The two elves stood in the middle of the street, gasping and spitting up dirty water. Cyran wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily as Vi’ira loudly swore at the thief, prone on the cobblestone streets and glaring at the moon, chest heaving from the effort of what she’d just done.

Cyran sat down next to her, leaning back on his elbows. His mouth tasted like mud, and his lungs burned from the lack of air. “Swimming… why did it have to be swimming?” If Vi’ira hadn’t managed to blow the grate off, he didn’t know where they’d be right now. Even at such a young age, Vi’ira truly was tenacious, and her magic was only proof of that. “Insane is… an apt descriptor, I would say.” Cyran managed between breaths. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a thief with such an elaborate defense system. That was some incredible magic on your part, and quick thinking.”

The pair took a moment to gather themselves and catch their breath. While they stared up at the sky, Cyran considered their next course of action. A demented cutpurse with a grudge against elves had effectively blocked their only path to his lair. They could try again, of course, but if they picked a tunnel at random there was no guarantee that they would find the right series of tunnels- the systems were vast and complex, and without getting any inkling that they were going in the right direction, they would just be wandering around in dirty water for hours.

An old piece of advice came to mind as he sat there, staring at the sky. “If you’ve hit a wall, sometimes the best course of action when you’ve come upon a wall is to change direction entirely.” He murmured to himself.

They were both clouded by the emotion from losing their items of sentimental value- they weren’t thinking straight. Charging ahead through a den of traps wouldn’t do them any good at the rate they were moving. Not to mention that Vi’ira was clearly exhausted by the magic she had just used.

Cyran forced himself up, wet clothes making the chill in the air all the more biting. A frown tugged at his lips as he stared down at his tunic. “We’re not going to make any progress like this.” He decided. Vi’ira pulled her attention away from the sky and looked at him, a demanding glare on her face that almost seemed a little disappointed.

“Yer giving up? After everything we’ve done?”

“Not giving up. Just changing tactics.” Cyran explained, though it seemed to do little to soothe her anger. “Vi’ira, I swore to you on my honor that I would return your mother’s belt to you, and I intend to keep it, come hell or high water.” And one of those had already happened. “But this isn’t working. You need rest, and we need to warm ourselves up. Why don’t we find a tavern and get you that drink?”

… Responsibly, of course. They were still on a mission and needed to keep their minds sharp.

Vi’ira looked at him quizzically, anger melting into confusion, so Cyran cleared his throat and clarified. “I was looking at this all wrong. This thief has the hometown advantage.” Attempting to strike him in his lair tipped the scales in his favor, as made evident by their failure in the sewers. “We need to bring him to us.”

Using bait was a tactic Cyran normally tried to avoid. It was cowardly, and needlessly put people in danger. However, their thief had tipped them off to a crucial piece of information about themselves- their grudge against elves. That was information Cyran and Vi’ira could make use of to set a trap, and catch them while they were distracted. A loose idea was already forming in his mind as he set off in search of the nearest tavern, beckoning for Vi’ira.

“I’ll tell you about it inside, over a drink and a warm meal.”

Vi'ira laid on the cobblestone, still gasping for air, as was Cyran. They were both clearly exhausted. As Cyran spoke, it took a moment for Vi'ira to even process his words. She was frustrated, and felt that even though they had escaped, they still lost. She gave a two-finger salute to him as he complimented her use of magic, her breaths still deep. "Thank... ye."

She was still dissatisfied. As she began to sit up, she punched her fist down on the stone. She wasn't sure how else to express her rage besides cursing loudly, but she didn't even have the energy to do that. Almost as if moving in tandem, the two looked up at the sky. Vi'ira wondered if Cyran followed a god. He could be looking up at the stars because he's happy to no longer be in the tunnels, or perhaps the Moon brought him the same comfort. As she looked up, she muttered grateful Elvish blessings up to her Moon. Cyran stood up, but she kept her eyes locked on the cosmos.

"We’re not going to make any progress like this.”

This brought her back, and she quickly snapped her attention to Cyran.

"Yer giving up? After everything we've done?"

It took an awful lot of convincing, but Vi'ira had caved. Cyran was right. The two of them had been beaten down by the heavily guarded underground, and getting their energy back could give them advantage in their next attack. A stop at a tavern would allow for more time to scheme, and perhaps take their minds off their lost items for a moment. It would be nice to get a moment to talk with Cyran that wasn't during an intense hunt, and one that required intense caution and focus. She sighed.

She spoke through barred teeth, "Yer right." She hated nothing more than being wrong.

Cyran beckoned her forward as he scoured the street for an open tavern. He reached out a hand to help her up and she grabbed his wrist as she hoisted herself up. It felt like they were right back at square one. It took only a few more moments of walking before they noticed an establishment bustling with movement and music. She followed behind as the two of them entered. The tavern was decorated with red and orange cloths that hung across the ceiling, accenting well with the mahogany wood used for the flooring and bar. An aged orc stood behind the bar cleaning a glass with a rag, looking up and offering a nod to the newcomers. The sewers had not treated them kindly, and if their demeanor did not already say that, the mud and gunk covering them from head to toe surely did. They stood out like sore thumbs, and many looked over as the drenched warriors made their way through tavern.

"Ye find us table, and I'll get the drinks. What will ye be having?" She said this with less jovial cadence than she typically spoke with, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't looking forward to a bit of rest.

Cyran nodded and responded, "Wine!" as he went to search for a place to sit.

Vi'ira neared the bar, eyeing the tavern-goers around her as she got closer. A drunk man sat hunched over on a stool, drool pooling around his mouth on the table. As she looked down to his belt, a small coin purse taunted her. Without much thought, she reached down and snagged the purse off of the man, and approached the bartending orc. She placed her hands on the bar top, the newly stolen coin purse trapped in her grasp. "I'll take a glass o' wine and a pint of mead." The orc glared at her for a moment, inhaling the stench she brought in with her. She offered up a slight smile, and the large orc grunted. Before she knew it, the two beverages were sat before her. She placed a couple solars down and made her way to the table Cyran had picked. She set the wine down in front of him as she took a sip from her pint. She plopped down and spread herself out on the chair. 

"So, I'm dyin' to 'ear this plan ye've got."

The inside of the tavern had a surprisingly nice atmosphere, which was especially welcome after the ordeal they’d been through. There was a bard playing lively songs in the corner, and patrons dancing with mugs of ale in their hand. This was the kind of environment Cyran could envision Vi’ira thriving in. She had already taken charge, breezing off to the bar to grab them drinks, leaving Cyran alone in the middle of the establishment. The crowd was loud, far more than he normally enjoyed, but anything was better than those sewers at the moment.



