Babenor trudged coughing through the smoke. The chaos in the air dissipated with the storm of magic, making way for a more social tension.

"Count my days boy," he sputtered. "I don't know how many times I need to tell you."

He grabbed the boy by the collar and shoved him in the direction of their home. "Go on, or you won't be getting no supper."

"But uncle…" the boy started to plead, quickly silencing himself at the sight of the Kir raising one finger. Cardic hung his head quietly, and promptly left the camp with the hurried pace of a child afraid of further scolding. The Kir turned his attention to Murphy. The expected reaction went without realisation, when Murphy saw an apologetic expression in place of anger.

"That boy will make the years fall from my tired bones," he sighed. "I thank you wizard, for keeping your hat. I know that plenty wouldn't have waited for him to stop."

"There's power in that little boy, that's for true," Murphy said, sighing in relief.

The Kir glanced obviously at Murphy’s hand gripping Uundah tightly, his knuckles white from strain. Noticing the Kir's unease, he rested the staff against Oats cart, and approached the village leader empty handed.

"He's no danger, I swear it. I'll see to it that he keeps out of the way, I'll swear that too." The Kir started into a panicked rant, but was silenced by a hand resting gently on his shoulder. The men met eyes, quelling the worry in the weathered chief's heart.

"Settle your doubts, friend," Murphy said softly. "I understand the spot that boy is in better than you might think."

The Kir traced his eyes around the camp silently, being assured by a nod from Oats, who had just come out from behind the tree. His face lit with recognition once he understood what Murphy was telling him.

"Oh…" he said simply. He let out a breath of relief, and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. "I don't believe we've had the opportunity," he said, holding his hand out to shake Murphy’s. The Warlock responded in kind, properly introducing himself and the others. Babenor raised an eyebrow upon his introduction to Murphy’s staff, though the Kir seemed to have enough tact to avoid questioning it.

"How long has he been able to do that?" Murphy asked, still wrapped by the events of the last five minutes.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Long as I've had him. Bit longer too, his pa was telling me the stories early. We try to keep him from doing things such as what he did just now. Still keeps us all on our toes though."

"And your whole town knows of his nature?" Murphy asked curiously.

"Hard to keep a secret like that down," Babenor laughed. "Warlocks aren't welcome too many places I'm told." He eyed Murphy curiously, clearly trying to gain an answer to a question unasked.

Murphy considered his response carefully. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to discuss his nature. That kind of conversation had the potential to go poorly.

"Not many places, no," he said calmly. "Nice to hear you folk don't mind though." He was making a brave assumption, asking a silent question of his own.

"Took some convincing, there's no doubt in that. I just thank the Swordsman for kind hearted neighbours," Babenor responded, fingering the silver sword pendant around his neck. "I'm not surprised you keep it secret though, I've heard all manner of stories about the world out there. I'll be happy right here in my home thank you very much." He looked to the ground beside them, his growing merriness replaced by a face of sorrow. "At least, I hope I can stay here."

Murphy watched him awkwardly, at a loss for how to console a mourning chief. "Why don't you tell me a little about your wyvern then," he eventually said. "I'd like for us to help with your wishes."

The Kir took in a deep breath, shivering out the tension. "Damn nasty bugger. Calls himself the King of Storm. The names enough to tell you what he can do, and he makes sure we know it."

Murphy considered that. If thunder and lightning were the oppressor of the village, they surely wouldn't need the Tavern. He couldn't help but feel a hint of excitement at the prospect of a wyvern's storm. If the childhood stories were anything to go by, it must be a magic so wondrous that he had no choice but to attempt its audience. He had an endless amount of questions, but the suffocated and smarter part of his mind caught his tongue before he showed his ignorance.

"Most wyverns I've known of would be just as quick to gobble a town as fly by it. How is it you're here long enough to send for us? That's the part of this that has me wondering," he asked, raising a curious eyebrow at the Kir.

The kir laughed cynically, shaking his head. "Might be that this is no ordinary wyvern. Might be that this beast is particularly twisted. I couldn't tell you to be honest. I just know we're running out of livestock, and I don't think he'll leave off hungry after that. Filthy rot ate my brother for telling him as much. Silly bastard went and left me with the job, rest his bones."

That revelation was enough to disappoint the imaginative Warlock. He was hoping the town harboured some fantastic secret that was helping to ward off the monster from above. In reality it seemed that the wyvern was no different to a mobster or a bandit, using power as a tool for greed rather than glory. If the monster was tearing through towns and destroying everything in site, he might be able to summon some respect for the beast. To hear of the wasted potential irked him, it was a pathetic story he thought.

"Might be that your beast is all roar and no brawl," he scoffed, smiling at the Kir.

"I hope for all our sake you're right," Babenor replied. He glanced towards his home, likely making sure his mischievous nephew wasn't hanging around. "I should be getting back now I think," he said somberly. "Kira will have my hide if I'm out late again. Too much drink and jolly not enough thinking of folly." He spoke the latter of his sentence in the mocking tone of his wife. "Come by the pub tomorrow. I'd like to hear some of your stories, and I'm sure ol' Dalley would like the chance to share a few of his own to fresh ears." He shook Murphy’s hand again, and gave the still silent Oats a polite nod before turning to leave.

They watched him disappear into the darkness, leaving Murphy with new questions and resolved curiosities.