Marschal could still hear Kollo's cry of despair from the day before. A piercing wail that echoed in his head as a waitress placed a mug on the table before him. He stared blankly at his beverage while he remembered the tears that streaked the bandit's face. Marschal could still see Kollo's broken eyes looking upon his son's corpse hanging from Juren's grip. A grip that loosened, sending the body falling onto the cold stones with a dead thud. Marschal could still remember squinting through the darkness to see blood pooling from the boy's slit throat. The Paravellan's eyes never left the boy's corpse as Juren walked over it like an abandoned and inconsequential object. From the corner of his eye he could see his friend approaching Kollo still hanging from his chains with the sound of his cries echoing off the dark walls of the prison.

"My boy." There was a deflated and resigned tone in Kollo's voice as Juren pulled his head up with a rough hair tug. The bandit's eyes were dazed and distant as though he were mentally retreating from a world that was now devoid of his son. "My boy...You killed my-"

His voice was suddenly cut off when Juren's steel blade slid across the bandit's throat, leaving a trail of red on Kollo's skin.

All the while, Marschal stood there frozen, observing the scene like an ethereal spectator.

"Hey...Marschal..."

Juren's voice broke Marschal out of his reminiscent thoughts.

Marschal had no recollection of standing up from his seat. So he was jolted when a crowd of familiar faces smiled and stared back at him expectantly. The prison in his memory seemed darker and more ominous than the pitch black of the previous night. Now the warm candlelit interior warmed his skin, welcoming him from a cold uncomfortable flashback. But despite that, Marschal still struggled not to think about Kollo's cries considering he was now standing and drinking in the same tavern that lured the bandit to his demise.

The crowd's voices were a dull murmur in the Paravellan's head until it was suddenly interrupted with a sharp "Hey!" from Juren. It wasn't until now that Marschal noticed his friend standing beside him with a mug raised to the air.

"What?" was the only word the Paravellan could manage to say.

"I was proposing a toast," Juren announced to the other denizens of the tavern. "For the man responsible for delivering justice."

This elicited a loud cheer from the crowd, a sound that was laced with a sombre undertone to Marschal's ears. Their loved ones were murdered by the same killer. His death was a moment of celebration. But their fathers, mothers, children and friends were still gone. Nothing was going to change that.

Marschal shook his head. "No. It was all you my friend."

"Nonsense. All of this was able to happen because of you."

The crowd cheered again in response. Juren continued, "This was your plan. You put your life on the line to bring down a very powerful and evil man."

Another wave of cheers rose up from the crowd.

"I wasn't the one who killed him," said Marschal.

The crowd cheered louder. However, the Paravellan didn't see the same jubilance in his friend beside him. Instead, Juren hung his head slightly before reluctantly raising his own mug. "To Marschal."

"To Marschal," the crowd replied in unison as they raised their glasses and downed their drinks.

Marschal hesitated to follow suit. But in the end he capitulated and drank from his mug along with everyone else.

After the toast, everyone enjoyed themselves as much as anyone could at such an occasion. As the night passed on, the loud riotous noises slowly died down into a contained and exhausted murmur throughout the tavern.

All the while, Marschal spent most of it sitting at a table opposite Juren who seemed to be in a perpetual conversation with one person after another. The current person he was speaking with was a bearded man, a farmer (if Marschal remembered correctly) who lost his family and farm to Kollo's bandits. Marschal recalled the first time he met the farmer although his name remained forgotten to the Paravellan. But the farmer's unchanging and unsmiling expression was an impression that never left Marschal's mind. So, to see the farmer now smiling and laughing affably with Juren was a strange thing to witness. Then again that social and charismatic talent was what drew Marschal to Juren in the first place.

The farmer spoke after his laughter began to die down. "Anyway, I think I best be off."

"Aw! Surely not," Juren replied.

"I'm tired, friend. It has been a long day. For all of us."

Juren sighed as he was forced to concede with a nod. "Fair enough."

The farmer nodded back and walked off. But not before clasping Marschal's shoulder.