Cyran picked a quieter table in a corner, away from any potential prying ears. Not that it was necessary- soon after he sat, he was given a wide berth by customers who didn’t want to deal with the smell. Eventually, Vi’ira returned with their drinks, sliding the wine over for him. She looked exhausted, no matter how hard she was trying to hold herself together. He couldn’t help but be grateful that she’d decided to hear him out, despite her reluctance to do so.



"So, I'm dyin' to 'ear this plan ye've got."



“It’s less of a plan and more of an idea.” Cyran admitted. There were a lot of what-ifs in this scenario, a lot of ways it could go wrong. But with Vi’ira’s magic and his stealth, he had confidence that they could pull it off. “We’re going to set a trap. All we need to do is find an elf who would be willing to help us, and paint them as a target. We just have to hide and wait for them to make an appearance. This time, an encounter would be on our terms, and without any traps.”



He leaned back, taking a long swig of his drink while Vi’ira considered his proposal. He wasn’t sure how she’d react- on one hand, it was their best bet if they wanted to force him out of his underground sanctuary. On the other, it would mean putting an innocent civilian at risk. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was the best one he could think of.



“If you’re not comfortable with the idea, I can take care of it myself. But I don’t intend to let that criminal walk free after what he’s done.” As he spoke, his tone was harsh and unforgiving. He held no sympathy for the criminal, and it might seem vicious, but he was willing to do whatever it took to find them and bring them to justice.



Even if that solution was darker than he was willing to admit out loud.



Vi'ira was depending on him to get her mother's things back- he didn't take that kind of faith lightly.

Vi'ira was pleasantly surprised by Cyran's idea. This plan, if executed correctly, could ensure that they get their stuff back and rid the streets of Sol City of one more crook. The two of them seemed to lean back in tandem, and Vi'ira studied him for a moment, still not speaking. When she was deep in thought is when she often resorted to silence, no matter how drawn out it may be. Silence may make others uncomfortable, but to Vi'ira, it was the sleep that nourished her wisdom. As impulsive as she may be, no thanks to Torkum, she knows when to truly sit in her thoughts.

Cyran spoke again. His determination was fierce and seeped through every word. She was grateful for this, and it helped remind her that he, too, was fixed on the same goal. She wanted him to get his daughter's things back just as much as he wanted to return her mother's belt. She had her arms stretched behind her as she kept eye contact with Cyran for a long moment.

"Seems the wheels were turning up there quicker than I thought. It's a damn good idea." She took a swig from her glass, and placed it back down with a thunk. "I'm in." At this point, the frustration of the entire situation weighed down on her much less. She felt the rage leaving her body as she welcomed the tavern's friendly environment and their time to rest, and of course, the alcohol. Her kryptonite when it came to her common sense, but oh boy did Vi'ira enjoy it. "No use rushing, the thief will be on guard for now. We're bound to find an elf to 'elp us, and if not, there's nothing wrong with a little costume change." She gestured to her clothing. "That could surely throw 'im off, ay? It's best to strike when 'e least expects it, and once we've finished a drink or two." She winked to Cyran.

Was having a couple drinks in the midst of a hunt a good idea? Not really. Has that ever stopped Vi'ira? Never.

And, if she was being honest, the idea of letting the thief think he got away with robbing them blind brought a sense of joy to Vi'ira. She enjoyed the idea of him becoming comfortable, just for the rug to be snatched out from underneath him. A smile poked at the side of her mouth. Ah, the simple things.

"With time to spare, I would like to 'ear a bit more about ye. What brings ye to Sol City aside from yer work? Are ye chasing a goal, or perhaps coin is what drives ye..." Many questions at once, some much too personal, but it's better to come out with the questions before she forgot them. 

Cyran was not expecting the speed at which Vi’ira offered her agreement to the plan, and enthusiastically at that. In fact, the girl seemed excited at the prospect of putting the thief in his place. He smiled at her as she winked at him, slowly relaxing from her previous mood, now that they had a goal in mind.



She certainly is rambunctious.



It had been a long time since he had met someone so spirited, but he found it was a welcome thing. “A costume change would be smart, if we could find new garments in time.” He neglected to point out the logistics that they were both penniless right now, as he didn’t want to dim her newfound light. It did bring to question how she paid for the drinks, though…



“Yes, we’ll wait.” He confirmed. If his suspicions were correct, then the thief had managed to keep track of their movements through the network of criminals and informants he’d spotted on their way down the sewers. If that was the case, then the pair had probably been followed all the way here, and the thief likely thought they’d run with their tails tucked between their legs.



He kept a cautious eye on Vi’ira’s alcohol intake. She seemed to enjoy indulging in the drink, and while he wanted her to recover, he hoped she wouldn’t dull her senses.



“Originally, I was only here for the ball.” Cyran replied with a wave of his hand. “The invitation came as a bit of a surprise, given…” well, given the scandal of his exile. He mostly wanted to gather information, figure out what business the dark elf family had inviting a disgraced son who had nothing of influence to offer. “Given that I am obviously not of status.” He gestured to himself, and considering he was covered in muck and grime, he thought the point made itself.



At least, he had thought the invitation was strange, until the party’s disastrous conclusion…



But that was a topic for another time. He was sure that Vi’ira had her own thoughts on what they had witnessed, but they weren’t here to discuss politics.



“Anyways, this is my first time visiting Sol City. I thought I would stick around a few days and explore.” He finished. It wasn’t the most exciting of answers, but the truth was that Cyran simply drifted, in and out of cities, leaving behind nothing but ghosts as he went. Sol City was no different. He would be here for a few days more before he was onto the next.


He shook his head, as if clearing away those thoughts. Now wasn't the time for such morose sentiments.


“And yourself? You mentioned sailing, I assume your ship is in port?” He returned the question in kind, partially to draw the attention off of himself, and partially because he wanted to hear more about Vi’ira. “What’s its name?” He paused. “... Ships do have names, yes?”

"A new cloak would be enough to 'ide yer identity, and that could easily be stolen." She smirked as she held up the stolen coin purse just above the table and then stuffed it into her pockets. Tonight was looking to be loads more fun that she first anticipated. "There's no way in 'ell anybody's loaning all their clothes to us when we..." She held up her soaked cloak from behind her.

She listened attentively as Cyran began to explain his reasons behind coming to Sol City, her head propped up on her hand.

"Seems that just about everyone invited was confused, but Miss Madam Lady Marrowvine required all ears for 'er latest political announcement." She scoffed a bit at this, taking a swig from her drink. Elves, especially noble ones, were always one for an audience, going out of their way to make everything as grand and rich as it can appear to not only to intimidate those below them, but to reiterate their social standing. "She got what she wanted, 'urrah for the elves..." She raised her glass and clinked it with Cyran's, which sat on the table.

