The House of Jan’Visil was a beast of many hides - from outside it bore the same stoney construction as the other great buildings of Caershire. What lay within, however, was a monument to the vanity of the late Jan’Visil and his sizable brood; fourteen children, all of them rich, and all of them encapsulating the very best and the very worst of excess. The walls were the white of hardened, harvested ivory, somehow skillfully coalesced with the black of ebony. Splotches and stripes of black on white, or perhaps white on black. Those who paid homage to Jan’Visil paid homage through currency. Currency, and silence. Not true silence, but the soft ambience of whispers. Whispers, the Sons of Jan’Visil decided, were welcome. Pure, black silence was stoic and too solemn by far. Hushed whispers, on the other hand, sounded almost reverent, almost like prayer. Scores of patrons sat upon seats half-ebony, half-ivory, in worship of the only thing that mattered to them: currency and the power it held over the wonders of this world. The Fourteen Son of Jan’Visil was born Runa Jan’Visil. Now, he was Master of Auctions. He spoke in slow drawl, measuring every word and - Aarcon believed he could almost sympathize in the following regard - savoring every syllable. There was little in his speech - the part and parcel welcomings of the elite rich - that required deliberation, but Aarcon could almost hear the satisfaction in his voice. The almost seductive feel that came with powerful people hanging on one’s every word. “Welcome, to the sixty-eighth gathering. The House, of Jan’Visil, cordially greets each, and every one, of its esteemed patrons…” Ruven Ralow was too base by far for an ‘event’ such as this. There was something approaching desperation in the way Ruven Ralow shifted in his own seat, impatiently waiting for one word to fade away into the next. Aarcon could only chuckle. The average Auction Master spoke at blistering pace, the Auction Masters of the House Jan’Visil spoke slowly, to reaffirm the crux of their House. The items did not matter - not to Jan’Visils sons, at least - but the House mattered. A great many artifact and wonder was announced, at a pace Runa Jan’Visil deemed brisk. Twin blades of gold and platinum. A miniature sky-ship that hovered indefinitely within a container of glass. The fastest steed in all of Orcosi - though Aarcon had his doubts, and four tigers from opposite the world. That had been a scene, as the fiercest tiger of the four had mauled the unlucky servant of its purchaser, to the uproarious applause of the House’s patrons. A tiger without bite, after all, was no wonder. “The Tome,” said Ruven, eagle-eyed despite approaching a state of bored slumber, “Of Roneeya Rochaan. What’s the plan here? I’m thinking increments of five thousand. Ten thousand if they press us. Abstain for four or five bids, then jump in.” Two thousand. Two thousand four hundred. Three thousand. Three thousand five hundred. “Four thou-” Ruven began, before Aarcon stood, like a bent flower unfurling against the wind. “Twenty thousand.” He intoned, almost dispassionately. The veil of whispers was broken, as the House of Jan’Visil and its patrons burst into uproarious applause, and Ruven Ralow inquired as to ”what the fuck is wrong with you?”. To a rich man, sound business savvy was commendable. To a flock of rich men in a House built on vanity, to spend without inhibition was aspirational.