Asterlund was as isolated as any isolated city could get. Located neither at any strategic point nor closer to any abundant natural resources, the settlement could hardly be called a city. A motley collection of hamlets huddled together for protection is what it is. Asterlund sustained a small population, larger than Merranvale but dwarfed in comparison to Westerleygates. The local regional lord, a baron governed the region for generations through hereditary since the fall of Verdant Hegemony. Their claim to the isolated region unchallenged throughout the centuries.

The air carried a rustic smell. No huge walls offered protection for Asterlund. Buildings were rarely multi-storeyed. A few central crisscrossing roads were pavemented.

Set apart from the rest of the city but still closer to being considered a part of the city, was the festival grounds. Colourful banners and temporary tents littered around, those important enough displayed heraldry signs while the other lesser ones occupied the grounds inconspicuously. A merry band of minstrels played their catchy tune to the passerby, promised by the prospect of a few more coins clinking in their pouch. The spicy smell of steaks and stew from vendor stalls permeated the grounds. Children ran around chasing imaginary fiends and claiming glory from imaginary quests, rescuing princesses, finding lost treasures and contributing to the general ambient discord.

“Aunt Rillie,” pierced the sound through the crowd. My head turned involuntarily in the direction of the sound.

Savvas the younger strode with exuberant spirit and a wide surprise on his mischievous face.

“Savvas, fancy seeing you here?” I greeted my nephew with a hug and an innocent peck on his cheek.

“I could see the same. Never thought I would meet you so soon,” replied Savvas, a quick mask of concealment settled on face hiding his annoyance “ and as I see, you keep impeccable company, Aunt Rillie. Tell me, what should I do to convince your alluring companion to share a drink with me?”

Syrune remained motionless, seemingly impenetrable to the seductive attempts of Savvas.

“Word of warning, you should stop toying with anyone who catches your fancy,” A hint of caution spilt with my words, aimed at Savvas but meant for Syrune.

“I was hoping to gather some young talent for my company. What about you?” I questioned.

“As I said, I was moving north and Asterlund just lies on my path,” nonchalantly answered Savvas.

“I will try to scout some talents,” excused Therrin.

“If you are looking for a company to share drinks with you, your old aunt is coincidentally looking to wet her throat,” I volunteered.

The last time we met, Savvas the younger managed to divert the attention to my enquires about his current cause. Now, my nephew is clearly not appalled by running into me. Whatever he is up to, I am an unwanted presence to his plans. The revelation of the past few days, the betrayal of Vangere and the cold-heartedness of Lyria twisted a sharp dagger of mistrust through me. I need to exercise caution, even if it's Savvas the younger. Even though he is my nephew, he is not his father.

Savvas, as ever, procured a closed cubicle for his own personal retinue. The temporary wooden box sported polished wooden board with high-backed chairs covered with velvet and crimson pillows for comfort which stood as a stark contrast to the bucolic nature of the temporary arena. The box boasted ostentation while still offering a clear wide view of the happenings as well as a certain measure of privacy, which in turn begged the question, who was Savvas playing a host to?

While wine was ordered to be delivered to the box, Syrune grew restless.

“My Lord, I thank you for your hospitality but with your permission, I have a promise to keep,” uttered Syrune with hesitation.

“An acquaintance you say,” Savvas exaggerated his curiosity, “and a promise to keep?”

“Yes, a very old acquaintance who helps me casually,” explained an oblivious Syrune.

“Then I shall not hold you anymore but you are relieved only under an oath to share a drink with me,” declared Savvas.

“I will gladly take your offer,” promised Syrune.

“Please take Colby with you. Our conversation is not for his ears,” I instructed the mage as I leaned back on the high-backed chair.

The mage’s eyes narrowed. The scholar bit the lower lips and stiffened as a frown appeared.

“Please,” I pleaded.

Darting around the confines of the noble’s cubicle, freedom was a very appealing option for the restless Colby. A choice that he willingly made as he hopped towards Syrune ending the debate.

As the sounds from the combined receding steps of Syrune and Colby died out, Savvas turned towards me.

“An acquaintance,“ scoffed my nephew. His lips extended revealing perfectly aligned teeth in a sign of mockery.

“I would urge you to keep away from the mage,” I cautioned again.

“Dangerous or challenging,” A feral grin spread over his face.

“Neither, just very vulnerable,” My voice dropped to a lower whisper, accentuating my plea.

“Recruiting here, is it?” Savvas leaned back and crossed his arms in a sign of disbelief.

“Since you seemed well-versed and comfortably settled here. Tell me about the crowd-pleasers here,” We both leaned back and considered each other for a moment. Our cynicism mirrored each other and duelled in the confined space between us.

“Well, the winner of the previous years and the crowd's most favourite is definitely Lord Korvanor’s men. But I heard that his heir apparent got his head lopped,” a wicked grin spread over Savvas’s face, “So that situation is unclear.”

I hoped that Merrick did not set aside his desire for revenge to participate. Merrick is the last person I would like to challenge.

