Nikolaas had woken up early that morning. It was his first in Old Rose Harbor, having arrived the night before, and the heady sensation of awakening for the first time in a new place had caused him to rouse himself far earlier than was his custom. From the window of his modest lodgings, he had watched the cool darkness of morning before dawn fade into a brilliant sunrise, and then soften into the clear light of day. He must have spent an hour sitting almost motionless, listen to the sounds of the harbor awakening around him, the shouts and clatters and strains of music both sung and played, both in and out of tune. A light breeze picked up, ruffling his hair and carrying the smell of salt and fish and something rather less savory into the room. Nikolaas realized then that he loved the smell of the sea. The scent was so pungent and evocative that, closing his eyes, he would have sworn he could hear the waves, had there been anyone present for him to swear to.

After a while, he found himself oddly and irresistably compelled to descend from his window and go out among the people, to see the city from ground-level and see if he could not become any more accustomed to it. If he was going to stay here, even for a little while, he needed to gain some level of familiarity with the place. That would include seeking out a location where he could set up his candelmaker's trade; he had a feeling that the owners of the establishment in which he had passed the night would not be too thrilled to wake up one morning and find that he had inadvertently set the place on fire with a spill of searing hot wax. He dressed quickly, having slept in his slacks and shirt the night before anyways, and made sure to tuck what little money he had brougth with him into a pouch around his neck which he then buttoned inside his shirt. Newcomer though he was, Nikolaas was hardly naive about Old Rose's Harbor's reputation for seediness and crime.

This being done, he slipped out of his rented accomodations, descended the creaking stairs as quietly as he was able, and made his way out into the early morning sunshine. As he began to stroll at a leisurely pace, he glanced curiously at his new surroundings, intrigued by every detail he could take in.

Though hardly glistening with promise, the narrow streets of Old Rose had a certain rustic charm about them. Tall, stacked houses made of storm-warped wood, bits of drift and debris were painted bright colors, lines of yellowed washing hung across gaps and alleys. The streets seemed to be named at random - Eyeball Ave., Maudlin Lane, Sam's Street, Pincher Square. There were places where the streets gave way to wooden walkways, and the bay's water was allowed to flow throughout the city in a sort of makeshift canal; the only way to get from place to place was across boardwalks, bridges and planks, sometimes hopping across a broken gap.

The hum of activity was beginning to rise, though most respectable riffraff would be in bed until noon. Nikolaas could see several closed businesses, homemade signs proclaiming "Gone, Ye Basterds," or "Closd Forever, Thanks Allot" in broken Estuan. Though many remained open, he could see clearly the toll that Silas Hawke's raised taxes was taking on the businesses in Old Rose.

On a street corner, a tall man was standing with his arms crossed. Though he wore no uniform, Nikolaas was given the impression that this man was an official of sorts; people were avoiding him, and he seemed to be glaring at everyone as though they owed him money.