Lutz came out of his new residence and decided to head for breakfast at a nice place he found near his house.
The clatter of fine porcelain and the murmur of well-dressed patrons at the café had been a symphony of normalcy. Lutz had savored every bite of buttery pastry and every sip of rich, dark coffee. It was a simple pleasure, he wasn't gulping down stale bread in a shadowy corner. It was an act of deliberate, peaceful existence.
After paying 8 copper coins for the food, he stepped back out into the perpetual twilight of St. Millom and began a leisurely exploration of the Spire's merchant district. His posture was different today. The hunched, hurried gait of the fugitive was gone, replaced by the ambling stroll of a man of leisure. He practiced the persona, offering slight, polite nods to the shopkeepers sweeping their steps and the well-to-do matrons being helped into carriages.
"Good morning," he would murmur, the words feeling foreign but fitting. The responses were usually a curt nod or a mumbled greeting in return. He was building a ghost of a presence, a vague impression of a new face in the neighborhood, nothing more. It was the opposite of hiding; it was hiding in plain sight.
His current clothes—well-made, durable, and sober—had served him well for travel and anonymity. But as he passed the front window of a gentlemen's haberdashery called "Esmond & Sons," his own reflection gave him pause. The man in the window looked competent, respectable, but utterly unremarkable.
'James Morgan is not unremarkable' He thought, a critical eye scanning his own image. 'He is a man who liquidated his family's legacy for a dream. He is ambitious, frivolous, and desperate to be noticed. These clothes… they are the uniform of a clerk, an accountant. They whisper, when they need to shout.'
The decision was made. He pushed open the door, a delicate bell chiming his entrance. The interior smelled of cedar, wool, and faintly of lavender polish. Racks of impeccably tailored clothing stood like silent sentinels.
"Good morning, sir," a voice purred. A man with silvering hair and a tape measure draped around his neck like a stole approached him. His eyes, sharp and appraising, took in the quality but conservative cut of Lutz's current attire in a single, practiced glance. "Welcome to Esmond's. How may we assist you today? Seeking something for business, perhaps?"
Lutz offered the man a smile that was meant to be both charming and slightly vapid. "Business, yes, but of a particular sort. The business of making an impression." He gestured vaguely, his voice taking on a more theatrical lilt. "You see, I've just arrived from the south. It's all rather drab down there, don't you think? All dust and faded tapestries. I find the light here in St. Millom… inspiring. I want my wardrobe to reflect that. I want something…" He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "Extravagant. I have a particular fondness for bright colors, you see. Life is too short for greys and navies, wouldn't you agree?"
The tailor—Mr. Esmond himself, as it turned out—did not bat an eye. If anything, his professional demeanor warmed by a degree. This was the kind of client he preferred: one with money and a lack of restraint.
"But of course, sir," Esmond said, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "A gentleman of taste should not shy away from making a statement. Right this way."
He led Lutz to a section of the store that seemed to hold a captured piece of the sunset. Here, the fabrics were vibrant, the cuts bold. It was a far cry from the sea of somber wool he had just left behind.
"Now, this," Esmond said, gesturing with a flourish, "is what we call our 'Flashy' collection."
Lutz's eyes were immediately drawn to two ensembles displayed side-by-side. One was a suit of a deep, passionate crimson, paired with trousers of the same shade. A waistcoat of black silk, patterned with subtle, swirling embroidery, provided a stark, dramatic contrast. A black cravat and a matching red top hat completed the look. It was the uniform of a flamboyant gambler or a theatrical impresario.
Next to it was its aquatic counterpart: a brilliant royal blue, just as intense, with a similarly patterned silver vest and a silver cravat. It was cooler, more aristocratic, but no less bold.
'God' Lutz thought, a genuine laugh bubbling up inside him that he had to suppress. 'They're ridiculous. They're perfect for James Morgan.' Both were exactly the kind of thing a man trying too hard to be noticed would wear. They screamed "look at me" in a language of pure, unadulterated color.
He imagined himself in the red. 'Too aggressive. It reminds me of blood and Karl's fire, and I've had quite enough of those.' The blue was better, but it felt… expected. The flamboyant noble in blue was a cliché.
"I must admit, both are striking," Lutz said aloud, tilting his head as if studying a piece of art. "The red has a certain intenseness to it, and the blue a noble coolness… but I'm not sure either captures the unique… texture of the St. Millom twilight."
