The Golden Key
Lloyd's of London
January 7th, 1888
Nigel Spenser paced, bowl pipe in hand. It was not out of nervousness, but rather out of an inability to contain his natural energy. He did not much like sitting and waiting, and he had been waiting in the meeting chambers of Lloyd's of London for twenty minutes. By contrast the young, somewhat severe appearing woman nearest to him was sitting in her chair, absolutely still. She wore the outfit of a fencing instructor under her long coat, and bore a rapier openly in its sheath at her side. Nigel noted that her ears were slightly pointed, betraying elvish blood, while her eyes were almost lizard-like… Kobold? Nigel wasn't certain. Small talk while waiting had revealed her name was Orla, and she was indeed a fencing instructor.
For what it was worth she was one of the least unusual of the six "independent agents" that had assembled in the meeting chamber. Nigel had been in London for six months, since his graduation from Oxford the spring before, and had in that time seen Daoine Sidhe, Kobold, Orkling, and Fir Bholg in the city, yet he could not recall having seen such an motley assemblage in any one place. Nor had he seen such a large assemblage to investigate what was essentially an insurance claim. An odd claim it must be, Nigel thought.
Sitting at the table was a powerfully built man with dark hair and a thick handlebar mustache. His name was Sandor Kertesz. He was, of all things, a performer in P.T. Barnum's Circus, which was in town at the moment. A knife-thrower.
The young lady standing behind him appeared the very model of a modest English gentlewoman, apart from the telltale signs of the elfborn. Amanda Higgins-Rafferty was her name. She wore a long velvet coat, and carried a large case containing God knows what. Nigel had not the nerve to ask.
At first Nigel had mistaken the next person for a slender young man, but he had quickly realized that it was a young woman, dressed in the suit of a fashionable gentleman. Nigel was reminded of George Sand, the scandalous French novelist. Her name was Catherine Cavanaugh. She was quite tall, thin, blond, and clearly to-the-manor-born.
The last fellow in the room was perhaps the oddest. He was a tall man by the name of Artimis Swain, of sleek build and olive complexion, and had apparently decided to go for an appearance right out of the Arabian Nights. He wore billowy trousers that did not entirely conceal the tatoos that covered his legs. He was bare-chested – sheer lunacy in the London winter, Nigel thought, leaving aside the questionable fashion – and he wore a collar around his neck from which hung a half-cape. He looked like nothing more than a Djinn from a storybook. Nigel resisted the sudden urge to ask him for a wish.
A tall thin man in his mid-forties bustled in to the room. He was quite bald, with sideburns so long that it seemed he was trying to make up for the lack of growth above his ears with the growth below. He looked at the assembled agents, and seemed to lose his train of thought at the sight. He composed himself quickly, with an air of modest disdain.
"Ahem. My name is Thomas Peabody."
"I believe you were working for Williams?"
Orla was the first to answer. "Yes. But not together."
"I see."
"Well, let's get right on to it, then." Peabody placed a folder on the table.
"The claim we would like you to investigate is that of a Leo Melthorpe. A locksmith. His offices are not far from here, in fact. His shop was broken into three nights ago, just as he was closing, and he was savagely beaten by an assailant with a…"
He squinted again at the report.
"..Umm… a table leg, apparently."
"What was stolen?" asked Nigel. "Is the policy claim for the entire shop, or a particular object?"
"The policy only covered one item in the shop. A key."
Orla looked up. "How old is the policy?"
"Forty years, about. It was purchased by his father, Godwin."
Peabody harrumphed. "I'll be honest with you. We'd like to not have to pay out on this policy. We want you to go to Mr. Melthorpe's shop, find out what you can, and recover the key. Needless to say, our customer's reputations are very important; we would like this matter to stay out of the papers, and out of the hands of the police."
"About our fee…" Sandor began.
"Oh, very well, very well," Peabody replied.
Nigel Spenser allowed himself a small smile. He always enjoyed the little game the "independent agents" and the representatives from Lloyd's played when it came to fees. The fee finally was negotiated at £350 apiece. Considerable, especially considering that with six agents, that came to over £2,000. Nigel quietly calculated figures in his head. If they were willing to pay that much to try and recover the key, the policy was likely to be in the tens of thousands. All that, for a single key.
Finally, Peabody left. The others gathered around the folder with the information they had to go on. Nigel looked for any sign of the text of the actual policy. As he expected, it was not there. They were to know only as much as was needed to execute their duty.
As they got ready for the short jaunt over to Melthorpe's shop, Nigel took careful note of his compatriots' preparations. It was not unknown for unusual cases such as this to run into "challenges." Artimis Swain bore a spear, and a rapier at his side. The rapier was not an unusual weapon for London, but the spear was a tad unique, Nigel thought. Catherine – or "Cass" as she quickly indicated she preferred – brought out a longsword from a case, and expertly hid it behind the long suit coat that reached to mid-calf on her tall, lanky frame.
Amanda apparently had an axe, while Orla already bore her rapier openly. Nigel set his doctor's bag upon the table, and pulled out a shirt of fine steel chain, and an intricately carved box etched with Fir Bholg runes. He opened the box, revealing two matching Fir Bholg hand axes of exquisite craftsmanship, and stowed them under his frock coat.
Can never be too careful in London these days, he thought to himself.
The story hour is really good so far - it's a little hard for me to believe it's actually my campaign. 
