Telhari’s once clean boots sank into the mud with each step as he walked along the main road. Though the town of Viemen had been his home for many months now, he rarely spent time walking the streets for fun; the only occasion Telhari had to travel to the downtown district of Viemen was to visit the Lonely Song Tavern. That old place had burned down and been rebuilt so many times, they say, that the only original thing about it was the owner— Ma Mileena they called her. The citizens of Viemen seemed to like her, but Telhari felt indifferent. Toward him, she acted the same as everyone else. A few hundred years ago, he might have been bitter; he might even have lashed out. Now, however, he simply ignored them.

A sudden gust of wind poured over the near empty street. Telhari at once drew up his hood and continued on.

The Lonely Song came into view as Telhari rounded the corner. He stopped, just before the entrance, to tap his boots against the wooden stairs. The myriad voices from inside blended into one incoherent wall of sound, which drifted out from the open windows. As he climbed the steps and gently pushed open the doors, Telhari felt that familiar sequence of events begin to unfold.

At first, there were none who even bothered to turn around, or those who simply never even heard the door open. Then, there were those who would casually turn over their shoulder at the sound of passing steps. Telhari, now safe from the wind, drew back his hood. Then came the silence. Moving like a slow wave from corner to corner, table to table, as each suddenly and in their own time realized who — or what— had entered their sacred space.

“Alfkin.”

A middle-aged man let the words linger heavy against his lips before taking a swig of his ale. He shook his head and turned back around to the others at his table.

There was a disdainful aura about the patrons of the Lonely Song— and it was all directed towards Telhari. Human emotion was like a force all its own. It pushed like wind. It flowed like water. It burned like fire and froze like ice. He felt it all. 

Telhari took these burdensome feelings onto himself and buried them deep as he had learned to do. With a slow exhale, he continued further into the tavern and headed for the bar.

“One bowl of porridge, please.”

Telhari placed the coins on the counter even before he had finished speaking. He had learned, after much practice, this was the best way to do business with humans. It is a lot harder to deny service to someone once you’ve already been tempted by their payment. A young barmaid heard this request and turned toward him. She looked up at him, then at his ears, then to the sword at this back, then again to his ears.

“Right away, si— I mean...mister?”

Telhari ignored her and sat down.

“Err...”

She fiddled with the coins a bit before finally plopping down two pence in front of Telhari.

“Your change, mister.”

She then turned and walked back towards the kitchen.

Telhari stared down at the coins.

While traveling within human territory, he learned to keep to himself and avoid conflict. He said very little out of turn or unless spoken to. He showed his coin before he ordered. And he always paid more than the cost. He found that humans will abandon just about any belief they hold in favor of coin. They will even do business with an outsider, if it works so obviously in their favor. Paying extra kept things moving smoothly and it was usually accepted quite readily.

Maybe they aren’t so bad after all, he thought to himself.

Telhari then slid the coins off the counter and put them into his pocket. It would take some time for his food to be ready, and so Telhari decided to sit and enjoy the ambiance—

“Get a load of this, boys!?”

Or not.

The Last Song was not the quietest place in Viemen. However, Telhari wouldn’t need to stay much longer. Ignoring the commotion growing behind him, he folded his hands patiently on the counter and continued waiting.

“HAHAHA! Are you mental, kid!?” 

“Hey! Don’t laugh at him!”

“Yeah! It's not funny!”

Suddenly, a tin mug clattered to the floor. Within a few seconds there was the sound of a struggle: grunting, shoving, and the sound of chairs sliding against the floor.

“Enough! Ellis, leave it!”

“No! Not until he apologizes for laughing!”

“Apologize? YOU should be the one apologizing for bothering me with that crap. I don’t care who you are!”

“Let him go!”

“It's NOT stupid!”

Telhari heard the sound of an impact, followed by a painful groan. Someone had landed a hit.

Not good, he thought.

From behind him came the shearing of metal as a sword was drawn from its sheath. Instinctively, Telhari turned to face the commotion.

