The pub smelt of cigarette smoke and pipe tobacco. People milled about happily. The bar was lined with people in dresses and smart fashioned casual suites. A group of people were gathered around a man in a brown vest, pants, and silver undershirt. His hair was grey, and his spectacles gently sat on his nose as he drank.

            “And then, the mighty king slew the titan, freeing the world from tyranny! All rejoiced, as the legions conquered yet another distant star, far, far from our world!” the grey-haired man called.

            The crowd cheered and laughed as he smiled, closing his notebook, putting it in his satchel.

            “How on Earth do you come up with these stories old boy?” one of the men asked cheerfully.

            “The man hasn’t left his office let alone England since nineteen twenty, yet has the most fanciful characters,” a woman giggled.

            “They just come to me,” the grey-haired man shrugged, grinning.

            He stood up, and slung his brown leather satchel, holding his long wool coat in the crook of his arm.

            “I bid you all a pleasant night, work calls,” the man nodded.

            “Good old Abelson, off to his books yet again,” one of the other men groaned.

            “Can’t you stay a little longer? I do so love your sneak peeks before publishing,” the woman whined.

            “Next week my dear, I promise, I will regale you all with tales of the Wind Riders,”  Abelson chuckled.

            The group smiled and nodded, wandering away as Abelson left the pub. Outside, he put a curved pipe to his mouth, and lit the sweet American tobacco with a match. He then strolled down the dark street. It was a pleasant night, and the stars shown as cars went by. Their stuttering engines were loud as they crawled past, but Abelson calmly walked by.

            He went down the street, and sighed, looking at the campus of Cambridge. His tenure of thirty years would be up this fall, but he didn’t mind. He had stories to write, and his library to tend to. You see, he was a connoisseur of sorts, with a very special clientele.

            He took a left down the road, the row of buildings blocking out the sight of the university as he arrived in front of his house. He opened the door and walked into the lobby. The first floor was the kitchen, library, and lobby with the secretary desk, the second being where he slept and actually lived. As he walked in, the old housekeeper smiled.

            “Good evening, Mr. Abelson,” said the old woman, shouldering her purse.

            “Good evening Mrs. Blackwell. No guests today?” Abelson smiled.

            “None at all my dear. I swear, I don’t mind the pay, but must you really keep a secretary here? I haven’t seen one person aside from you enter that door in the last ten years,” Mrs. Blackwell sighed.

            “You are here incase any family or old fellows from the university decide to barge in,” Abelson chuckled.

            “Well, I don’t mind at all my dear. Though I must say, a bitt odd all of your guests are never seen by anyone else,” Mrs. Blackwell arched an eyebrow.

            “That’ll do Mrs. Blackwell,” Abelson smiled.

            “Yes of course, tea is on the stove dearie, have a good night,” Blackwell meekly nodded.

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            “You as well, good night, Mrs. Blackwell,” Abelson smiled, holding the door open for her.

            She gently walked out, and he closed it. Behind the desk by the front door, was another wooden door. He walked over and opened it. Inside, was his small library. The walls where lined with old books and shelves of all sorts of items and trinkets. He hung his coat on the rack, closed the door, and went over to his desk.

            He sat down, and sighed, scribbling notes into his journal, when a bright white light emerged from underneath the crack of the wooden door. A customer. Abelson put the journal away in the desk drawer and leaned back as the door opened.

             Where the view of the house from inside the door should have been, was now stars and galaxies, as a dark robed man walked in. His hood concealed his face, as the door shut.

            “Brandy?” Abelson asked.

            “Yes please,” the dark robed man nodded.

            Abelson chuckled, and stood up, walking over to his liquor cabinet next to the window. He pulled out two glasses, and an old bottle of Scottish Brandy.

            “Are we alone?” the man asked gruffly.

            “Oh yes, yes indeed. Just me, and you old boy,” Abelson chuckled.

            “What year is it?” the man asked.

            “Nineteen thirty-five, the Nazi Party has just taken a firm hold on Germany. As the others said they would,” Abelson sighed.

            “You can still relocate, we can shelter you,” the dark man sighed.

            Abelson went back to his desk and poured them both drinks.

            “As terrible as this will be, I am quite sure our war will seem like a jolly good time compared to yours with, ah, what was his name?” Abelson arched an eyebrow.

            “Alpha Centurion,” the dark man said, taking a glass.

            “Yes, yes, I suppose every plane has their Hitler. Now, what can I do for you, Aryus?” Abelson smiled.

            The dark man sipped his drink as they both sat down, facing each other. He lifted back his hood, revealing his bored face and dark features.

            “We’ve done it,” Aryus smiled.

            “No!” Abelson gasped.

            “Yes, it’s all right here.”

            Aryus reached into his robe and pulled out a metal canister. Abelson gingerly took the container, and opened it, revealing an obsidian spike interlaced with red vein like courses of glowing light. Abelson shook his head in wonder.

            “I’m afraid this is most likely the last time we will see each other,” Aryus sighed.

            “I will guard this with my life,” Abelson said firmly.

            “If we fail, then the next person who walks through that door will be my successor. I don’t know their name, but they will need this. Make sure to warn them, it packs one hell of a punch,” Aryus nodded.

            “Well, I certainly hope that won’t be necessary. But I’ll be sure to give it to them,” Abelson said.

            “Thank you,” Aryus said softly.

            They both sat in silence, sipping the brandy.

            “How is Seraph? I have that trinket she requested. The seller was rather, cheeky,” Abelson said darkly.

            Aryus chuckled as he sipped his glass.

            “The Umar are always a treat. They mean well, but Gods help you if you try to use humor,” Aryus shook his head.

            “Never mind that, the mess the green fellow left! It took poor old Mrs. Blackwell a week to get the stains out of the carpet!” Abelson protested.

            Aryus softly chortled as they once again fell into silence.

            “I suppose this is goodbye,” Abelson sighed.

            “You’ll see me again. Just might be a different life,” Aryus shrugged.

            “That will make sixteen different versions of the same grouchy dark lad who always has me running errands,” Abelson scoffed.

            “I am not grouchy,” Aryus sneered.

            Both were silent, staring at each other, before bursting out in laughter.

            “Goodbye Professor All Knower,” Aryus sighed.

            “Goodbye dear lad,” Abelson nodded.