<div class="floatleft">(http://neworleanscondotrends.com/files/2012/11/Condos-on-Esplanade-Ave.-New-Orleans-French-Quarter-Homes-1024x836.jpg)</div><br/>Location: Esplanade Avenue, New Orleans; Home of Sylvan Leblanc<br/>Time: 2130 Saturday, 23rd 2010<br/>Aspects on Scene: "Old money splendor" "Quiet place in a noisy town" "Nothing ever works in this house"<br/><br/><br/>The French Quarter was once a place of business.  A central point for the gentry of New Orleans to gather for their dealings, the infamous area of New Orleans was built on the only true high ground of the area.  Carved quite literally into the river bend the seat of power for this area was built with loving hands and built to last over the centuries.  People flocked to this area each year not for business, but certainly for pleasure.  As once the rich descended on the city to experience their balls and parties, so now did the peasantry of the world come to participate in debauchery unwitnessed elsewhere in the country.  Men and women danced uninhibited in the streets, their alcohol flowing from lips and through blood.  An ancient celebration before the great fast of Jesus Christ.  There was little to compare the great revelry to except a riot.<br/><br/>This year the party had come early.  As Lent shifted, so does Mardi Gras.  Music blared from multiple genres.  Jazz blended into hip-hop and then into rock and finally back to the lonely street musician peddling their private parties along the cobblestone streets.  Tourists found themselves swept up in the frenzy while more native predators prowled the crowds for their victims.  For where the spirits of human emotion flared to life the spirits of human malice were not far behind.  A small parade wound its way through narrow streets built not for cars but for horse drawn carriages.  People danced, women showed flesh for beads and the liquor flowed as rain water from the sky.  For a time people allowed their guard to slip and their inhibitions to falter, a last dance before the fast.  A last glimpse into the power of youth before the weight of life came crashing down.<br/><br/>At one time the White Council would be out on patrol tonight.  Human frenzy was too much for some to handle, too much temptation for the uninitiated to resist.  Wardens would watch for fledgling wizards and sorcerers to be caught up in the lust, for supernatural predators to twist the minds and hearts of the others.  There was also a grander purpose in that such emotion provided a potent source for magical power, a fountain of energy to bend and shape for nefarious ways.  Once before such a thing had been done and the Council had decided never again.  Yet there was no White Council now inside the city limits, no true presence to speak of within the state lines.  New Orleans was ripe for the plucking as the culmination of the frenzy drew closer and closer.  January was just coming to a close and already the pains of the party were in full swing.<br/><br/>Sylvan Leblanc, one of the last surviving wizards of this city, found himself some sanctuary from the noise.  A bit of respite from the hectic music and spinning bodies was found in his household, set apart from the tourist section of the Quarter proper.  Still he could hear the chorus of drink from a few blocks down along with a small trumpet playing its lonely tune outside.  Musicians often walked along his street, warming up their instruments before a performance.  Yet the banging he now heard was not from a drum or makeshift instrument, but rather from a tool of violence.  A gunshot rang out into the air, followed closely by another.  Punctuated explosions of powder and metal cracked like quick thunder loud enough to intrude on the solace of his home this night of dark revelry.<br/>