Purple dusk kissed the tangerine sky. Matua braced himself and inhaled deeply, the cold and salty air cut his lungs like feathered knives. He couldn't let it distract him now though, as tonight was the last night for him to earn money for the season. He stood there, motionless, in a near-trance, as violet overtook the sky and melted into the inky blackness of night. Soon, he thought. They will be here any moment. Matua scanned the woods around him once again, yet his quarry was not to be found. The elf sighed. He would not yet resign himself to a fruitless night. His pointed ears twitched. The unmistakable snapping of twigs - best associated with the young and carefree. Not ideal, Matua thought, but forty Duhnsmark are still better than zero Silvers. As fast as he dared, Matua reached into the quiver on his back. Silently, two arrows were lifted and notched in his antique bow. Matua shut his eyes and followed his prey in his mind's eye. With a deft pivot on the balls of his feet, the hunter loosed his two arrows in a flurry of grace and aggression. The children could only just process Matua's presence before his arrows skewered their skulls. 

Matua stood tall and quickly surveyed for any others he may have missed. As he panned left, he locked eyes with their mother, a gorgeous doe, paralyzed with shock and terror. His black eyes gave way for no expression while his mind attempted to calculate the doe's path of escape. Matua's eyes were getting dry, but he dared not blink. He only had one chance to get his shot. He again lifted an arrow from his back and pulled his bowstring taught. A smile crept across his copper face and twisted his thin lips. As he let his arrow fly, a piercing scream to the right echoed through the silence, causing Matua's tool to lodge into the trunk of a tree, just above the doe's head, who had disappeared into the now dark forest. 

Matua cursed to himself as he dislodged the arrow from the tree. He turned and kneeled between the two deer, examining them and their potential worth. Two young bucks, with a Goldmark's worth of meat between them. Matua retrieved his arrows and tied the deer together. All the while, a shrill duet on the main road harmonized against the backdrop of the evening. Matua loaded his prey onto his ramshackle cart and trudged toward the direction of the cacophony. Not to his surprise, he found the source of the disturbance within ten meters of where he returned to the road. Matua approached the canopy-covered carriage apprehensively. As he came nearer, the quarreling became more distinguished to his ears.

"Well, I hardly see how that is my fault," a feminine voice proclaimed, "I take no responsibility for this."

"You take no responsibility for startling my horse, which caused him to buck, break his leads, and bolt away," a man's voice retorted. "How can you take no responsibility for that?!" Matua had now a view of the couple, and, sure enough, there was no horse to be seen. Could this be a ruse? Matua pondered, It would make sense for highwaymen to be poaching tonight. 

"Well, if you hadn't woken me," the woman returned, "I wouldn't have screamed and your horse wouldn't have run! Anyways, you should have stronger leather leads if it was that easy for your horse to break free." Matua slowed his pace and widened his distance. He detached his bow from his back and drew an arrow, just to be safe. He kept everything resting and aligned himself directly parallel while he watched the argument unfold. 

"You're right, I should have known you were stowed away in my carriage, how foolish of me to reach for an apple and grab you instead." 

"Thank you," she beamed, oblivious. 

Try as he may, Matua let slip a chuckle. The woman looked up and saw him, and let out another shriek. Matua reflexively raised and notched his weapon. He quickly spun around, making sure he wasn't in the middle of an elaborate ambush. While he found no aggressors, once he completed his rotation, he was met with a crossbow pointed squarely at him. "Good evening, friend," the man began in a lyrical voice. "I am Sven Brightleaf, traveling minstrel extraordinaire. And this," he motioned to the lady beside him, "is my, uh, stowaway -- I just realized, I never got your name, dear." 

