The street around Marschal was alive with bustling activity.

He guided his horse down the crowded cobbled path while weaving through the mass of Ciper residents. When Marschal reached Ciper, he was welcomed to the sounds he would expect in a city: moving conversations, sellers hawking their wares, clusters of footsteps, horse-drawn carts. He gazed up to see two rows of wall-like buildings and alley entrances bracketing his path. Marschal noticed taller buildings towering over the ones around him and even higher ones looming above them further into the city. Beyond them all, the Paravellan took note of three spires spouting columns of white smoke atop a hill overlooking the whole city. Marschal stared at the distant structure for a few seconds before looking back down at the path ahead of him.

Not too far from him was a tavern that seemed misshapen and out of place as the only wooden structure in a place full of stone. It was squished between two neighbouring buildings which gave it the appearance of a crumpling creature. There was a horizontal post set up outside the entrance with several horses tied to it. Marschal approached the tavern.

After he reached the establishment, he tied Penelope up against the post with the other horses.

When that was done he was just about to enter the tavern when he noticed a lean, dark-haired man across the street wearing a brown satchel and a red cloth tied around his forehead. Marschal found his age difficult to discern: he had a youthful face but it wouldn't have surprised the Paravellan if the man was older than him.

While the bulk of the surrounding public paid the man no mind, Marschal was the only one who seemed to notice the slight lifts, the deft swipes, the gentle grabs, the items missing from the market stands and the ostensibly accidental bumps into strangers' bodies. The Paravellan's eyes were the only pair that tracked the thief's hands and how they moved confidently and subtly through and against the crowded mass.

Trinkets, food and other small things continued to vanish into the thief's possession until he suddenly stopped. The thief then glanced up at the Paravellan, meeting his studying gaze. Marschal jerked up and looked away as though he had stumbled onto a private and personal matter. When he turned back to the thief, he found a youthful face grinning back at him from across the street. The Paravellan could only arch an eyebrow as the thief winked and placed a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture before slipping back into the moving crowd.

Then he was gone.

Marschal scanned the packed street for the thief but he instinctively knew that he would never see him again. Not unless if the thief deemed it otherwise.

The Paravellan stroked Penelope's snout before finally heading towards the entrance.

However, after he took a single step into the building, he was met with a confronting silence permeating the alcoholic air. The sounds of the outside street wafting through the open door was the only thing that could be heard. Remarkably and disappointingly, the tavern interior matched how Marschal imagined it would look like: a wide and stuffy room with splintered walls that enclosed the space around the quiet patrons. To make out those details, he had to squint through the dim lighting even though all the windows were open. He could see well enough to notice the bartender in front of him, inhabiting a pocketed area against the wall near the entrance.

Marschal scanned the empty dark faces looking back at him before he eventually sighed. The Paravellan then reluctantly ventured into the tavern, trying hard to ignore the eyes following him. When he reached the counter, he took a seat on a bar stool and looked up at the bartender who offered him a hard stare. He seemed to have been expecting something.

"Umm," said Marschal. "I'll...I'll have ale. If you don't mind."

The bartender continued to stare at him for a few seconds until he eventually moved off to grab a cup. Marschal took this time to slowly peek over his shoulder at the rest of the tavern.

He was relieved to see that most of the patrons had returned to their own devices, their attention no longer on him. But he still caught a few stolen glances from the corners of several eyes.

Marschal ignored them and continued to scan the room when a soft thud hit the counter. He turned back around to see a mug of ale placed before him.

'Th-thank you," the Paravellan said with a nod.

He grabbed the mug and sipped from it before placing it back down onto the counter. Then he faced the bartender.

"E-excuse me?" Marschal stuttered.

The bartender acknowledged him with a grunt.

"I was wondering if I could ask for directions to the......"

What did the hooded elf call it?

"The...The Iron Factory?"

"The Iron Factory?" the bartender raised a brow.

"Yes. Do you know of it?"

Another grunt from the bartender. "You'll find the Factory further into the city by the river. Do you know those spires you see in the distance?"

Marschal nodded.

"That's where you'll find the Factory," the bartender continued, "Just keep heading towards those spires and you'll find what you're looking for."

"Thank you." Marschal nodded again. "It's very much appreciated."

He was answered with yet another grunt from the man behind the counter.

The Paravellan then noticed the bartender frowning the same time Marschal heard the footsteps approaching him. He glanced right beside him to see a heavy figure with dark eyes and long messy hair leaning on the counter. Marschal accidentally met the newcomer's gaze.

"Hello, friend," the large man greeted.

"Hello," replied the Paravellan.

"You seem new around here."

"That I am."

"Ah, is that so? You enjoying this city so far?"

"It's as beautiful up close as it is from afar," Marschal answered with a nod. "Maybe even more so."

"Right," said the large man with an affable smile, leaving the Paravellan wondering whether or not that was a good sign.

"Good words, that," the smiling man continued. "Good words." He then glanced over Marschal's shoulder and pointed. "That's a nice-looking sword you got there."

Oh, no. The Paravellan straightened up.