“There is definitely the Stormaires. Though they rarely participate. If one does leap into the ring, they are to definitely command the cheers of the local population,” Savvas eyes involuntarily darted towards the raised dais and let his eyes wander leisurely through the ornamented chairs with embedded gems. A seat, definitely out of place in Asterlund.

“Didn’t realise the duke was invited?” I controlled my surprise.

“The duke,” scoffed Savvas, “he would not bother with a small backwater place. That seat is for Archon-Lady Stormaire.”

I stiffened myself at the mention of Lady Stormaire. My fingers dug into the engravings of the armrest tightly till the sharp contours pierced into my palms.

“I would say the Stormaires command more respect than the Archdukes in these parts. When the stegan plague ravaged, Asterlund was isolated. Only the Stormaires brought them relief. Thanks to their huge flying beasts,” Savvas leaned forward as his eyes bore into my soul, “Since then the family has been hailed as heroes. The local lord can afford to incur the wrath of the duke but will not survive offending the Stormaires. That is the amount of support they garnered with the locals.”

Therrin accompanied by an unknown stranger interrupted our conversation. Painting my face with a mask of calmness, yoking my ire at being caught off-guard, I diverted my attention. Therrin was as consummate as a rogue could get and it bore me no surprise that the halfling had subdued his footsteps. But the man in the company of Therrin possess silent steps, almost glided through the air instead of walking.

“Lady Rylonvirah,” excused the halfling, “please allow me to introduce Zaehran. I made his acquaintance and upon hearing about your mercenary adventures, he insisted on meeting you,” An intonation placed upon the use of his word ‘insisted’.

My senses were already alerted to the uncanny approach of Zaehran but with Therrin’s words, the newcomer commanded all my attention.

My years of accumulated experience awoke from its slumber and screamed at the presence of the newcomer, urging to exercise caution. Zaehran himself was non-descriptive, the sort that would not register on anyone perception. A being never thought of twice. A presence forgotten as soon as he left the field of view. His entire attire with a veil covering his face, revealed only bright elongated eyes where dwelt a sea of tranquillity. Vivid greenish-yellow exposed skin, the sign of his non-human and non-elven nature of the race. A drab rustic robe of burnt orange shirt flapped around loosely about his body, hiding a well-toned muscular body crafted through stringent and rigorous training. His breeches, begrimed through long arduous journey, bereft of its original colour, still hung clung to his waist, shackled by a grey cord. Rather than shoes and gloves, thickly wrapped bandages obscured his feet and arms. An ingeniously wrapped turban, oversized in dimension to the rest of his form sat snuggly on top, burying his head in an exotic shroud.

“I bear no ill-intent,” started Zaehran, his voice flowing like a wave of melancholy, “Simply that I believe our paths may have crossed or it might cross.”

There was no shimmering on his thin gossamer veil as he spoke. No air currents or breath disturbed.

“Rylonvirah, at your service. Master Zaehran,” I stood to see him eye to eye.

“Please, just Zaehran. I am but a humble ascetic. A mere traveller in the world, such titles only serve to bound me,” An aura of candour descended with his declaration. Despite Zaehran gestures of openness, heavy air of compulsion hanged around him.

“So how may I be of assistance?” I mustered my strength to utter.

“Perhaps, you might have heard of some bizarre happenings in your journeys? I am on a quest to find our lost. Neither wealth nor debt of gratitude could I offer, but be assured the fortune flocks to every good deed.”

I resisted the urge to enquire about his race. Zaehran has no material wealth to speak and is not hasty enough to declare a debt of lifetime for assistance. But the most surprising fact is that I could feel no contortion of truth in his words. Almost as if every word he uttered, he meant them.

“I wish I could assist but if you hear my tale, it is as macabre as it could get. I know not what you seek,” I answered as candidly as possible.

“The fault is mine,” acknowledged Zaehran with a gesture of crossing arms across his chest. I struggled with my memory to recollect his race from the gesture.

Zaehran continued, “Some of my people set in search of their creed. An ancient enemy stirred and we answered. My path is not theirs but I still seek our lost.”

“To stop them?” I asked.

“That is not my intention,” A smooth breeze caressed his loose robes.

“Then to assist them?” I persisted in my curiosity.

“No,” denied Zaehran.

After a long enduring moment, his alien eyes bore through the depth of my soul, he finally spoke again, “A word of advice to the wisest, for even the wisest among the rest, would need counsel. Not everything could be comprehended on the basis of cause and effect or truth and falsehood. My creed is improvement. Not for the self.”

At the distance, Syrune approached a young girl with a vague resemblance to Arlene. Another half-elf. While Arlene carried herself with a sense of righteousness, the high-elf in Syrune’s company radiated a hungry predatory aura. One that knows that its position is not on the top of the apex.

My momentary lapse in concentration was all the sign that the ascetic needed.

“I will not avail your time any further,” uttered Zaehran, “But I have a feeling that our paths will definitely cross”

Relieving myself of the company of Zaehran and Therrin, I set myself on the path towards Syrune and would have caught up with Syrune, if were it not for Celerim with his proud stride in his pristine Justiciar uniform accompanied by a loud ovation from the crowd captured my attention.