"You did well, son. You did well," the farmer said with an affectionate pat.

After Marschal responded with a sheepish smile, the bearded man acknowledged him with a nod and walked off. Juren waved farewell to him before facing Marschal.

"He seems happy," said Marschal.

"I suppose he does," Juren agreed with a weak nod.

Not knowing what to say or how to reply to that, Marschal fell silent and so did Juren. The quiet never bothered Marschal but as it began to lengthen, he squirmed internally at the awkward silence. For the last two years Marschal had known him, Juren had always been a social animal that relished in the company of others. So seeing his friend staring blankly at his mug seemed like a jarring image for Marschal to witness.

Juren then looked up and scanned the room. Marschal followed his gaze to see a tavern full of people conversing with one another in an environment that encouraged warmth and companionship. A sentiment that seemed almost lost in Juren's tone.

"I...really didn't think we'd ever be here," said Juren as he turned back to face Marschal. "For so long...Kollo, the notorious Bandit King, was always this...beast. This unstoppable monster that could never be brought down. Like the devil. Or a force of nature." Juren snickered before he continued. "Now he's dead."

Juren slowly looked up and locked gazes with Marschal in the dead silence that followed.

"Yes. He is," was the only reply Marschal could manage.

"What do I do now?"

"Hm?"

"I've spent nearly my whole life chasing after the death of one man. And now that he's gone..."

Marschal stumbled over his own thoughts. "Are you asking me what you should do now?"

"Do you have an answer?"

He genuinely contemplated the question. "Not...particularly."

Juren only shrugged and took a swig from his mug. When he placed the mug back onto the table, Marschal found himself unprepared for Juren's next question.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you gonna do now?"

"I'm not sure," Marschal answered with a shrug.

The Paravellan braced himself for another unusual question from Juren only to be met with another bout of awkward silence.

This time Marschal decided to speak into the quiet. "Juren?"

"Hm?"

"That boy. What you did to him..."

Juren inhaled deeply before he spoke. "I...don't want to talk about it."

"I just wanted to ask a question."

"Can we not?"

"Why not?"

"I just don't want to talk about it. Can't we just leave it at that?"

Marschal contemplated obliging him. But he needed to know.

"Do you regret it?"

Juren flinched from his words. "N-no...I don't. He took away my wife and daughter." He eyed his mug with a hard, cold glare while he spoke through gritted teeth. "He deserved to feel the same pain I did. That pain of loss. Helplessness. Just like I did."

Marschal listened intently and slowly nodded at Juren's words. "I...suppose that makes sense."

"Does it?"

"He took something from you. You took something from him of equal value. Vengeance at its cleanest."

Juren furrowed his brow. "Right." There seemed to be a question mark on that word.

Marschal continued, "But I do have to admit..."

"What?"

"I never would have expected that from you. If I have to be honest, I think I rather liked that young boy. The little banditling. He was a little brazen but all-in-all he could have been-"

That was when Juren stood up and downed his beverage before slamming the mug back onto the table. "I said I didn't want to talk about it." And with that, he headed off leaving Marschal by himself in stunned confusion. Juren was rarely ever angry, so the Paravellan sat there watching him leave while struggling to recognize his own friend.

Marschal was halfway off his seat about to follow him when a hooded stranger suddenly slid into Juren's old seat. The Paravellan hesitated briefly before peeling himself away from the table to catch up to his departing friend.

"He doesn't regret his actions," said the stranger, pausing Marschal in his tracks. "To do so would be to admit that he had done something wrong in the first place."

Marschal slowly sat himself back down to face the hooded figure. "Who are you?"

The stranger peered up at Marschal, providing him with a clearer view of his shrouded face. Framed within the shade of a grey hood, the Paravellan could see a pair of glowing golden eyes on a smooth face. Marschal found his age difficult to discern; he could have been of similar age as himself just as easily as a decade or two older. He could also see several strands of silver hair and a hint of elongated ears almost poking at the hood from within.

"You're an elf," Marschal stated.