The young woman was dumbfounded. She sat there for a moment, mouth half-agape. Finally, she responded. "Uhm, V- Vala. You can, uh, my name is Vala." Matua approached the duo, analyzing them. Sven had the clothes and looks of a performer; perfectly coiffed blond hair, a well-maintained beard, elegant riding clothes of green and beige, and the general appearance of a traditionally handsome human, with the ethereal elements of elf sprinkled throughout. While Sven was certainly using his beauty, Matua could see the tightly coiled musculature of manual labour beneath his glamorous garments. Sven's green eyes sparkled with elven charisma and gold flecks; Matua could tell the half-elf could talk his way out of death. 

Matua's eyes then drifted over to Vala. She was a beautiful young elf, no more than two centuries old. Her brown hair was braided loosely and cascaded down her back. Her purple eyes had a warm glow as if she already knew his secrets and accepted him as he was. Her dress was plain and unremarkable, with embellishments of silver. It seemed she was a serving girl for a North Gadrian house, yet Matua noticed her hands were spotless and well-manicured; it was clear to him Vala had never done an hour of menial work in her life. Her pale skin shimmered in the moonlight like a porcelain goddess. Matua needed to learn more about her. 

The hunter had finally made his way to within eight feet of the carriage, yet he still had not uttered a word. Sven tilted his head inquisitively and gingerly placed his crossbow across his lap. "My friend," he sang, not taking his eyes off the lanky and emotionless stalker, "it is at this point where typically you would introduce yourself. Might we be graced with your name?"

"Matua," he mumbled. "Commissioned hunter for the Butcher's Guild of Clearwater. Your noise has cost me income, and today was the last day to hunt. I believe you owe me my lost funds."

Sven peered back over his shoulder at the broken cart. "You seem to have a fair bounty already, but here, how does this sound: I am to perform at the Rusted Anchor tonight. If you wish to accompany me, erm, us, into town and down to the inn, I will repay you your lost wages by sun up. Is that fair?"

Matua nodded, his mirror-like black eyes never leaving Sven's gaze. He relaxed his shoulders and returned the bow to his back. "It's nearly two hours by foot back to Clearwater, and then another thirty minutes to the Anchor. If you let me link my cart to your carriage, I wager I can find and reattach your lost horse. We should be able to cut our travel time in half. Agreed?" 

Before Sven could respond, Matua had jogged back to his cart and doffed his weaponry. He pulled his cart up to the back of the carriage and joined them together with some spare chains. Matua then came around to the front of the carriage with new leather straps and four steel links, two for each fastening. Sven put up his hand to signal Matua, yet he was lost in his mind. Without a word, Matua spun and knelt in the place of the missing horse, examining the hoof prints. After a moment, he began to walk away from the tracks and into the forest on the left. 

Vala and Sven exchanged a speechless look as their new companion disappeared into the darkness. Sven took the time to replace his crossbow into the hollowed panel in front of him. He found having quick access to weaponry very helpful while traveling the kingdoms. He also found having his old traveling companions helpful, even if they weren't the kindest of company. At least Markos and Olive didn't scare horses, Sven pondered. But still, I am far better withou- 

"Do you think he left us?" Vala interrupted Sven's silence, in a panicked tone. It was clear to Sven that whoever she was, Vala had not left home before. "I think he's a brigand. Do you think he's a brigand? Do you think he's left us for his compatriots to assault and burgle us? I'm sure that's why he attached the cart, so they would know which carriage to attack."

Sven looked around the empty road. "Yes, Vala, I'm sure, if he is a brigand, the reason he put the cart on my carriage is so the other brigands know to target this carriage and not any of the others out on the road tonight." Sven gestured around them at the nothingness on the road. "For surely, brigands wouldn't want to attack the wrong carriage."

Vala crossed her arms and slid down the bench in a huff. "You never know," she sighed. 

Sven looked the girl up and down. He too, suspected her to be barely an adult in elf culture. "You're rather young aren't you?" He prodded. "How many -what do you elves call them-  universal rotations have you seen? And another thing, who in Saint Pietro's Orange Acres still uses 'brigand' as a real term?"

Vala huffed. "It's of no matter." She shuffled herself back into an upright sitting position. 

