The early morning sun cast long shadows across the newly acquired creek parcel, where the rhythmic clang of hammers and the shouts of workmen already filled the air. Lord Byron stood on a slight rise, his booted feet planted firmly on the damp earth, surveying the burgeoning foundations of what was to be a formidable new Tarvan – The Golden Stag, he'd decided to call it, a defiant nod to his plan as a decoy for transporting illegal procurements. He wore practical, dark riding clothes, but his aristocratic bearing was undiminished as he issued instructions to the head stonemason.
"The east wing foundations, Mister Gibbs," Byron was saying, his voice crisp and authoritative as he pointed with a riding crop towards a section of newly laid stone, "I want them extended by another ten feet. The plans have been revised. And ensure the granite quoins are perfectly aligned. I will tolerate no sloppiness on this project."
