“Dar, could you please use your name in westerleygates to send for a tailor?” My strange request caught the peddler off-guard.

“You mean a seamstress?” asked Dar.

“No, I mean a tailor,” I struggled but after seeing all those puzzling looks directed in my direction, I inhaled deeply before continuing, “I don't know if she is the same person, but if I am going to meet her again, I better make my best impression.”

“I will see to it Madame,” replied Dar as he scurried away.

*****

True to his words, Dar did send a tailor. The tailor, a lean man with a slightly receding hairline, accompanied by a youth, probably his son or an apprentice, visited the following day. My suspicion that Dar might have warned the tailor proved true when the man kept the conversation to a minimum. A trait that did not correspond well with one who caters to the tastes of his clients.

The tailor was diligent and quickly completed his measurement and with a promise of returning in five days time for a refitting, took his leave. I expected to ruminate in relative silence but a knock on the door announced the intrusion to my solitude.

Sir Theodore entered accompanied by Arlene and Vitalia. Obviously, the discussion needed relative privacy for them to seek this time rather than the previous meeting.

Sir Theodore, looked over his shoulders, his old eyes darted like swallows between Vitalia and Arlene.

“Lady Rylonvirah, regarding the plan,” he squirmed uneasily, failing to reel in his discomfort,” it is a sound plan, but only if you oversee it personally.”

He shrunk involuntarily at my hard squint and turned towards Arlene for support. So that is what this is all about.

“I voice his sentiments,” added Vitalia, “I think there is much at play for you to be away.”

“You cannot undertake such a long journey in your condition,” chimed in Arlene, “better recuperate fully.”

Their words and their arguments sounded sincere and made me reconsider my decision. I am needed with The Aberrant Irregulars at this time. They started to grow, my presence is needed. With new allies and members, my guidance is expected with every step. Dar, the hapless peddler who has been roped into my plans unwillingly, would need my advice. Savvas and Celerim need me, leading an army. Lady Jessbeth waits wide-eyed, for a miraculous liberation from the invisible chains that bound her to a gilded cage.

Instead, ignoring these, to chase after Lyria seemed almost self-centred. No, it is indeed a selfish act.

But, it has always been that way. There was always someplace where I am needed. My presence was necessary to prevent an escalation of events. From the tension between the duergar and the deep gnomes, the council and the surface holds, there was always something that demanded my personal intervention. The long table of my office, curved inwards to the weight of the reports that demanded immediate action.

When was it that I was free from the shackles of the demands of responsibility? Never.

There was always one mad tyrant after another, conjuring their fiendish plan, to be stopped. One more deal to be outwitted. Always someone caught deep in a web of deceit, wishing to be rescued. Each time, one more engagement before I gave my all to Lyria, I promised myself. And each time, I failed.

I cannot let that happen again. I have tried that in the past and failed. I will not fail Lyria again.

“No,” None of them was taken back by my refusal, almost as if they expected it, “There is always someplace where I am needed. I thought I could postpone and before I realised, my failures compounded, piled and became my devastation. I lost track of what was important to me. This time, I will delegate. I will not repeat my mistakes.”

“Then I will complete the task with Silvaniel and meet up with your retinue,” Vitalia confounded me with her response for I never thought that the fae would relish her stance.

“Young Valourous one, please prepare a carriage for the Magistra,” she instructed, “I doubt her remended hips would survive a long journey on horseback.”

Having seen my resolute stance, Sir Theodore, resigned to comment any further and departed wishing me a good recovery and a stroke of fair luck.

*****

Rodo and Maapu paid their visit during the following day, bringing a huge cured ham. It was their idea of a convalescing gift.

“You know Rodo, in this situation, most people would bring flowers,” I said playfully.

“Commander, I don't think you will reciprocate if I gave your flowers,” Rodo bared his canines as he played along,

We both chuckled, even Maapu oblivious as he was, joined. Rodo eagerly exchanges stories on the road, finding himself strangely comfortable in his present role. Maapu as expected swore to spill a hundred Mind Flayer blood, even though he had no idea what a Mind Flayer is. Rodo remarked that hundred was the highest denomination that Maapu could count and if he was capable of, he would have sworn for a thousand. In the end, we both agreed that the kill count of Maapu was not dictated by his muscle but rather by his brains.

When the time came for Rodo and Maapu to retire, Rodo placed The Sentinel on the bed, beside me.

“A sorceress asked me to make sure that it reached you,” explained Rodo.

“A sorceress?” I asked.

“A sorceress with a child,” answered the man, “a gnome child, so may or may not be hers.”

Syrune.

My words inflicted wounds deeper on the scholar, far deeper than my own physical ones.

“Are you certain that it is a sorceress?” I questioned.

