Getting information out of the lower classes of the Citadel was relatively easy. They could be a tight-lipped, insular bunch, but a small amount of coin or the offer of a drink would usually help to loosen tongues. Having grown up in the Dort Midlands, born into a family of yeoman farmers, Morgan was well acquainted with such people, and this familiarity also helped.
The upper classes, however, were a completely different kettle of fish. Here Morgan's money - which had in any case been running short since he left home and started studying - was next to useless. In the upper classes throwing coin about was vulgar. Instead it was about who you knew, and how. And therein lay Morgan's problem. The answers to the questions he sought appeared to lie in the upper social strata of the Citadel. Verleaux Manor was owned by a nobleman, and the victims of the murders were all well-off young men. But Morgan didn't have any contacts in those circles. This eveningtide he was aiming to remedy that, by heading to the place that seemed frequented above all others by the Citadel's high flyers.
Among the wealthy shops and mansions of the Patrician's Ring was a club that had earned a place in the hearts of the wealthy citizens that lived and worked nearby. Risque was perhaps drab to look upon, the three story building broad and severe with a line of coachmen outside always waiting for their next fair, the windows and doors of the building obscured and glowing with the light from within yet refusing to divulge the secrets of what lay beyond. In the Eveningtide marks of the day, carriages and chases and people afoot flocked to the Risque, slipping in quietly amid a host of modestly-dressed door guards and servants, walking out of the manicured, orderly streets and into the posh parlour beyond.
The entry foyer of Risque instantly established the wealth and leisure of the establishment, with a modest podium at the front from which the club's host would meet and direct all guests initially. While the host often changed, the room did not...a room decorated in rich reds and soft, sublte browns placed tastefully around the room along with a majestic statue of Pecunia herself, though a rather salacious and nearly indecent representation of the Fortune Goddess. Rich wall hangings and paintings decorated the walls, one of which was the infamous Rue of Fate, which depicted a melted coronet dripping into a wine glass. Where the walls were not covered in paintings and hangings, there were banners...a hundred banner coins, each nailed into the walls to make them sparkle with the copper of their stamp, a strange custom of the house that had begun in times unremembered for reasons unknown. The modern custom was for a new banner to be nailed into the wall for every new member of Risque, for memberships were required for entry beyond the foyer of the fine club.
Morgan had dressed himself in his one suit of elegant clothes, an imperial purple ensemble topped by a floppy black hat. Looking smart would hopefully ensure that he didn't get turned away at the door, but at the same time it wouldn't be enough to get him past the foyer. Something cleverer would be required.
The magus attuned himself to the Aether, dark green-brown eyes surveying the building for any signs of magickal activity. Specifically he wanted to see if the building had any wards in place, although he didn't expect it to. Few buildings did, aside from the Citadel palace, the University and the occasional temple or embassy.