He was stalling, his eyes scanning the rest of the rack, his Marauder's instinct for the true prize nagging at him. And then he saw it. Hanging slightly apart, as if waiting for a more discerning eye.
It was the color of honeyed sunlight seen through a glass of fine sherry. A soft, warm, pastel amber. The wool was of a finer weave than the others, seeming to hold the dim light of the shop and glow with a gentle, internal luminescence. The cut was just as modern, with a tailored jacket, slim trousers, a vest of black-colored silk with a faint golden leaf pattern, and a tie the color of rich lemon cream.
'That's it' His mind whispered, all internal debate ceasing. 'That is the one.'
It was the color of old gold, of ambition gilded in good taste. It was extravagant, yes, but with a subtlety the others completely lacked. It was the suit of a man who was confident he belonged in any room, not one who needed to fight his way in.
"Ah, you have a exceptional eye, sir," Esmond said, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. He carefully lifted the amber suit from the rack. "This is a one-of-a-piece. The color is called 'Gilded Dusk.' I had it made for a client who… unfortunately, passed before he could collect it. It seems it was waiting for you."
'A dead man's suit' Lutz thought, the superstitious part of him, the part that believed in the power of symbols and pathways, twinging. 'Or a suit with no history. A clean slate. Perfect.'
"I'll be taking this one," Lutz said, his voice firm and final. He didn't need to try it on for fit; his Marauder's eye for detail and proportion told him it would be nearly perfect, and any minor alterations would be simple. "And I believe I shall need a few accessories to complete the ensemble."
His gaze fell on a display of spectacles. He selected a pair with fine, gold-trimmed wires. They were less obstructive than his current pair, more decorative than functional, perfect for completing the look of a dandy. He also picked out a luxurious leather wallet, tooled with a subtle geometric pattern. It was a far cry from the worn coin purse he currently used.
"The spectacles and the wallet as well," he stated.
Esmond beamed. "An excellent selection, sir. If you would like to change, the fitting room is just through there. I can have your previous garments wrapped."
Lutz took the suit and entered the small, wood-paneled room. He methodically undressed, folding his old clothes with a strange sense of ceremony. He was shedding another skin. As he pulled on the trousers, the fine wool felt soft and weighty against his skin. The waistcoat buttoned snugly, the cream silk a stark, elegant contrast against the amber. Finally, he shrugged on the jacket. It fit him as if it had been made for him, the shoulders perfect, the waist tailored just so.
He looked at himself in the full-length mirror.
The man staring back was a stranger. A confident, slightly arrogant dandy with a glint of intelligence in his eyes behind the new, gold-trimmed spectacles. It softened the hard edges of Lutz Fischer and gave the intellectual core of Andrei Hayes a vessel of pure, unapologetic style. The old golden hue coupling perfectly with his Ash-blond hair. He looked… prosperous. Ambitious. Visible.
'I got this shit on for real', he thought, a slow smile spreading across his face
He transferred the contents of his old purse to the new wallet, tucking a few Gold Hammers and a handful of smaller currency into it. The rest of his fortune, and his artifacts, remained securely hidden in the basement of 17 Vesper Lane.
He emerged from the fitting room, his old clothes in a neat parcel under his arm.
Esmond's eyes widened appreciatively. "Superb, sir. Truly. It is as if it were made for you."
"The fitting is exceptional," Lutz agreed, his voice carrying a new, easy confidence that the suit seemed to grant him. He paid without haggling, the clink of the Gold Hammers on the counter a satisfying sound that sealed the transformation. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Esmond."
"The pleasure was all mine, Mr…?"
"Morgan," Lutz said, the name now feeling perfectly natural on his lips. "James Morgan, entrepreneur."
He stepped out of the shop and back onto the street. The cool twilight air felt different against the fine wool. He saw the glances now—not the dismissive looks given to a nondescript newcomer, but appraising ones. Curious ones. A young woman smiled faintly as he passed. A group of young men, dressed in more conventional attire, gave him looks that were a mixture of disdain and envy.
As he walked, he admired the city anew with a smile on his face. Not as a fugitive assessing threats, but as a man claiming his space within it. The towering architecture, the play of the strange light on the dark stone, the distant sounds of industry and commerce.
Lutz current appearance.