“I am sure that she is one of those type, high society sorceress. Not the type who will tell you the weather next week or when you will bear a child. Long fancy robes and slender fingers. Probably never held anything apart from a quill,” explained the oblivious Rodo who missed the key essence to my question.

“Nevermind then,” I waved off.

“If you ask me, she seemed troubled,” Rodo voluntarily divulged his opinion, “her face was swollen from crying and cut marks on her arms, almost as if she wanted to escape her body.”

“Those might have been the shrapnel from the explosion,” I offered.

Rodo vehemently shook his head in rejection, “I am a werewolf. I know how it feels to be in a different skin.”

No further communication was needed between us. Rodo had said enough for me to ruminate over a whole night.

As Rodo turned to exit the room, I called out, “Rodo, I must confess, for a brief period I was afraid that you would turn out to be one of those brutes, like a man with a hammer who sees every problem as a nail. But I am glad you are far more insightful. Thank you for leading the company in my absence.”

“You are still not going to get any flowers from me,” said Rodo with a grimace as he deftly shut the door.

*****

A few days later, the tailor approached. A light olive green shirt and a pastel swallowtail suit with darker purple embroidery and silver cufflinks adorned the outfit. An ebony black breeches complimented the shirt and the suit.

Under usual circumstances, I would have attempted a refit, but in my convalescing state, the option was between seeking assistance from the perpetually frowning druidess and trusting the keen decision on the tailor. I decided that the latter was the easier of the two evils.

Before the tailor left, he added a fine silken cravat and another brooch with an embedded amber stone. The stone drank in the radiant rays of the sun and its lambent surface flickered brilliantly. Definitely not a low-quality stone.

“If I were to understand,” said the tailor with patience, “you are about to seek hand. Dar commissioned it as his gift.”

Dar. He might be a simple peddler but he knows decorum. All I could do was only smile in return.

*****

After being confined to my room for fifteen days, the smell of outside air refreshed my lungs. I took in deep breaths, enjoying the various smells that wafted with the breeze. I still held a crutch much to the chagrin of Maapu, Theko and Taltil, but the druidess gaunt face and her sharp eyes followed my movements.

“You are walking, but not fully healed,” She repeated again, a phrase that she used countless times since the dawn broke, “It will do you well to keep that in mind.”

The only silver lining was that she would soon depart. I would soon be tucked inside a fancy carriage. Arlene poured cold water over my tiny ember of joy that I held. Where I expected a two sturdy horse-drawn elegant carriage, stood Mr Snout and Mrs Bellyrumble. Behind them stood a wide farm utility cart, filled with hay. A roughly strewn chamois leather, stretched over poles mounted on the sides of the cart, provided a modicum of protection from the elements.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Arlene,” my voice stopped halfway through, “is that the supply wagon?”

“Since someone decided to gift a company to a certain peddler, our dwindling funds diminished even further,” She bore a wide grin as if she had been planning for this very moment a long time, “so this is your carriage.”

She did have a valid point, but my inner voice urged that this was probably her Mentor’s idea.

“Still a modest one would have been within your reach?” I revealed my disappointment.

“Now stop complaining and get in,” replied Arlene dismissing my concern, “I promised Farmer Devon to return his cart with two moons.”

“This is a borrowed cart?” I did not bother concealing my chagrin.

“That’s right,” Arlene tapped her foot on the ground in an attempt to get rid of dried mud from her boots, “A mutual exchange, cart for the goblins to catch rats in his field.”

“The Aberrant Irregulars are sustaining on field rats?” I stammered with her revelation.

“That is what happens when management invests in non-essential projects,” retorted Arlene.

Vitalia has definitely imparted her passive-aggressive behaviour on Arlene. Another problem for another time.

Shortly, resting on the hay-filled cart, I watched the small hamlet grow smaller and smaller till it became a speck of dust on the horizon.

*****

As the day wore on and the dusk greeted us and it too promptly left, paving the way for the starry night. Arlene, who rode Mr Snout ahead, selected a suitable camping place for the night. A lively fire danced in the centre of the camp. Soon a few other lonely souls, mostly small local farmers on their way back, joined. Huddling to us, motivated by the age-old concept of safety in numbers.

It was Maapu, who surprised me the most by playing a lively tune on a fiddle.

“He has taken a new hobby,” commented Arlene who could not stop her feet from tapping to the tune.

Maapu’s tune refreshed the tired folks and soon they flocked to the goblin. Some abandoned their preconceived notion about his ancestry and started requesting favourite melodies. Some he played, others he declined.

When it was time to sleep, Taltil crept up to me and slowly stroked my unkempt hair with utmost gentleness. From her gait, even the sightless would have noticed, she needed something.

“Grand Mistress,” her voice low to almost a whisper, “You go to take your mate?”

“Yes,” I chuckled. So that was her curiosity.