She chuckled a bit as he mentioned that it was his first time in Sol City. "Certainly treatin' ye to a kind welcome, ay? It's got sights to see, but even with the King trying 'is best to maintain peace, the crooks and picaroons o' Sol City seeps through any crack they can find." She found no forth front qualms with King Eldenwar, and felt as though he ruled similarly to Emanious: with a kind heart. But even those who were rooted in good could not rid the land of the deep-rooted rot that infilitrated to Charon's core, all they could do was promise to do their best to lessen it.

Vi'ira listened in on Cyran's question, smiling as he mentioned sailing, and laughing as he questioned himself in regards to naming ships.

"Aye, that they do. Mine would be called the Isilmë Dae [The Moonlit Shadow]. A strong name fit for a strong vessel." A dreamy looked appeared in Vi'ira's eyes once more, as she slowly let the alcohol calm her. "And it's funny ye mention it being in port...since it's actually with the thief." The look instantly disappeared from her eyes as she remembered this. Cyran's eyes widened a bit. Rage began to creep up her spine. "It looks as though it's just a bottle o' water with a toy boat, so it doesn't appear to 'ave any value from an outward eye. I try not te worry too much, for a Captain always finds 'er ship. Let's just 'ope they don't get thirsty." She didn't laugh at this, and instead took a bigger swig from her tankard. She tried not to let herself worry too much, truly, but the Isilmë Dae was her home; everything she spent so long working for. She grew ancy as she reminded herself, becoming more and more determined to take down the thief with a bit more force than a simple trap. if any harm came to her ship...

You could fill in the blank.

"I, too, came to Sol City for the ball, but I've been 'ere plenty o' times growing up. It's a booming place for business, that Gold Port." Vi'ira wiped some mud that fell onto her cheek from her brow bone. "Ye mentioned yer daughter...and I don't mean to pry...is she with ye in the city?"

He listened with a smile as Vi’ira spoke of her travels- for a moment, he wondered if he should chastise her for thievery, considering that was the very thing they were trying to stop, but when she mentioned that the thief had her ship, he understood her desperation to retrieve her items. The way she spoke so fondly of her ship, her home, only to be replaced by cold rage as she remembered what had been taken from her, solidified his resolve. He took a sip of his wine, nodding along to her story.

And then,

“Ye mentioned yer daughter...and I don't mean to pry...is she with ye in the city?”

And the warm haze from the drink and conversation immediately went cold.

Cyran’s grip tightened around his wine glass- he didn’t notice. His mind had already gone somewhere far away, a place he hadn’t visited in a long time. A woman’s body. A screaming child. His back suddenly ached. The phantom pain often returned when he thought of that night.

“Ah, she isn’t.” The words felt like they were choking him, as if the admission were poison. With a start, he realized this was the first time he’d ever voiced the words out loud to another living soul. There had never been anyone to listen before now.

“The truth is that she was taken from me.”

He had said it. There was no taking it back now. Vi’ira knew his greatest shame.

He knew he should stop, but he’d already nearly finished his glass of wine and even after ten years the memory still felt like it was yesterday. Marlow’s cries as his father ripped her from his arms. “I was injured, and I couldn’t stop it from happening.” And before he knew it, he’d been thrown out of the city by his father’s guards, unable to even move while his daughter reached out to him, too young to understand that he wouldn’t be there to pick her up and cradle her in his arms. Not this time. He could still remember her face, the image burned into his mind. She was only twelve years old at the time, cheeks still round with baby fat, and face flushed with tears.

What did she look like now? Did she ever think about him? Did she even remember?

In the ten years since that day, Cyran had hunted criminals to the ends of the continent, tracked down criminals with deadly efficiency, and yet the one person he so desperately sought was just out of his grasp. But the thought of seeing her again… it was the only reason he hadn’t given up.

Not yet, at least.

“That bag the thief took from me. It was more than just a sentimental item.” He swallowed. “It was a promise. Every new city I visit, I buy a trinket to add to my collection. Just little things.” A small stone here, a wooden figure there. “I hold onto them so that the day I find her again-“ The day that he returned to Eclipse City and put a dagger in Lormundel Fenastra’s back- “I’ll have gifts to give her. Each one with a story behind it, so I can tell her about my travels.”

He finished off his wine glass, setting it down on the table.

“That’s what the thief stole.”

Cyran exhaled, releasing a slow, purposeful breath. The pain in his back dulled, and he was numb once more, now that he’d gotten the words out. The silence suddenly felt heavy, too much for him to bear, so he latched onto the only thing he could think of. “Your belt. You said it was from your mother. Tell me about her, if it’s not too painful.”

Cyran's demeanor quickly changed following her question. The voice in her head kept hissing 'meddler!' as she waited for his response. The silence was long and drawn out. The tavern was lively, but somehow in the small corner they were nestled in, sound seemed to stop. It was strange to see Cyran look so defeated. Only an hour or two ago when they had officially met, he appeared strong and as if he was rooted into the ground. But now, a sorrow emits from him. His shoulders have fallen and his eyes no longer glimmer in the way that the Moon Elves eyes always do.

His words came out slowly, as if he were carefully planning out each one as it came out. They were calculated, and so deeply melancholic. Vi'ira couldn't help but drop her eyes for a part of the story, and she noticed his knuckles growing white as they gripped onto his glass. She kicked herself. How disrespectful of her to drop eye contact when he was telling her something very clearly personal to him. She looked back up to meet his gaze, not breaking it.

"I want ye to know Cyran, we will get yer things back. Every last item. I don't take too kindly to thieves, and 'e will get what's coming to 'im, I swear it." Her finger was pointed to the table. "And...I'm sorry bout yer daughter. I shall pray to the moon fer 'er safe and quick return to ye." This was the best thing she could offer, and she hoped that it brought him even a hint of comfort. 

At the mention of Vi'ira's mother, her brows furrowed. Not in the same way they had earlier; no longer driven by rage. Instead, her face appeared puzzled. It's not that she hadn't expected the question, that much was obvious, but she was not used to being asked about her. She didn't tend to mention her mother in conversation, and her father was not too open on the subject. She was much more used to telling her journal's parchment pages about the times when memories of her mother were plaguing her mind, or when something reminded Vi'ira of her. But, talking about her out loud...it felt almost foreign. Land-lubbers talk about their emotions far more than pirates do, that's for sure.

It had only been five years since she had passed, but the wound felt as fresh as a cut made only moments ago. She ran her hands through her drenched hair, water dripping onto the floor below her. 