"Sort of," the elf replied with a deep gentle voice that seemed to add a soothing element to the conversation. However, the smoothness of his voice only made the Paravellan that much more wary.

"Why is 'sort of' an elf sitting across from me?"

"That's a good question."

"Then you should answer it."

"There's no need to be on edge," said the elf with raised hands. "I mean you no harm."

"I'll decide that for myself."

"Of course," the elf replied with a grin.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"No, I haven't."

"Are you going to?"

"Depends."

Marshal grunted with a furrowed brow. "Depends?"

"Depends. On what you plan on doing next."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to stay with your friend? Or are you going to move on?"

"What are you talking about? What kind of question is that?"

"The kind of question that you've been asking yourself since your friend slit that boy's throat."

Marschal fell silent with a frozen expression.

"...Who are you?" asked the Paravellan.

"Are you staying? Or are you leaving? The reason I ask is because I have a request. In fact that's why I'm here speaking with you."

"A request?"

"Yes. You see, I have a friend who's planning on embarking on a very important quest. But she cannot do this on her own. She needs a reliable team of people to help her accomplish that goal. And who better to recruit than a mighty Paravellan such as yourself?"

"...You...want me...to go...on a quest?"

"Yes. Of course, all of this is dependent on whether or not you stay with your friend. It's your choice."

Marschal's face scrunched up into an expression of confusion. "Why are we having this discussion? And why would I help a stranger like you?"

"Not for me. For my friend. Besides, you and I both know that he's not worthy enough for your sword."

The stranger's words sent a jolting chill up Marschal's spine. Who was he? What did he really want? What else did he know? More questions tumbled through Marschal's mind as he stared down the golden-eyed elf opposite him. He didn't know what to do or say.

And it was that sense of uncertainty that prompted his hand to rest on the dagger handle sheathed at his belt. "Who are you?"

"You may call me Tronus," the stranger answered smoothly.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant. I also know that you're not stupid. At least not stupid enough to use that blade against me."

Marschal jerked back as he instantly gripped his blade tighter.

Tronus continued, "I am no threat to you. If I were I wouldn't have gone out of my way to eliminate the two Aethe'venar that were tracking you since you crossed the lake."

The Paravellan's eyes widened, staring blankly at the elf across from him. "You...you killed the hunter elves?"

As if he were adjourning a meeting, the elf named Tronus suddenly pulled himself up from his seat and stood over Marschal.

"I'll leave you now," said Tronus. "If you do decide to accede to my request, you can find me at the Iron Factory located in Ciper."

"Ciper?"

"It's a town that lies south-east from here."

"I know where it is. I've just never been that far east before."

"If it's an issue for you then you're free to refuse and stay here. However, if you ask me, your talents are wasted on your friend there."

Tronus gestured with a nod to the tavern entrance prompting Marschal to follow the elf's gaze. Across the room, the Paravellan could see Juren smiling and nodding in a conversation with a young woman. Despite the apparent animation in their interaction, Juren's smile seemed strained and his bright responses felt like a forced performance in Marschal's eyes.

"If you're interested," said Tronus, "I know someone who is far more deserving of your loyalty than that child-killer."

"You don't know him like-" Marschal whipped around to face the elf only to be met with an empty seat. He swiveled around and scanned the tavern for the elven stranger.

"Who are you talking to?"

Marshal peered up to see a waitress looking down at him with a raised brow.

"Umm...No one," the Paravellan answered.

"Would you like another drink?" the waitress offered.

Marschal largely ignored the waitress in his search for the hooded figure before finally addressing her. "N-no. Thank you."

The waitress nodded and headed off while Marschal continued his search. His eyes were seeking out the stranger when he glimpsed his friend staring at him from across the tavern. Their gazes locked for only a brief moment before Juren turned away and exited out the tavern. Marschal hung his head slightly after he watched his friend leave. He remained that way for a good few minutes until he raised his hand up towards the waitress that previously served his table.

"Actually, I think I'll have that drink after all."