He was careless.

"Where'd you get that sword?" asked the large man.

Marschal fought to hold the man's gaze before forcing himself to offer up a shrug.

"I bought it from a weapon's shop at a town fair," the Paravellan answered as casually as he could.

"Hm," the man nodded. "From the looks of the handle, it looks a little too fancy to be bought from a town fair. Where'd you really get it? Can I touch it?"

The moment the man a stepped forward and reached his hand out, Marschal instinctively stood up from his stool and retreated from his grasp.

A confused look replaced the smile on the large man's face. "What? Don't you trust me?"

Marschal took a step back. "N-no. It's just-"

He was just about to move another step back when the Paravellan felt a solid object behind him. Marschal turned around to see another larger and taller man standing over him.

"You know what?" The man in front closed the distance between himself and Marschal. "I can't help but feel a little hurt."

The man towered over the scrawny Paravellan.

"You know what?" he spoke down to Marschal. "I'm thinking maybe that sword was stolen. Are you a thief?"

"I'm no thief," the Paravellan fought not to sound petulant. He tried to take another step back only to be reminded again of the thug standing behind him.

"Neither am I. So I promise I won't steal it..." said the large man, offering a hand out to Marschal, "If you let me take a look at your sword."

The Paravellan eyed the hand as though it were a moving creature. "And if I refuse?" he replied.

Marschal was answered with the return of the man's affable smile which seemed to be frozen onto his face.

"Well..." was all the large man said before taking another step forward.

When the thug behind Marschal nudged him towards the smiling man, the Paravellan's hand instinctively fell to the knife on his belt. The man noticed the gesture and responded with a sneering grin.

"Berk." The bartender addressed the large man.

"What?" Berk replied.

"I wouldn't-"

The conversation was suddenly interrupted by heavy footsteps entering the tavern, prompting Marschal and everyone else to face the doorway.

His pair of sharp-tipped ears was the first thing the Paravellan noticed, as did the other patrons as well. He also noticed the stocky, muscled body filling up the entrance and the bright emerald eyes studying the room. At first, Marschal thought his hair and moustache were pale white but the more closely he peered, the more he could see a different colour tingeing the white. Was it yellow or green? The elf also donned a red cloak on the right side of his body, hiding his right arm.

Paying no mind to the dead silence in the room, the elf ventured into the tavern and approached the counter. On his way to a seat, he accidentally bumped into Berk's thug that still stood over Marschal.

"Oi." The thug turned to face the newcomer, who offered no sign that he heard the man.

After the elf placed himself on a nearby stool, with closer inspection, Marschal only just now realized how old the elf was. The lines that marked his face were too faint for the Paravellan to see at a distance and too intricate to be regarded merely as wrinkles. It reminded Marschal of rings on a tree than a marker for his age.

The elf turned to the bartender. "Drink," he ordered in broken Piosian. "Please."

With a furrowed brow, the bartender turned to Marschal and the two thugs with a face that showed an uncertainty with what to do next. His gaze moved to the rest of the patrons in the tavern before facing the elf again.

"Anything...in particular...you'd like to drink?" asked the bartender.

The elf looked up and locked eyes with the man behind the counter. He then offered the bartender a shrug.

Apparently, it was enough to send the man off to fetch a drink.

At the same time, the thug standing behind Marschal turned to face the old elf and sneered down at him. "I don't like being shoved."

However, the elf stared straight ahead and ignored the challenge.

"Hey! I'm talking to you," yelled the thug as he placed a hand on the elf's shoulder.

The contact then suddenly prompted the elf to glare at the man with cold, hard eyes. In response, the thug instinctively flinched and withdrew his hand from the shoulder. When he retreated back a step, the elf returned to staring forward again as though nothing had happened. Visibly humiliated, the thug recovered with flared nostrils and stepped up to the newcomer with clenched fists.

That was when Berk's hand landed on the man's arm, stopping him from attacking.

"Now, now, Jonny," said Berk with a smile. "That's no way to treat a guest."

He then manoeuvred his way around the embarrassed thug to seat himself on the other side of the elf. "Hello, there. And what's your name?"

There was no answer.

"I don't have many elf friends," Berk continued. "All my friends are idiots like Jonny here."

Jonny scowled in response, earning a chuckle from Berk.

"So, how about it?" He turned back to the elf. "Would you like to be friends, Mr Elf?"

Berk's question was met with silence.

"Well?" Marschal could hear the faint irritation in Berk's voice. "I'm talking to you."

The elf still ignored him while Berk spoke.

"Hey. Mr Elf? If I ask a-"

"My name not Mr Elf."

Berk jumped back slightly at the deep, husky voice that answered him.

"No?" The man large man slowly recovered himself. "Then what should I call you?"

The elf took a deep breath. "In your tongue...I be called...Oak."

"Oak." Berk nodded at the answer before offering him a hand. "Nice to meet you, Oak."

When the elf ignored the gesture, the large man shrugged off the insult, though Marschal could clearly see the irritation visible in his tense posture. To his credit, the smile still remained on Berk's face as he spoke.