"Nin naneth [My mother], what a woman she was," she smiled, but there was an apparent hint of sadness behind it. Was. "She is one with the stars now. Passed on a few years back..." She followed this with a finally swig from her tankard, the mug now empty. 

"A fey-born disease." She said this with a much harsher tone. Recounting the months before her mother's death was hard. Because the disease was spread among fey, Torkum forbade Vi'ira from entering the quarters her mother was bed-bound in. They conversed through the wall from time to time as best as they could, but a majority of the time it was Vi'ira rambling or reading a story from one of her mother's favorites. Even though it would be around 4 months when the disease finally took her mother, she had felt like she lost her long before. Remembering this time made her angry, a frustration that may eat at her forever. It was a cruel punishment for something she didn't understand. What had she done that warranted losing her mother and being unable to even say goodbye to her face. What if the wood had silenced her words? The thought of her mother not even hearing Vi'ira's last 'I love ye' kept her up at night.

"I went silent fer a whole year after she passed, as unbelievable as that sounds. Me? Shuttin' my trap?" She tried her best to crack a joke in the midst of such a dreary conversation, but when she finished, she was unsure it really helped at all. She quickly moved on, her eyes shooting down.

"That belt of mine twas 'ers. My mother didn't 'ave an easy life. She 'ad escaped an evil man in Frost Gale when she was pregnant with me, and one of the only things she brought with 'er was 'er belt. Was my grandmother's, so she said. I never got to say a proper goodbye, and keeping 'er belt on me 'elps me feel like there's still a part of 'er here on Charon. And if she's still 'ere with me on Charon, then I can't dwell on an improper adieu." Vi'ira knew her mother watched over her in the cosmos, peaking over stars and dancing through constellations as she followed her across the world, but the yearning for her mother to be physically in front of her one more time was all too intense. 

She took a deep breath. "I 'ppreciate ye for 'elping me out, and I 'ope I can repay the favor. It's not everyday I come across someone with a 'eart such as yers. I don't know ye well, but my gut instinct senses a goodness within ye, and I trust it te be right."

Cyran was not a particularly religious man. Like most common folk he ascribed to the belief that one’s will and merit alone, not the guiding hand of a deity, were enough to get by. And yet, he felt his mood lightening somewhat as Vi’ira offered her prayers to the moon for his sake. “Thank you. I, too, am impatient for her return. My Marlow.”

It was obvious from the look on her face that Vi’ira hadn’t expected to share such information. It made him wonder how long it had been since her mother passed, and how long it had been since she’d spoken of her. Cyran stayed silent, listening to her speak, angry on her behalf when she spoke of a fey-borne illness.

What surprised him the most, however, was Vi’ira’s claim that she had gone silent a year after her mother’s passing. She said it in jest, but it was true- Cyran couldn’t imagine someone as spirited as Vi’ira not talking. She had a lot of thoughts to share, and Cyran appreciated hearing them.

He put a hand on her shoulder, the touch hesitant, as if he felt he wasn’t allowed to deliver such comfort. “I’m glad you’ve found your voice again, and I’m sure your mother is too. Take it from someone who’s raised a child.” Here, he gave her a wry smile, as if he himself were trying to find the humor in his words. “She sounds like a strong person, and every bit of her lives on in you. That’s all we, as parents, could ever hope for.”

He flushed into his drink at Vi’ira’s praise. When was the last time he had ever been called a good person? “And the same to yourself.” He replied, rubbing at the back of his neck. Vi’ira was the most honest and genuine person he’d adventured with in a long time, and that kind of spirit deserved to be protected.

He resolved himself, in that moment, to be that person for her as much as he could. She deserved that much, at least. He looked up to the ceiling, picturing the moon and the stars above. I’m not sure if I could measure up to you, but I’ll look after her, if you would allow me.

The conversation had gotten far too heavy for his liking, so Cyran leaned forward, resting his hands on his chin. “I suppose that we should start looking for clothes.” His cloak, unfortunately, had been in the bag that was stolen from him- if the thief thought to look through his things, they would find that it was no ordinary article of clothing. He also had Cyran’s dagger, which, while it wasn’t especially strong, was old and well taken care of.

An assassin’s bag was a dangerous thing to have- Cyran just hoped they didn’t have the skills to make use of it.

Cyran was so preoccupied that he almost missed a familiar figure leaving the Brass Dragon, with a handful of goblins in tow. The minotaur had a bottle clutched in each hand, though it was obvious he was already well past drunk, if the way he was knocking into nearby tables and wobbling dangerously was any indication.

Is that Shaa? Does he need help? Cyran wondered if he should step in and check on the man, but eventually, Shaa left with the entourage of goblins in tow, out into the city streets. He’ll be fine… probably. Besides, Cyran had his own problems to deal with at the moment, and they had a thief to catch.

“We should set off now, yes? We've got a trap to set."

Vi'ira couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth spread throughout her body when Cyran comforted her as he spoke of being a parent. She wondered for a moment how much older Cyran was from her. With Elves, it is impossible to tell one's true age, but his words came across as wise and weighted. They had experience behind them, but how many years of it she couldn't be sure.

“She sounds like a strong person, and every bit of her lives on in you. That’s all we, as parents, could ever hope for.” Vi'ira smiled, placing her hand on his as it rest on her shoulder. Her mother was bursting with incredible strength, and Vi'ira was lucky to have a role model like her to follow and learn from. She wasn't often complimented, but this had to be one of the kindest ones she had ever received.

The weight of the conversation still lingered in the air, however, it was quickly shattered by Cyran's mention of finding new clothes. This was certainly not going to be any ordinary task. It wasn't common that someone was approached in a tavern and begged by two sewer-soaked, slightly tipsy strangers for their coat, but it was going to be tonight. The two of them still wreaked of sewage, and the thick goop that mixed with the water coated their pale skin. Why would anyone trust these grimy elves with their belongings, especially if the stench was bound to rub off on whatever article of clothing they lent? Vi'ira lightly knocked herself on her head, struck with an idea.

"Blimey, why didn't I think o' this earlier!" She bounced out of her seat, wobbling slightly from the drink. She patted Cyran on the shoulder as she passed him, and made her way to the exit. The stark contrast between the brightly lit tavern and the deepness of the night made it feel as if they were entering another plane. The volume of the music lowered as Vi'ira led Cyran to an alley alongside the building. In the distance, she made out the shape of a large minotaur surrounded by goblins, and wondered if that was the same one she had danced with. What a night! She clapped her hands together as she stood face to face with the Moon Elf, a puzzled look on his face. "I know a way we can get all cleaned up."

