The dining room of the Golden Falcon buzzed with activity as Roland took his seat in the far corner, astutely aware of how out of place he was sitting at a table for four all by himself. At least nobody in the establishment seemed to care. All too focused on the sumptuous foods and expensive liqueurs before them, or otherwise talking loudly to their compatriots, the tone of competing voices drowning out the organ playing in the corner.

“Roland! You're here!” the warm shout of a middle-aged server shook the witch-hunter from his silent observation.

“Jorr!” he answered the call with what he hoped was enough reciprocity, standing from his seat to shake the man's hand, only to be pulled into a tight bear-hug, the strange reunion ignored and overlooked amid the clamor.

He could almost swear his bones were breaking, the wind driven out of him as the bear of a man held him tight for what seemed to be the longest seconds of Roland's life.

“I see you dressed for the occasion,” the server said with a smile as he let Roland go, the man doing his best to hide the sharp intake of air into his lungs.

“My thanks,” he nodded, his own lips twitching upward inadvertently, the gesture feeling candid and natural in a way it rarely did for the witch-hunter.

Almost unconsciously, his fingers twitched to the soft felt coat and fine linen shirt, tweaking and adjusting the brass buttons as he adjusted the clothing ever so slightly. Clean and presentable, it was a feeling he had not felt in a while.

“Of course. Of course, Clara would have it no other way,” the man said, setting down a menu and stepping back for Roland to retake his seat, “We're glad to see you alive. All of us.”

“Thanks, I'm glad to see you are all doing so well. How's the hand?” he indicated the server's open palm, and the two fingers missing where a stray piece of shrapnel had struck him at Drant.

“Oh splendid, splendid,” the server chuckled and wiggled the small stumps in mockery, “But enough, we can reminisce later when I'm not working. Food, and wine. What will you have?”

“Clara said something about partridge?” Roland asked uncertainly.

“Absolutely, a house specialty. I'll make sure it's brought out. And the wine? We still have Elessan from 1230. They say it's the best they've had!”

“Why not, I'll try it,” Roland chuckled softly, glancing briefly at the unused menu as the burly server rushed off to tend to another table, leaving him to his rumination.

At least it seemed the nightlife of the city had somewhat returned to normal. The last time the place had been damn near a tomb with how little life there was. The merchants seemed to be back in force, as did some of the town's more refined citizenry. Certainly, the Golden Falcon had always been a high-class establishment, yet if anything, it seemed all the more so with its current patronage.

Before Roland could even begin to observe the crowd in more detail, Jorr was back. The clatter of the tray and wine-cup disturbed the witch-hunter, the smell of roast partridge mingling intricately with the aroma of vegetables atop the plate, the sizable portion surrounded by a liberal amount of gravy. This- This was a meal he could appreciate. Nodding his thanks to the server, he smiled in anticipation, taking a sip of the wine with exaggerated care as he considered where to start. Best to try the vegetables, he would be in no mood for them after he'd sampled the bird, of that he was sure.

Truthfully, the entire meal was excellent. He had to wonder if it was still old man Friedrich in the kitchen, or if somebody else had replaced him by now. Scarcely had he begun when the plate was half-empty, both vegetables and meat disappearing at a pace that must have been most impolite for such a refined establishment.

Then, out of nowhere, the din stopped. It took a fraction of a second for Roland to realize that the sound of the Golden Falcon's patrons had suddenly died down, but as he glanced up, he could instantly see why. A small group of Astanian junior officers had walked through the door, neatly dressed in their finest uniforms, complete with ornate epaulets and small handful of campaign badges. Infantry officers, grenadiers if his memory still served him. Almost as soon as Jorr moved to welcome them, the first of the Frolingen locals made to leave. The small group filing out a side door as swiftly as possible.

Roland watched with mild curiosity as others began to follow suit, the slow trickle of visitors rapidly emptying the entire establishment. Only the organ still played as the group was seated, its upbeat melody strangely out of place in the empty room.

With an indifferent shrug, the witch-hunter turned back to his meal, savoring the gravy-covered bird and mentally lamenting how little was left.

"Hey, you!" one of the officers shouted suddenly, gesturing at Roland as he spotted him in his darkened corner, "What are you doing here?"

The witch-hunter blinked, hesitating for a moment as he set down his silverware to look at the young man accosting him.

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"Eating," he said flatly, raising an eyebrow at the query as if it were the most banal distraction.

He could see some of the young man's companions chuckle softly at the remark, even the one who approached him seemed mildly amused by the reply.

"I mean, why are you still here, everyone else has left," he explained, "Why not you?"

"Because I am busy eating," Roland replied, a small, cynical half-smile spreading across his face.

The man stood silent, as if stupefied. Out of the corner of his eye, the witch hunter could make out Jorr watching the whole display warily as he gathered a tray of liquor for the Astanian officers.

"And we don't bother you?" the man almost seemed astounded by the notion.

"No," Roland shrugged, "No you don't."

Wiping his clean-shaven chin with his napkin, he smiled convivially at the young man, almost in sympathy for their predicament.

"Shave off ten years and I'd have been sitting in your chair," he chuckled softly, finishing off the wine in his cup, "Would have probably had a girl on my lap though." He added the last part with a small, sly wink, drawing a couple of chuckles from the soldiery.