"Say, Oak, you look like a big fella with a fighter's mean streak. How would you like to join my circle of friends? We could use a little...protection."

The elf turned to the large man with a raised brow.

Berk's smile widened. "What do you say?"

Oak's emerald gaze never left the large man until the bartender placed a full mug down in front of him. He tore his eyes off Berk and moved to grab his drink.

Marschal could feel rather than hear the silence in the tavern. The Paravellan looked to the other patrons to see them staring at the old elf while he chugged down on his beverage.

"Well?" said Berk. "Would you like to join my crew?"

The only audible answer that the large man received was a series of loud, audible gulps from the ale passing down Oak's throat. A sound that seemed purposefully punctuated by the dead silence of the room.

It wasn't until he finished his drink did the elf place the mug back down onto the counter and finally gave Berk his answer.

"No."

The large man perked up. "No?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

The thug named Jonny stepped up to the elf's other flank.

"Is there nothing I can do to entice you to join my group?" Berk's smile still held its place. "Maybe you'd like to get your hand on a pretty sword?"

Marschal took a step back as the large man gestured to the blade on his back. The thug grinned at the Paravellan's reaction.

"No," repeated the elf.

"No?" Berk shrugged. "Fine. I'll have it for m'self then. Maybe there's something else that-"

"I said no. Don't want sword. Won't let you have it, either."

The tavern was plunged once more into a cold and tense silence.

"Won't let me have it?" the large man growled.

At the sound of chair legs scraping the tavern floor, several men stood up from their seats to face the old elf.

"You know what?" Berk continued. "I don't think I like your threatening tone."

The large man placed a hand on the dagger at his belt. His lackey mirrored the movement with a hand on his own blade. Gestures Oak couldn't help but notice.

"...Take life," said the elf. "Prepare death."

Berk furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Don't draw blade."

"And..." the large man slowly pulled the knife from his belt, "...what are you going to do if-"

He didn't get the chance to finish his sentence as Oak clutched the back of Berk's head and slammed it onto the bar counter. Before the thug could react, the old elf head-butted him, knocking him unconscious. Marschal moved out of the way and let the thug's body fall to the ground. That was when everyone else in the tavern stepped up towards Oak.

However, they halted their advance after the elf wrapped his left arm around Berk's throat, trapping him in a chokehold. Oak then locked eyes with all the men in the room while they looked to each other, uncertain.

The elf shook his head. "I want no fight."

To everyone's surprise, Oak released the large man and let him collapse to the floor with a thud.

He sighed. "I just want peace."

Perhaps the elf was expecting a different response.

But the tavern patrons drew their weapons and cautiously approached Oak, prompting Marschal to quietly back away to the corner of the room.

The elf sighed again. "To take life...prepare death."

That was when they charged at Oak in unison.

In response, the elf bellowed out what sounded like a war cry before maneuvering his body and swinging his left arm around, batting aside and tossing his opponents with mighty strength.

One of the patrons flew past Marschal while he scrambled over the counter to take cover behind it. When the Paravellan was safely away from the chaos, the sounds of yelling and violence seemed to gradually escalate. One of the thugs smashed into the glass cabinet above before landing on the floor right beside Marschal.

He noticed the bartender standing not too far from him, flinching and ducking while witnessing the tavern brawl. Suddenly, Marschal watched him freeze where he stood and his eyes widen. The sound of the fight gradually evolved from the recognizable noises of breaking, smashing, grunting and shuffling of feet, to a cacophonic crescendo of torturous screams, broken bones and deafening destruction, far too loud to be caused by any human hand.

Marschal could also hear a new sound in the chaos. Something he could only describe as taut wood, as though a tree had fallen inside the building.

Then everything fell silent.

The only clue the Paravellan had of what was going on lied in the bartender's frozen expression and his trembling body.

What happened?

When the silence continued, Marschal opted to pull himself up from his hiding place to peer over the bar counter.

The blood and bodies sprawled throughout the scene were the first thing he noticed. Most of the chairs and tables were shattered into crumpled splinters. Deep cracks marred the walls and most of the windows were reduced to glittering shards sprinkled throughout the mess. To the Paravellan's surprise, most of the men were still alive as their groans of pain filled the room.

Marschal ventured forth and manoeuvred himself over the counter. The moment his foot landed on the other side, he felt a hand suddenly grab onto his ankle. Jolted from the contact, the Paravellan attempted to move back from the injured man on the floor. But the man's steel grip still persisted.

"Stop...him," said the beaten man with a wheezing breath. "He's a..." The man's eyes glanced up past Marschal and instantly widened. "A monster!"

A heavy thump prompted Marschal to face the tavern entrance. The old elf stumbled onto the doorframe and gritted his teeth while clutching his right arm, obscured by the red cloak. Oak looked up at the Paravellan staring straight at him.

Their gazes locked for a brief moment.

Then the elf quickly straightened up and bolted out the door and into the street. Marschal shook off the man's grip and hurried after him.

But by the time he ran into the bustling crowd, the elf had already disappeared.