Prologue – The Flute Maker
It was early morning in Volana. A pale sun shone through the cool mist that shrouded the seemingly abandoned streets. These streets, that had been full of raucous partiers only hours ago, were now deserted except for an old man walking though the remnants of the celebrations. His leather-clad feet cleared a path for him through the multi-coloured streamers as he looked around at the jumble of tables, hastily moved aside to make way for any carriages that need access to this part of the city. Even though he knew there would be street cleaners out soon, it still saddened him to see the streets of his city left in such a mess. Pepo Fiumicino was on his way back to the Conservatorio di Musica, the central building of Volana. Pepo brushed away a strand of the shoulder-length silver hair framed his face. Anyone who had still been out on those streets would have seen that he was deep in thought.
Letting himself into his study at the Conservatorio, Pepo sighed. He had been the head conductor for 50 years now. It really was time for him to hand over the title, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The Conservatorio had come such a long way in fifty years and there wasn't anybody suitable enough to take over. On the desk opposite the window laid a wooden flute, brand new and waiting to be played in concert. Pepo Fiumincino was known for his flutes throughout Talia. Any professional flautist could tell you that a Fiumincino flute made the best sound by far. The caramel coloured flute on his desk could easily be sold for a high price, but Pepo had another idea for it. Next to the flute was an ornate hand mirror, its silver frame engraved with a variety of musical symbols. Glancing into it, he saw the face of another man looking up at him. Pepo recognized it as Rodolfo, the father of the Duchessa of Bellezza and quickly picked it up. Behind Rodolfo Pepo could see an arrangement of corteo cards but from his angle, he could not read them. His attention was quickly brought back to Rodolfo as the Bellezzan thought spoke three words: It is time.