"Who are you?" the man asked, his tone taking a slightly calmer tone.

"A trader. A nobody really," Roland said, "But back then- back then I was Captain Arnow of the Brachsenburg Light."

A glimmer of recognition suddenly flashed through the young man's eyes. The Brachsenburg Light. That was an outfit of repute.

"Trevigen?" he asked cautiously.

"The Succession Crisis, Trevigen, the Great Northern," Roland nodded his acknowledgment, "And all the damn scars and medals to prove it."

The officer blinked, clearly taken aback by the response. Every man of the army would know of Trevigen, and the battle won there against the Ruthenians. And everyone would know the instrumental part of the Brachsenburg Light.

"Care to sit with us?" one of the men offered, indicating a free seat at their table.

That was a question that surprised him. Roland had been hoping to worm his way out as soon as possible. But to refuse would be most strange, probably suspect, and he decided to entertain the notion, at least for a little while. For a brief moment, he squeezed his chin, as if considering the notion, then nodded his agreement.

"Why not, a few minutes won't hurt," he said, standing up and moving to join the trio.

"Lieutenant Brahm-" the man introduced himself, shaking Roland's hand with a firm grip, "And my friends, Lieutenants Gauss and Saur."

"Wonderful to meet you all," Roland nodded his head, taking his seat alongside them.

"How was it? How was Trevigen? Was it a madhouse?" the man called Gauss began almost immediately, clearly excited with the meeting.

"Madhouse would be an understatement," Roland chuckled darkly, still feeling his fingers twitch at the thought. Thinking back, he could not recall why he had been so proud of the moment, "They had us two to one, and the heavy cavalry was on the flank."

"And that was when Marshal Reynes sprung the trap, wasn't it?" the man said excitedly, his mind no doubt filled with images of the glorious cavalry clash.

"Yeah, yeah, then we got them in our trap," Roland lied, his mind flitting to the memory of the Marshal's stupidity.

An open flank. Nothing but light cavalry to plug the breach. The Brachsenburg Light. Peter dead. Hubert at death's door. Only he had gotten out unscathed. That time. It sent a shudder down his spine.

"It turned into quite a massacre," he added, the words not false, even if not quite truthful either, but drawing impressed nodding from his rapt audience.

"Were you here for the conquest?" he asked innocuously, trying to steer the conversation away from his own exploits.

"No, we missed it, unfortunately, been here with the peace-keeping force for a year now," the one called Saur said ruefully.

"I missed it too," Roland lied, "Probably for the best though. I hear it was quite a brutal fight. And I have seen quite enough of those."

"But who knows, if the Ruthenians try something, we might still get our chance, so I hope at least," Gauss said earnestly.

"You might," Roland agreed, "I would wish you all the luck and glory if that were the case. May you get the chance to prove your mettle!"

The young men seemed happy with that response, as if it had been what they had hoped to hear. Which, no doubt, they had.

"So why here now?" Brahm inquired.

"Honestly, was just traveling for business. Had some trade to sort out," Roland sighed, standing as he saw Clara descending the steps to see what had caused the sudden silence.

He could see her face pale slightly at the sight, albeit that slightest shift was hidden behind a most pleasant smile.

"But I wanted to stop in, just to see old friends," he added slowly, his smile broadening as he caught sight of the woman.

As one, the three officers followed his eyes, glancing first at Clara, then back at Roland, a twinge of amusement alighting in their eyes.

"Enjoy your meal gentlemen. I highly recommend the partridge," Roland said, grinning and standing up from his seat, "And if we see each other again, we will have to continue our conversation."

As he neared the stairs, he could see the woman looking at him disapprovingly, her eyes slitted ever so slightly as she watched him swagger close.

"Sometimes. I almost forget you used to be one of them," she said with a shake of her head.

"I was one of them when we first met," Roland said with a small laugh, "And you certainly didn't mind then."

"No, no I suppose I didn't," the woman admitted, her pretty face set in a subtle frown.

"Times change. But I'm not going to cause trouble for you or your business by starting anything," the witch-hunter added a little more seriously.

"Good."

"Why so morose all of a sudden? Just because those three came in? They're harmless," Roland said, trying to cheer the woman up.

"All the harm they could do has already been done," she said flatly, "But, you are right, there is no reason to ponder it too much."

"I suppose, I should turn in," Roland said, "There's going to be a lot to do tomorrow, and I don't look forward to it."

"There's always a lot to be done."

"So there is. So there is," he agreed, "We could try and forget about it, I have a bottle of wine up there."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, a small spark of her sarcasm shining through, "And how might we be forgetting?"

"By drinking," Roland said with a laugh, "And reminiscing on better days. And better nights. Mostly nights."

In spite of herself, Clara snorted back a laugh, the genuine amusement shining through the cold facade, "Reminiscing, huh? You never were one to dwell on the past."

"No, no I wasn't," he smiled, "But just for you, I'll do it. It's always helped before."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," she said, making a show of thinking about the proposition.

"Why not then," she said with a small shrug, "Perhaps it will help. To take a little time from it all. A little time to reminisce."