“How many mates?” She asked innocently.

Her question bewildered me for a moment before I realised that the culture she grew in revolved around fecundity.

“No, she is my only love,” I proudly declared.

“Many mates, many babies,” uttered Taltil.

The thought of multiple Delyn scared me.

“My mate is a woman,” I slowly spelt each word for her, “like me.”

“Like Dark Mistress,” Her beady eyes widened further in curiosity.

“No, she is not a drow,” Even though Taltil obviously missed the point, a candid smile still graced my face and brought forth images of Lyria in my head.

“Strong?” asked Taltil, “Stronger than her.”

“Yes, she is definitely stronger than Arlene,” Again, her bulging thews and sculpted abs flashed before my mind’s eye.

“Stronger than Grand Mistress?” asked the inquisitive goblin. She had the same look as Delyn when on occasions, I managed to read a bedtime story to her when she was little. Obviously, the Taltil was not immune to gossiping.

“Yes, she is,” Memory of the events of our first meeting still played in my head. Her luscious lips frothing in anger, her powerful arms taking grab of my hair as she dragged me. My infuriating rage at her behaviour, a perceived affront to my noble heritage.

I scoffed at the antics of my younger self.

The night passed as I spoke more of Lyria and soon we drifted as sleep embraced the small campsite.

*****

During the next few days, Lyria occupied my thoughts. I wondered how she would look now?

Perhaps, age caught up to her and she gained around the hips?

Would she have creases around the corner of her lips? or crows feet at the edge of her eyes?

From the conversation with Lady Stormaire, I am certain that she is still single. From what I gathered from Celerim, I know that the Justiciar, even though in his prime, is still no match for her in endurance and strength.

On the occasional moment, when the chill winds grew bold, my thought ran a tiny bit rambunctious. Her callous arms wrapped around my waist, sharing warmth and her warm sweaty breath caressing my neck. Or was it, my hands pinning her, slowly stroking the back of her ears, whispering in hushed tones.

Big spoon or small spoon, I decided, it does not matter. They are both exciting in equal measure.

*****

Arlene decided to break the journey after a few days. The location she selected was full of vibrant life. Away from the well-trodden trail, verdant green sprung from the ground in abundance. Even the small woodland creatures roamed fearlessly, considering us as neither invaders nor as a threat. I was woken by a scurry of squirrels, who decided that their curiosity was every bit valid as my sleep. Much to Maapu’s chagrin, Arlene warned him to let the animals roam. Even the thundertusks seemed docile. There is definitely a fae enclave in the vicinity.

Knowing that there was no further necessity for me to ask, the half-elf ranger was waiting for her Mentor.

As the day passed, with nothing apart from enjoying the occasional entertainment provided by the small furry creatures, I felt that it was time to let Arlene know.

“I ran into Merrick again,” At my words, she considered me for an agonising moment, before she shrugged, “He has gained the trust of Zelaphiel and is now leading a unit of Paladins. But there is grave news. Merowyn is with him.”

“Is that why you brought that blade with you?” she pointed towards The Sentinel, “I wondered why you would bring a weapon to a betrothal.”

She grew silent and her arms stiffened as she gradually stroked her trusty longbow, as if its proximity meant safety.

“Merowyn does not know that you are with The Aberrant Irregulars, so your secret is safe,” I assured her.

“Then how did you find out?” Her gleaming eyes fixated on me with a cruel cynicism.

“After the breach in Asterlund, we ran into a few Viridian Dawn Rangers,” I explained with uncertainty.

How much does Arlene need to know?

At the mention of Viridian Dawn Rangers, she sighed as if their name bored her to death.

For a long-enduring moment, there was the temptation to mask the involvement of Karlienne. Eventually, I discarded the idea and made the conscious choice to come clean.

“There was also Karlienne,” I said.

A veil suddenly fell over Arlene’s face and her expression masked, became unreadable.

“The family of her elven parent robbed her of her inheritance. Must be hard on a small girl,” I said with sheer sympathy, “I procured the transaction ledger from the abandoned bank. Hopefully, she survived and get back her rightful from her elven family.”

“How gullible can you be, Virah,” The birds and the small woodlands creatures who roamed undisturbed, scattered at her scream, “She fed you a steaming pile of dung and you swallowed it. None of our parents was elves.”

“What?” I wanted to ask more but my tongue refused to move. Even the three goblins scurried away from the raging half-elf.

“Why does everyone stereotype me?” She shouted at no one in particular, “When they see a half-elf, people presume one or the other. Either my mother was a promiscuous elven woman who needed the rough hands of a man to be satisfied or my father sought a novelty experience. Worse, I am a product of rape.”

