy retorted, releasing his grip.
Caleb let the snobbish retort pass. Walking away from the entrance with the boy in tow, he asked, “What do you want, kid?”
The youth quickly explained that one of the city’s prominent illegal fight backers—Jules “Blackjack” Vinet, a man who ran floating faro games and bare-knuckle bouts near the waterfront—wanted to speak with him. He had an offer. After hoofing it a fair distance through the city streets, Caleb found himself arriving at a quarter to eleven in the back room of a humid, cigar-stained coffee house on Decatur Street.
Waiting for him was Jules “Blackjack” Vinet. He was a tall, handsome man of about six feet and two hundred pounds, projecting the image of a successful, untouchable gambling boss in his loud, flashy waistcoat and thick gold watch chains. Beneath his heavily oiled black hair, his florid, sweating face was marked by a pair of shrewd, calculating dark eyes. He constantly puffed on thick cigars, speaking in a rapid, booming voice designed to control the room, though his gaze never stopped tracking the exits and the money on the table.
“I have a marker that needs collecting, Ivan,” Vinet said, using Caleb’s ring moniker. “A massive one. Fifteen hundred dollars. The man vouched for some bets on the December 2nd bouts at O’Bannon’s Cotton Press over in the Irish Channel, lost his mind, and vanished into the fog before settling up.”
When Caleb asked for details, Vinet painted a vivid picture of the mark. “A Frenchman. Aristocratic type but completely hollowed out. Sallow skin, wearing a stained silk waistcoat. He was entirely consumed by the powder and the bottle—frantic, sweating, eyes completely blown out. He was winning impossible odds at the tables all night, uncanny luck, but when he laid a massive wager on the final bout and the other fighter took a dive, he suddenly bolted. He was rolling with a local flesh-peddler named Balthazar Tremblay—they call him ‘Silks’—and a few of his girls. I recognized one of them, a red-headed Creole girl named Coralie. The girls he was with called him Adrien-Luc. He vouched for Silks’ bets, but I can’t lay hands on Silks. And anyway, this fellow is the one with the bread.”
Vinet leaned forward, tapping his cigar ash into a brass tray. He then laid out an offer perfectly tailored to Caleb’s desperate circumstances. Vinet simply wanted the books closed. If Caleb found the Frenchman—dead or alive—he would receive a payout. But if Adrien-Luc actually still had the fifteen hundred dollars on his person and Caleb recovered it, Caleb would keep a flat two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar cut.
Furthermore, Vinet promised to immediately wipe out a fifty-dollar gambling and promotional debt Caleb currently owed him just for taking the job. As a final sweetener, Vinet guaranteed Caleb and his fighters a prime, highly lucrative slot in the underground fight cards he was financing for the upcoming Mardi Gras week on February 9th.
It was an offer he couldn’t afford to refuse. Caleb accepted the terms and departed the coffee house, stepping back out into the city streets. It was exactly eleven o’clock.
10:50 – The Silver Cigar Case (Madeleine, Leopold)
Maddie held the silver cigar box in her hands. Closing her eyes, she immediately felt a profound sense of love and home—a deep, resonant longing. But woven tightly into that warmth was a distinct tinge of ambition, a sharp, unyielding need to possess.
Then, the sensation violently shifted.
Maddie was suddenly hit by the frantic, booming rhythm of a substance-accelerated heartbeat. She felt a phantom numbness spread through her mouth and sinuses. The heavy, suffocating smells of cheap gin, unwashed sweat, and expensive Havana cigars flooded her senses. It was accompanied by a faint, nauseating, chaotic hum—the dizzying sensation of winning, and winning, followed by a breathless, desperate anticipation. Then winning again. And again. And again.
Her charcoal scratched rapidly across the sketchbook, producing a fragmented tableau: pale, trembling fingers violently shoving a massive stack of brass coins across a scarred wooden table.
When the connection broke, Maddie carefully described exactly what she had seen and experienced.
The Comtesse was silent for a long moment. Desperately seeking a rational explanation, Élodie asked if it was possible that one of the rough workmen at the commercial offices might have moved the case, somehow contaminating it with their own base impressions.
Maddie gently but firmly replied that she only tells what she sees. This was her genuine experience of the object; the “Eye” simply reveals what is there, though it does not always reveal everything.
The Comtesse began to cry, the tears finally breaking through her aristocratic restraint. But the sorrow quickly hardened. She looked up, her dark eyes suddenly steely and defensive.
“That is NOT Adrien-Luc!” Élodie cried out. “Something is wrong. Where is that doctor who was so highly recommended?” She flashed an accusatory glance at Maître Beaufort, who pointedly looked away, his skepticism momentarily silenced by the raw emotion in the room.
Visibly exhausted from the sensory assault of the reading, Maddie stated that she was too tired to continue immediately. She offered to perform another reading afterward, but she needed to rest her mind for a bit. Relieving the oppressive atmosphere, Leopold moved to brighten the gaslights, and Céline quietly brought in a tray of refreshments.
The mantel clock ticked steadily. It was 11:35 AM.
End Session 001