Her fingers began to twiddle as a small group of cloud above their heads began to circle one another to form a denser and darker cloud¹. She maneuvered the wind to center it directly above them and let her hands fall as rain began to pour out of the cloud. Rainwater bounced off of them, and slowly but surely removed the stains left behind from the sewers. Vi'ira laughed as the water came down, running her hands through her hair and brushing off small sticks and pieces of dirt still left behind. The two of them were now clean, yes, but still soaked. Cyran's hair had fallen in front of his eyes as the water came down and his face was shadowed, giving him an ominous look. But that was quickly broken by him blowing air at the thick strands of hair to try and get them out of the way, revealing only his mouth for a moment. Vi'ira chuckled to herself once more.

"Ye might want te...brace yerself fer this part." She ushered Cyran to stand directly in front of a wall, and she guided the wind towards him². It blew furiously in Cyran's direction, whipping his hair back and slapping his clothes against the wall. As she noticed that he had mostly dried, Vi'ira approached him and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, "Look at ye. Fitter than ever." Her arms were still dripping with water, but her hair especially. Cyran, although frazzled from the sudden gusts of wind shot in his direction, looked pleased as he gazed down at his now semi-dry clothes, but he was mostly focused on dealing with his hair and getting it back into the right places. Vi'ira backed herself up against the same wall, and guided the wind towards her. She closed her eyes as the air shot at her, nipping at her nose and causing her eyes to water. Her hair was an absolute mess after this, shooting in practically every direction possible. She ran her fingers through it once more and decided it was useless to try to fix. She looked to Cyran, the mischievous glimmer back in her eyes.

"This'll up our chances of borrowing clothes by a long-shot. Y'know, now that we don't look and smell like shite." She shrugged her shoulders at this, and quickly whipped around to go back into the tavern. When they both stood at the entrance, their eyes were hungry for aid in their mission. The tavern was still bustling with life, and there were many potential contenders for this. 

The first person they had approached promptly told them to piss off almost immediately, not catering to whatever shenanigans were bound to be afoot. He was a stern-looking Lizardfolk, clearly not wanting to speak to a soul tonight. Vi'ira sighed loudly as they walked away and head off towards their next victim. Cyran tapped on Vi'ira's shoulder as he pointed out a lazy Sun Elf looking dazed in the corner of the tavern, closer to the stage. They sat laughing with a group of tavern-goers, all of them inebriated to some extent. The Sun Elf's cloak, however, was what stood out the most to them. It was decorated with intricate orange and gold designs of the sun all along the edge of the mustard colored fabric. If they wanted to attract the thief by appearing as another unsuspecting elf, this would definitely work, but it was getting it off the elf that would be the hard part. 

"Oi, ye're quite dazzlin' aren't ye," Vi'ira chimed as she neared the Sun Elf, pulling out a chair as she walked and plopping herself down, the back of the chair pressed up against her chest. "That's a fine cloak ye've got there."

"That it is..." The Sun Elf looked to Cyran first, and then to Vi'ira. He had a proudness about him, a mix of confidence from his drink and his Elven blood. "I made her myself." He lifted his hands in an exuberant fashion, a flamboyant grace making its way to the surface as he realized the two Moon Elves weren't here for any trouble...as of yet.

"Ye've got a knack for tailorin'," Vi'ira spoke as she pointed to the cloak, and looked up at Cyran. "Say that my friend and I offer up a deal. I'll give ye these solars..." She holds the coin purse up in the air, swinging it back and forth, "If ye let us borrow that cloak of yers." The Sun Elf looked shocked, as did his companions.

"I'm afraid she's not for sale."

"We would give it back! We only need it--her--temporarily for...."

"For a matter of great urgency regarding a dastardly thief plaguing your streets." Vi'ira nodded.

"What 'e said."

The Sun Elf looked to his friends at the table, and they all looked in different directions, as if leaving the decision up for the elf. One of them, a dwarf, stared so intensely at the bottom of his drink, Vi'ira thought he was actually looking at the core of the world, while an Aviankin leaned back on his arms and pretended to sleep. What a silly group. As the Sun Elf contemplated, Vi'ira flashed a smile, doing all that she could to come across as non-threatening and honest, but in all honesty, her smile looked much more devious. 

"If I do let you borrow my cloak...You must promise she will be returned unstained, unscathed, and undamaged. She is my pride and joy, and I will not let two strange ragtag elves misuse her." His words were firm. Cyran and Vi'ira both nodded their heads, and Vi'ira held the coin purse out to the elf. She'd be lying if she didn't want to laugh a bit at his affection towards the cloak. She wondered if this cloak had a name and all...

"Ye 'ave my word." After another moment of thought, the Sun Elf stood up and began to untie his cloak, a sense of uncertainty still lingering behind his actions. Vi'ira followed suit and moved to stand next to Cyran, nudging him with excitement as she did. He held out the cloak and took the coin purse, stuffing it into his pocket. Vi'ira stood on her heels as they took the yellow cloak and began to make their way outside.

"Finally somethin' going our way tonight, let's 'ope this luck doesn't run out."

---

1. Inclement Weather
2. Gust Thrust

Vi’ira’s sudden outburst startled Cyran out of his thoughts, the melancholy still lingering in his somewhat inebriated mind, as the younger elf wobbled to her feet. Like a swift breeze, she patted him on the shoulder and made her way out of the tavern. Cyran’s brow furrowed, watching her breeze out the door. Where was she going? Whatever she had in mind, Vi’ira was awfully gung-ho about her plan, so Cyran picked himself carefully out of his chair, following after her.

The outside air was cold enough to sober Cyran up- he hadn’t had enough drink to affect his coordination, but it still sharpened his thoughts enough to follow Vi’ira, puzzled expression evident on his face. Before he could ask what she had planned, however, he was immediately drenched by a small cloud she’d formed above their heads. If the cold air was sobering, the shock of the water certainly did the trick- he was thoroughly awake now. Vi’ira laughed gleefully as Cyran attempted to blow some of the hair out of his face in vain, now sopping wet and clothes weighed down from the water.

“Ye might want te...brace yerself fer this part."

“Brace myself for what-”

Cyran received his answer in the form of a gust of wind that would have knocked him off his feet had he not been standing in front of the wall she directed him towards. It did the trick, but at the cost of his own dignity, as his hair had been thrown into disarray. Cyran was not a vain person, but he did pride himself on his hair, even if it had begun to turn gray from stress. He ran his fingers through the tangles in an attempt to make some of it neater. At least Vi’ira received the same treatment, the wind leaving her white locks sticking up in all directions, more resembling a lion’s mane than elven hair. He hid a snicker behind his hand at the sight.

