Three long days of travel began to wear on you as you slipped the now-warm butt of your cigarette into the depths of your pocket, where the sun couldn't reach it. Memorized the way, or at least your best guess at it, you mount your steed and kick it into a trot, heading for the small logging outpost that, as far as you know, is your final destination. It was late, the sun was setting, but you were determined to at least arrive by nightfall. As you pass the final outpost for the day, you notice a small smoke drifting up from the edge of the forest. Not quite a house, but it doesn't seem to be a campfire either. You draw back from your sights, expertly staying within the cover of the trees, and approach a small, two story log cabin. You let your pony loose, easily picking off the folds of your cloak, the noise of the branch snapping a mere whisper to the wind. You walk up to the door, notice that it has a rose painted above it, it rests atop a small lamp, and the grass below it has flowers growing within them, their sweetness just now beginning to fade. This was your final stop before nightfall, surely they wouldn't mind? You knock on the door, your hood hiding your features, and it opens quickly, revealing a tall, brown, curving man.
"Hello, I- I am here to see the Scho- -artiste?"
"Who're you? What business do you have here? You there! You!"
You hear a clattering of deck furniture, and then one tall man steps out from behind the doorframe.
"Who's this?" He asks, challenging you with his voice.
"I- I am here to see the Sch- -artiste of the Fairy, I mean the Fairyngen," You pluck your hood back and place a small card between your teeth, "Armande de Roi-Prince."
The man pauses for a moment, his piercing gaze searching your face. You can almost feel those dark eyes pierce through you, as if they may strip you of your very soul.
A hoarse laugh escapes the man's lips, and he steps aside, beckoning you in. You nod, and step into the house, instantly feeling a grandeur, an almost spiritual quality about you as you enter. You approach the fireplace, lightly sitting down upon a bundled section of worn leather.
"What the hell," He whispers to the bearded, shaggy haired me who stands beside you, "You could have at least let him feel the fire. How you get that hair to stay up in that helmet, man, I wouldn't know. You gonna offer him a drink? He looks like he need one," He stops for a moment, the man finding humor in your sheer discomfort, before adding "Okay," and striking up conversation, "You'll have a drink, and we'll talk. If you don't want to answer a question, that's fine. I'll tell you what I know about the Fairyngen, and you can leave."
You nod, and the man walks to a shelf above the fireplace, grabbed an interesting bottle, and began to pour you a drink into a large glass mug. Inside, you see a dark, thick liquid, almost like tar. It moves slowly, and you suppose it is an elf alcohol. After pouring, you see that your glass mug is nearly full, and next to the fire, the elf has begun to boil a kettle of water as well.
"Drink up, take your time," The elf says, smiling, and the man returns from his work, carrying a blackened metal cup of a more recognizable type of firewater.
"Here, get that inside you," he says, pouring the elf alcohol into your warm water, stirring it slightly with a strange wooden stick, "It'll calm your nerves."
You sip, and swallow. The dampness, almost like a cool, moist mist, is delicious, intoxicating, and you can't stop. The drink is like nothing you've ever had. You are instantly filled with energy, and you could almost feel your blood moving quickly through your veins. This is your circle of magic, and your life. You are smothered in this endless comfort, and you drink it all.
"You might want to sit down," The elf says.
"Thank you," you say, and the elf reluctantly slides a chair close to you. The man sits back down, wiping his clean hand on his Armani suit pants, while the elf leans up against the fireplace. You slowly put your legs on the floor, but you don't realize that the centuries old leather has begun to rot. You put your weight down, and your legs slip into the ruined leather. A stream of alcohol down the side makes you look back up, only to see the man, and the elf, eagerly looking at you. You look around, they're waiting for you to talk. Without question, you find yourself blurting out what you knew, and who you were, blurting out your questions, and what you wanted to know. You tell them about your brother, your family, and then there's the door. They fall quiet, and as you finish your story, they both stand up. They agree to help you, the man because he also has a family, and the elf because he saw the look of pain on your face. You gather what you could, and as quickly as you could, you begin the next chapter in your life.
Now, years later, here you are. Standing behind a weak man, when you should be standing in front of a strong one. But that's not how it works, you have learned. It is not enough to simply stand in front of them, you must pull him up, upwards, enable him to surpass your very own. This is what your brother did for you, and this is what you must do for this little boy. You ask yourself why this is, you must have a purpose, you must have a reason for all these events.
A number of men have drunk from your mug, and it is always the same results, same old things. They become blind for a time, as they drink, and then they get sick. The boy's father, after a few drinks, began to forget the most basic of things, like his son's birthday, and his own name.
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