A man, well built and clad in a studded leather vest and bracers, was holding the tip of his blade to a young boy’s throat. The boy was growing into his adult height, but was still underdeveloped. He had thin arms and legs, and a narrow chest. The leather vest he wore was improperly fitted and worn, with nicks all over its faded brown surface. Presently, the boy stared down his nose at the man’s blade and stood motionless.

Behind him was the young woman who had come to his defense. She had long hair that was the color of wheat grain and bound with a piece of cloth, which hung down to the middle of her back. She too wore something that might have been misconstrued as leather armor. Mingled leather cuttings of different types and quality were sewn together in the shape of various armaments. Likely, the girl had fashioned it herself from scraps. Each of the pair had at their hips weapons of their own: the boy had a blunt ax and a sheathed short sword, while the girl had one near-eight inch blade and a hunting knife.

“I think you’ve made your point,” Telhari said as he begrudgingly stood up. “There is no need to bully the boy.”

“I don’t wanna hear nothin’ from you, freak. This is between him and me.”

The boy swallowed nervously, staring down at the tip of the man’s blade which hovered only a few inches from his chest. If this man’s intention was to teach the boy a lesson, he had surely succeeded. Anything beyond this was cruel and unnecessary.

In response, Telhari took a step forward as he spoke.

“That’s enough.”

He should have known better.

In an instant, nearly a dozen other patrons of the Lonely Song rose from their seats to face Telhari. Some with weapons drawn already, others tense and prepared to draw theirs at a moment’s notice. Telhari’s hand drifted to his shoulder — only a few inches away from the handle of his sword— as he eyed the other patrons. He should have known better than to antagonize. But there was undeniably a part of him that wanted to antagonize. To lash out. 

Amidst all this tension, the two children stood still, whimpering at the sight of so many angry faces and brandished weapons. The girl then grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him off toward the far corner of the room, shifting her eyes from person to person as she went.

“You best not be thinking of doin’ anything stupid...” said a bitter looking man from the crowd.

Telhari withdrew his hand and rested it on his belt.

“Of course not. Just a misunderstanding.”

“Lot’a misunderstandings with yer folk.”

Another man stood up: an older fellow, gray and scarred.

“It’s always trouble with your kind.”

“Bringing your curses and black magic into our lives…”

“Rhoden’s bane...”

“Friends of the Omnir’s and all their kin…”

With every ignorant utterance Telhari grew more and more frustrated. And in time, quicker than he had anticipated, that frustration twisted into anger. Telhari suddenly drew himself up to his full height— near 7 feet tall— and made himself tense. Over the course of his time spent in Omnirius, he had become accustomed to sinking low and bowing his head to appear less threatening—  to accommodate ignorance. Thinking on it now made him hot with anger. Though he was a peaceful man at heart, Telhari was deeply proud of his heritage. And in the face of such vitriol, he could hardly remain indifferent.

He took a step forward.

All weapons were drawn now; all except Telhari’s. He could feel his blood flowing; a warmth that filled his body from head to toe. Then, a familiar tingling sensation manifested in his fingertips before engulfing both his hands.

Loathsome, fearful creatures…

His hand drifted once again over his shoulder to the blade he kept snug against his back. His fingers twitched as they touched the handle, sending familiar shock waves down his arm.

It could be over in an instant...

The sensation ignited into a burning that covered his entire palm, intensifying as he gripped the handle. The men shifted uncomfortably, looking at each other before bringing their weapons above their waist in preparation. Telhari’s face showed no concern, nor did his eyes blink. He seemed as if to be looking at nothing in particular; like how one might stare absentmindedly at the water flowing in a stream.

            Looking on, Ellis watched the abnormally tall man with pointy ears prepare to draw his blade. Then Ellis’ vision began to blur. He blinked several times, but nothing changed. Slowly, he realized that it wasn’t his vision that was changing, but the man’s blade. There was something there, hanging in the air around the sheath and cross-guard, rippling like waves. He caught a faint shimmer of light as it scattered across the hilt and down the sheath.

Was it blue? Purple? No, red! Or was it all three?

He could feel the hair on his neck begin to stand and an uneasiness welled up inside him.

Is this...magic—?