The two returned to the tavern, scanning the area for anyone who looked generous enough to lend a couple of bedraggled looking elves their clothes, or perhaps, easy enough to steal from. Cyran was leaning towards the former, though the latter could be arranged. As Vi’ira had been quick to point out earlier in the day, Cyran apparently had a knack for getting away with charming the clothes off people without their notice. He held off, however, when he spotted the sun elf in the corner in a fine cloak, far nicer than anything the two had on them. It would definitely do the trick- in that piece of finery, the thief would have a hard time resisting.

It took a bit of convincing to get the other elf to give up his cloak, and soon, Cyran and Vi’ira were out of the Brass Dragon once more, with Vi’ira loudly exclaiming her excitement that luck was finally on their side tonight.

“Let’s not get hasty, now.” Cyran warned. He did not consider himself a pessimist, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up, either. Still, he ran his fingers along the stitching of the cloth, a small smile on his face. I wonder if Vi’ira actually intends to return it… some questions were better off not asking, he figured.

As they trudged through the streets of Sol City, looking for a good place to stage their ambush, Cyran ran the plan over with Vi’ira. “I’ll be the bait.” He said with a tone that implied he would not be arguing on this matter. While it was true that he didn’t want to risk her getting hurt, it made the most tactical sense for Cyran to be the one wearing the cloak. “You have more ranged spells than I, and I will be at my most effective if I’m within striking distance of him.”

When Vi’ira tried to argue, pointing out his lack of a weapon, Cyran waved her worries away. “I’ll be alright.” His lips twisted into a wry, almost self-deprecating smile. “You’re not the only one with tricks up their sleeve.” Besides, if the thief used his own weapons against them, he didn’t want Vi’ira to get hit with Spell Slicer. That was one of Cyran’s deadliest weapons, one that crippled mages with a well-timed attack.

Eventually, they came upon a square that was fairly empty at this late hour. Cyran stopped, fastening the cloak over his jacket and pulling the hood up. Just to make sure he was entirely unrecognizable, he tucked his hair inside, before giving Vi’ira an experimental twirl. “How do I look? Like a different elf?”

The disguise would have to do- it was the best plan they had, and Cyran doubted they would have another honest shot at catching the thief off guard. Cyran pointed to a nearby cart that had been left on the street, still half-full of goods where some merchant had stored it for the night. “You can hide there, and jump out when you see the thief. Remember- there’s a chance he’ll have my weapons. Be careful.”

As she went to hide, still a little reluctant at the plan, Cyran bent down and scooped up a handful of flat stones, shoving them into his trouser pockets. It gave the illusion that his pockets were stuffed with coin. He smirked, patting it as he went to get into position, where he would wait until the thief crawled out of their hiding place in search of another victim.

As the two walked along the dark street, Vi’ira felt her focus sharpen as the two prepared to finally take on the thief. Cyran proposed that he would be the bait, and his tone was so stern Vi’ira hadn’t even thought to counter it. She appreciated his urgency to protect others, and felt a warmth in her chest when she thought of how grateful she was to meet someone such as him, and grew excited at the thought of forging an even stronger relationship. Who knew that an elf that she crashed into on the street would become one that always stuck by her side.

And she vowed to always stick by his.

He continued on with his plan, Vi’ira listening intently. When he mentioned being striking distance, she spoke up.

“But your weapon is–” He quickly cut her off and assured he’d be alright. Vi’ira couldn’t help but worry a bit, a furrow forming on her brows. But when he mentioned having a trick up his sleeve, she couldn’t help but share his mischievous smile. The cobblestone opened up before them into a large square. Only a few people occupied it: a woman with her child giggling outside of a shop, a scholar using the light from a street lantern to read their tomb, and an orc slowly trudging down the path. It was better that there were very few around, and Vi’ira hoped the square would clear as soon as any debacle took off between the elves and the thief.

Cyran paused and began to smooth out the cloak as he draped it over his shoulders. When he turned to Vi’ira, she was quite shocked. With his dark hair tucked away and the intense yellow contrasting with his entire appearance, he really did look like a different elf. She let out a little chuckle.

“Aye. Tis is the least Cyran ye’ve ever looked.” He nodded at her response. Even if his ears weren’t revealed, this cloak certainly screamed ‘I AM A SUN ELF’. The yellow practically punched your eyes and the golden embroidery held intricacies that could only be learned from elven masters of the art. The plan, though put together haphazardly, seemed like it was going to work. At least, that’s what Vi’ira hoped.

Before heading off to hide, Vi’ira grabbed Cyran by the shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Physical affection was not an affluent language that Vi’ira often expressed to others, and she hoped this slight touch conveyed the amount of emotion she truly felt. She was fearful of what was to come, but also nervous about what would come to Cyran. “Ye best not get yerself killed,” she joked, but there was a twinge of nervousness behind it. Although the two of them had only just met, Vi’ira saw a future of adventure happening between them, and no thief was going to mess it up that quickly.

It felt like the square got quieter as the two separated, a thickness in the air. Vi’ira took cover behind the cart and scoured the square. In moments like this, she wished she had the ability to see through shadows. Thankfully Cyran’s plan put itself into motion as a slight movement emerged from the darkness of the alleyway. The cloak that the thief wore was different from before. It appeared even darker, as if made of the shadows around them. Vi’ira’s eyes dashed back and forth between the thief and Cyran. Now that she had time to observe them, the thief was hunched and tended to sway an awful lot. For someone so agile and quick, which relied heavily on balance, this was unusual. ‘But not helpful’, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, ‘Stay. Focused.’

Vi’ira continued to watch, and picked up on the thief’s pace quickening. They were locked on Cyran as their target, and it seemed they were ready to strike. As the thief began to run, Vi’ira shot out a sheet of ice to interrupt their sprint. It coated the stone beneath them and sent them flying to the ground, except it wasn’t just one person that tumbled down, it was multiple.

Not a thief. Thieves.

Now, before them, stood two smaller figures. One’s face and body was still obscured by the cloak, but the other was sprawled out on the stone, and Vi’ira noticed that they were gnomes. It’s skin was crackled and gray, and their expression was deep set with anger.

This was going to be much easier than she anticipated.

The gnomes chattered in frustration as they attempted to regain their balance. The gnome wearing the cloak was now drenched in it as it swallowed their entire form. Vi’ira took this as her chance to get a few hits in, and she sprinted towards them. Cyran exclaimed out, but she was already standing before the hooded gnome before she could compute what Cyran had said.

She was confused by the darkness still surrounding the gnome’s face, even though she was standing right before them. However, her feeling of confusion quickly morphed into dread as a face emerged from the deep shadows. It was Torkum’s, except it wasn’t. This Torkum had no cheeriness behind his eyes or deep smile lines around his mouth. He lacked the life he typically possessed, and presented himself as a corpse. Vi’ira locked eyes with him, and only darkness remained as it spread from his pupil and covered the entirety of his sclera. He opened his crooked mouth, and a mix of blood, black tar, and teeth fell out, dripping down the cloak.