She unsheathed her hunting knife and stabbed the soft ground, repeatedly. Eventually, she switched her grip and used it as a shovel, furiously digging away dirt. Even Theko, who was the most jovial of the group, stood a distance, cowering in fear.

“Inheritance,” she scoffed and mechanically pushed more dirt with her knife.

She discarded digging and started shaving the ends of a stick that she grabbed. It was the outlet for her rage.

“in a bank,” she scoffed again, “our father would have never willingly set foot inside a bank, maybe to burn it for the symbol of commercial oppression.”

At least, now I know where she got her political opinions from.

“And whatever my mother could save for us, she robbed me of it,” said Arlene with an agonising voice.

“You are both half-elves?” I slowly asked the question.

“I come from a line of half-elves,” Her anger slowly subsided, “My mother came from a long line of half-elves. Karlienne is my twin sister. I think that was part of the reason why Elphene took us in.”

I could now understand Elphene’s motivation, the birth of twins is an extremely rare moment for any elf.

Arlene refused to engage with any of us. The night came and passed through our silent camp, till the following morning, when Vitalia joined us.

*****

The journey picked pace, aided by the presence of the Fae and soon, the lush vegetation gave way to rocky terrain with arid days and cold nights and a simple misstep meant falling into deep ravines. The fellow travellers we met on the road were mostly humans or orcs. The initial hostility of the orcs immediately refined itself to joyous awe upon the sight of the thundertusks. Some willingly shared their campfire, while others their food and drinks. Only Maapu boisterously took on the offer of orcish alcohol, for which he grumbled for the next three days.

Twice, we refused the hospitality of farmers and instead choose to push till Fort Halcyon was in view. Arlene then called for a camp to retire. With Fort Halcyon in view, Halcyon Hollow was only a day’s ride and we decide to ride into Halcyon Hollow, the following day.

*****

Halcyon Hollow, fashioned after a potpourri of Human and orcish culture, was just a bunch of sturdy buildings made of stone, huddled together to form a town. It took us little effort to find the location of Lyria’s forge, for Halcyon Hollow was a small community. I left Arlene with explicit instructions to find an inn or a tavern while I rushed towards her forge. I was certain that my instructions were ignored, for now, all had their interest piqued.

Clad in my new outfit, I was certain that I made myself presentable before Lyria. Ignoring my injuries and with the excitement nulling my pain, I rushed towards her forge.

Even at a distance, Lyria stood beside the forge, clad in a linen shirt that barely managed to conceal her bulging muscles. Thick smoke billowed from the chimney as she diligently worked the undulating bellows. Lyria was slowly drenched in sweat as more heat radiated from the forge, yet she ignored the urge to wipe the sweat and continued working.

A huge mangy mutt barked, breaking Lyria out of her concentration. She ignored it once, but as the barking persisted, she grabbed a bowl and took a bite of its content. Her propensity to eat at the forge did not change over the years.

The mutt looked at Lyria expectantly. Lyria dug once more into her bowl, before throwing a morsel to the mutt.

Her eyes scanned the horizon before returning back to her work. I quickly duck behind a rocky outcrop.

“Lyria, my eternal love, my dry lips yearns for your passionate caress,” I discarded the thought as too dramatic.

“My love, I have come for you,” I discarded the thought again, too cheesy.

“Lyria, the centuries have not diminished your beauty,” I discarded the thought again. It is not good to start by pointing out that we have both grown old.

Hidden, as my mind churned one plan after another on how I to introduce myself, Lyria took the choice from my hands.

Her dark velvet voice flowed through, “Rils, are you going to come out? or will you continue playing the creepy stalker?”

Her voice, her words, held power. It drained my willpower and left something else instead. A craving.

I involuntarily stood up and approached her.

Despite the rugged surrounding and the flames from the forge, even clad in her soot-covered linen shirt, she stood out, like a lone desert flower. Her beauty untarnished by her background, she presented a figure regal and bedazzling.

Her arms slid down, grabbed a wide pitcher and poured the clear contents into a cup, which she thrust into my trembling sweaty hands. A small hint of warmth of contact spread as our fingers briefly met.

“Drink,” I drank the water even though I was not thirsty, “and leave.”

I moved forward, reducing the distance between us. Despite the smoke, the smell of smelting iron, the smell of Lyria dominated the forge.

Lyria stood unnerved by the action, with her arms crossed against her chest.

"So that is how you want to play." I grinned.

I looked deep into her sensual eyes, resisting the urge to fall into them.

With a deep commanding tone, I said, “No.”

I held the smirk, the one that always worked on her.

“I have travelled far and you owe me an explanation and I shall neither leave nor be denied.”

At my words, Lyria’s defences dropped. She intimately rushed towards me...........swinging her fist.

As I hit the ground, Maapu and Theko rushed towards Lyria brandishing weapons and the blackness took over.