“Ye can’t save us all.”

The skin on the dwarf’s face began to slide off as if it were a mask, revealing bloody muscle and tissue underneath. Vi’ira was horrified. The ground felt like it had been pulled out from under her. All the focus and determination she had was gone, and all she wanted was to get away. She hadn’t even noticed Cyran running closer to her and the gnomes. Nothing felt real around her. Smokey tendrils began to wrap around Torkum’s face, pulling it apart as it sucked him back into the hood. Vi’ira thought that was the end of the torture, whatever power this cloak contained was done…

Her mother’s face emerged next, and all she could do was scream.

“Cyran! Make it stop!” She backed away from the gnomes, her hands over her eyes. She had never felt this weak in her life.

“Nor yourself.” Cyran’s voice was warm in response to Vi’ira’s anxious ribbing. He doubted there would be too much danger in taking care of a couple of thieves, but he would not allow himself to be overconfident. That kind of careless thinking was the difference between a live assassin and a dead one.

Everything was going according to plan… up until the moment everything began to unravel, like the frayed edges of a piece of yarn. Cyran stood in front of a sign, pretending to be absorbed with its contents, while Vi’ira lay in wait, poised to strike the moment that anyone got too close to Cyran. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure making its way towards him in a familiar cloak. Cyran’s shoulders tensed, anticipating his own hood to be used against him, and wondering what kind of horror he might see if he accidentally met the thief’s gaze.

But in a cruel twist of fate, he was not the victim to his own nightmares, as he should have been.

Instead, the gnomes targeted Vi’ira.

“Don’t look at him-!” Cyran called out in warning as Vi’ira charged, desperate to knock the gnomes off balance before they could recover- only a hair’s breadth too late, if only he’d been faster- before her entire body stiffened, eyes glassing over as she was assaulted with visions that Cyran couldn’t see, or even begin to comprehend. There was a beat of silence before Vi’ira, face gone completely pale, opened her mouth and let out an ear-splitting scream.

“Cyran! Make it stop!”

“Shit!” Cyran dashed forward, raising his arm, nearly his entire hand coated in the darkness, the shadows nearly approaching his elbow as he called upon more, as much power as he could muster, entirely uncaring about what the magic did to his body as long as Vi’ira was safe. In his haste to move, he was too panicked to fully comprehend that in her fearful state, Vi’ira had called out to him of all people for help. As if even her subconscious believed he could save her.

His voice was dripping with malice as he dashed up to the gnome who was wearing the hood, putting himself between Vi’ira and her tormenter, face contorted in the ice cold fury of a killer. “You should not have done that.” He uttered, immediately raking his claws down the gnome’s face, slashing through the fabric of his own hood, and leaving three long, festering marks down the gnome’s face.^[1]

In the distance, someone screamed- perhaps one of the unfortunate bystanders- Cyran didn’t know, and in the moment, he didn’t care who saw. He kicked the gnome down, who grunted and let out a string of pained, furious words in a language Cyran couldn’t understand. He didn’t care what they had to say, either.

He turned back around, forgetting about the second gnome, which didn’t even register as a threat to him in that moment. “Vi’ira, are you alright? Can you hear me?” He asked, voice frantic with concern, and an even more prevalent emotion that tasted bitter in the back of his tongue- guilt. “Please, breathe through it. None of what you’re seeing is real. I am so-” He paused, so choked up that he could not force the words out- “I am so sorry, Vi’ira.”

He took a hesitant step closer, unsure if he should approach her in this frightened state. Would she recognize him? Or would she only see him as a figment of her twisted imagination? He did not want to scare her any more than she already was.

He did not get the chance to make it any closer, as a sharp stinging pain in his leg prevented him from moving any further. Cyran gasped, an odd shudder passing through his body as he suddenly felt cold, as if something inside of him had suddenly snuffed out.^[2] He craned his neck to find the second gnome behind him, gripping onto Spell Slicer, which was sticking out from his leg.

Cyran’s expression twisted in a grimace of pain, furiously calling upon the shadows to strike at the second gnome, but none came. “Get off of me.” He warned, but the little gnome had begun to scramble up his leg and his back, resting on his shoulders and furiously tearing at his hair. Cyran tried to swing at the gnome, but without his weapons or his magic, he could not get rid of the little thing clinging to him and waving Cold Steel in the air, furiously trying to stab at Cyran’s face.

---

1. Death Swipe
2. Magic Blocker Enchantment

Time seemed to slow as she stepped back from the hood and passively watched as the gnome was attacked by Cyran. She watched as the gnome collapsed to the ground clutching his face and Cyran approached her with a paternal urgency. His words came out muffled, and Vi’ira’s once razor-sharp focus was completely shaken. Her lavender skin had faded to a stark white, making her come across almost ghostly in her appearance. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, the ground below her hazy. She had seen many things in her time of adventuring, some awful, some unspeakable. But this…this was something she had never expected, something she could truly never be prepared for. Her own worst nightmares were conjured up and thrown into her face in what was supposed to be a simple fight. Not only had she been faced with imagery that would haunt her for who knows how long, but she was left helpless by the one form of magic that scared her the most. One devoid of light, laced with shadow and despair, a deep evil crafting its roots. Everything in her felt cold, all warmth stolen from her.

That would be the last thing these thieves would steal from anyone.

A part of herself was afraid to look at Cyran. She couldn’t bear to see his life drained from him too, let alone brace the thought of it. The cloak possessed powerful dark magic, and she couldn’t be sure if it spread further than the cloth that carried it. What finally pulled her back to reality was Cyran gasping in pain as his footsteps came to a halt. Her head finally shot up, a twinge of fear still pricking at the back of her neck. What she saw was no corpse, but instead the gnome scaling Cyran’s back with a dagger clutched tightly in its fist. The thief began to swing the blade wildly, aiming for his face.

The coldness that once overpowered Vi’ira slowly simmered into an intense, hot rage. The dark visions she had seen had told her that she couldn’t save them all, but in this moment, the only thing that was important to her was saving Cyran. She had to. Nothing would get in the way of her protecting him, certainly not some pesky gnomes looking to play silly games. The thieves would not live to see another day after what they’ve done.

Vi’ira grounded herself once more, honing in on the arcana in her blood and controlling the winds around her to strengthen the blade of her rapier¹. She quickly lifted her feet in the air and began to step on the wind, charging forward with a burning anger behind her movements. Left, right, left, right. She circled around Cyran, and before the thief’s careless swinging resulted in another injury, Vi’ira grabbed his hand and tore him from Cyran’s back, strengthening her pull by propelling wind against herself². Both Vi’ira and the thief went soaring backwards away from Cyran from the strong gust. The two soared before tumbling onto the cobblestone, her grip on the gnome’s wrist broken.

Her eyes shot up as she rose from the ground. The gnome seemed to have lost his hold on the dagger, scrambling across the stone path on his knees frantically in search of something. Vi’ira pounced once more, her blade held high. As the thief reaches out to finally retrieve the dagger, Vi’ira swings her wind-wrapped rapier down onto his wrist. The crashing of metal against the stone and the cracking of the bone echoed in the air. The gnome let out a raspy, gutteral scream, his intact hand clutching his bloody arm.

“Proper punishment fer a thief wouldn’t ye say? Won’t be so easy to pickpocket now…” Vi’ira frowned. “Shame.” She sneered, her eyes wild. The gnome didn’t respond, his gray, cracked face contorting as pain cascaded down his arm. Vi’ira picked up her heel and pushed it onto his ribcage, pointing her rapier at the old gnome’s chin.

Vi’ira leaned in.

“Gnomes think they’re so clever.”

She smirked as she watched the gnome's face drop, realization spreading across his face as he recognized his own words. Not a second passed before Vi’ira guided her blade from his chin to directly above his heart. The thief huffed, mumbling words, but Vi’ira didn’t care to hear one bit. She drove the wind blade into his chest, piercing his heart. His strained expression rested to a neutral one as his eyes glassed over.

It was not Vi’ira’s first time taking a life, nor last, but it was never something she enjoyed. The thrill people spoke of when you watch the life drain out of someone, she never truly got. The adrenaline from a hearty fight, now that she could understand. She reminded herself that she eliminated a threat, someone that intended to cause harm to Cyran and harm to her. He’s better off gone.

She turned her attention back to Cyran as he gripped his leg, blood pouring from the wound. She couldn’t read his expression from this distance, and in all honesty, she didn’t know if she wanted to. She was so blinded by rage that she hadn’t taken into account how Cyran might react. He’s been through far more than she could imagine, that she knew, but a part of her still felt that she had disappointed him just then.

“You’ll pay you nasty elf!”

Vi’ira felt an abundance of sharp stings suddenly wrap around her right ankle up to her knee, and she was instantly pulled to the ground³. A long thorny vine dragged her across the cobblestone, pulling her rapidly into the hands of the gnome still armed with Cyran’s enchanted dagger.

---

1. Summon Wind Blades
2. Push/Pull
3. Thorn Whip (Gnome)

Cyran was used to receiving injuries- it was par the territory, really, when it came to his line of work. Pain was something you worked through until your target was dead at your feet and you could flee in the comfort of the darkness until you could get your hands on a healing potion. After the initial shock of the wound, Cyran would have been able to fight back, except… he’d been given a taste of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of Spell Slicer’s draining power, his insides twisting until he could no longer reach for the shadows around him, no matter how hard he tried. He’d been cut off from the darkness that had crept into his bones unbidden, a fact that should have been a comfort. And yet, he just felt… empty.

“Get off!” He warned again, voice cracking in panic as the gnome tried to stab at him with Cold Steel- no matter how desperately he pulled, the shadows at his feet did not stir, did not move. And that, somehow- being cut off from the only constant companion he’d had these past ten years- felt almost as terrifying as nearly losing Vi’ira.

He looked up at her as he desperately tried to get this gnome off of him, and for the first time that evening, Vi’ira would see the careful calm he wore had shattered. He’d lost his weapons, had no access to magic, and his own enchanted items had been turned against them- right now, as she was coming out of the illusion that had been placed on her, all she would see was a man, one who had no idea what to do.

And something in her snapped.

The gnome drove the blade right against Cyran’s cheek at the same time the wind stirred around her, picking up despite the fact that the marketplace had been still moments ago. And Vi’ira stood in the center, a maelstrom of fury blazing even brighter than the storm around her. And then, she was gone, and Cyran felt a weight suddenly lifted off his shoulders. He turned as Vi’ira and the gnome tumbled to the ground, Vi’ira reacting first. She slammed her rapier onto the gnome’s wrist, and a pained scream echoed through the air.

They said never to cross a pirate, and Cyran had just learned why that was the case.

Despite the taunting lilt in her voice, there was nothing but sustain and cold fury on her pale face, like the sea frozen over, right before spitting in his face one last time, and driving the rapier into the his heart. Despite the brutality of the murder, Cyran couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for the man. He cared for people, yes, but that compassion ran dry when it came to those he cared about being hurt. As he got closer to Vi’ira, there was only concern in his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet, limping over to her.

“Are you alright-?”

His question was interrupted by Vi’ira suddenly letting out a sharp gasp of pain as spiked vines wrapped around her legs, yanking her to the ground, pulled towards the second gnome, the one that they’d forgot while dealing with the other one.

Cyran couldn’t remember moving faster in his life. The pain in his leg didn’t matter. The fact that he didn’t have magic didn’t matter. Right now, he was focused on getting close to Vi’ira, and getting her out of this trap- somehow.

The gnome panicked at the sight of the second elf speeding right towards him- with his hands full with the vines, there was only one thing he could do- throw the enchanted knife right at Cyran.

Cyran reached up and grabbed it by the blade right before it embedded itself between his eyes.^[1]

Vi’ira’s style of fighting was loud, full of taunts and jeers as she twisted the metaphorical blade before hitting them with the literal one. In contrast, Cyran’s own style was… quiet. He didn’t utter another word as he spun the dagger around in his hand, bleeding slightly from a thin line in his palm, and drove it down right through the crown of the gnome’s skull.

And pulled it out with one smooth movement.

He didn’t bother wiping the blade off- Cyran whirled back around to help Vi’ira out of the vines tangled around her, slicing through them with his dagger until she was free. “It’s over.” He said, holding his hand out to help her up, much in the same way he had when they’d first run into each other only hours ago. But there was considerably more warmth in his eyes now. He helped her to her feet, making sure that everything was okay. “Any injuries? Did they get you anywhere with my blades?” He asked, voice soft.

When he was satisfied that she appeared to be in working order, both elves returned to search the bodies of the gnomes for their things. The one Cyran had searched didn’t have his own pouch, but he did find something else he’d been looking for- a bag with a leather belt, one that was well cared for and polished. Cyran straightened, a hopeful smile on his face as he addressed Vi’ira, offering the bag, with the belt belonging to Vi’ira’s mother, back to her, where it rightfully belonged.

“Here. I believe I promised that I would return this to you.”

---

1. Steel Catch