"See," Sven continued, "things like that. I don't know of anyone who actually talks like that. It feels like you're trying to act grown-up. So really, how old are you?"

Vala looked at the carriage floor and kicked some dirt with her leather boot. "Two-hundred and twenty-eight standard, okay? I told you, it's not a big deal."

Sven took a moment to do his math. His mother had taught him her elf culture many years ago. He recalled that elves had their way of calculating time based on their extended lifespans, every twelve standard years, she would say, the Universe would make a full rotation, and its Soul would age by one year. As the elves are the children of the Universe, they age on the same scale. "So really," Sven began slowly, "you're.." 

"Nineteen." Matua's voice came from behind them as he climbed into the carriage. "You two are bad lookouts. And loud. Horse is back. Let's get moving." 

Sven looked visibly confused. "How did you… Y'know," he tossed his hands in the air. "It's of no matter." Sven reached forward and grabbed the reins. He sat back and leaned over to Vala. "See? It just sounds weird." Sven flicked his wrists and off they set. 

The ride to Clearwater was uneventful at best; the nearer the trio got, the saltier the air became, and the echo of the waves greeted their ears. Finally, they reached the Orkru River bridge, the traveler's landmark that signified five kilometers to the Clearwater main gate. 

Matua gave a bittersweet smile as they crossed the old wooden bridge. He had just settled near Clearwater after the flood when the river was formed and the first bridge built. He now realized, close to four hundred years later, it was nearly time for this iteration to be retired. The dwarves were wanting a return to stone bridges, as they used before humans resettled their ancient city. The humans, on the other hand, wanted to do what humans do best: adapt and repair. They would argue it is more cost-effective to restore and repair the current bridge than build a new one. Matua worried the animosity between the dwarves and humans was reaching fever heights. He reckoned it began close to thirty years ago when Duke Rubahn Harrod ordered a dwarven emissary to sit on the Clearwater city council. Since then it's been a very slow but noticeable power creep back to a dwarf-controlled Clearwater. Every two years the city elected five councilors from the human population, typically from the four great clans, as well as a sixth councilor, nominated by the Duke. The Duke's councilor controlled two votes; one for themself and one for the Duke. Times like this made Matua more appreciative of his cabin, located outside the city walls and away from the general nonsense. 

Sven began to slow the carriage as they neared the main gate. Ancient stone walls rose fifty feet into the sky and stretched circularly to the horizon, with only a break for the river. The walls were smooth and continuous, made of the well-kept dwarven secret; liquid stone. Matua had always heard liquid stone hardened stronger than steel. If that was the case, he pondered, how did the river flood the city? 

His self-reflection was cut short by the awkward, clangorous march of an approaching city guard. Matua examined the approaching guard. A large boy, Matua examined, at least six and a half feet tall and just as wide through the shoulders. His chain shirt gleamed in the fresh moonlight and the dark grey gambeson beneath was free of tears. Beneath the icy blue helmet was a fresh face with a scant hint of stubble. A young lad, and almost certainly his first posting, however, the smirk on his face and the glint in his brown eyes gave Matua pause. 

"Shakedown." He muttered to his companions in the front. "Be ready to lose a few Duhnsmark. Don't say anything about the deer." 

"Good evening, travelers!" The guard shouted from ten feet away, continuing forward to rest beside Sven's horse. "Might I ask what brings you to the fair city of Clearwater tonight?" 

"Good evening indeed," Sven sang. "I am Sven Brightleaf, Minstrel Extraordinaire. Along with me are the lovely acrobatics of the Lady Vala and my musical accompanist, er, Tall Matthew. We are expected at the Rust-"

"Well then master minstrel, it seems you and your crew do need access to the city," the guard interrupted, "and I will be happy to let you in. However, the Council has implemented a curfew tax of.." he paused and sized up the carriage. "Thirty-five Duhnsmark. As well as, a, uhmm, entertainment tax of a twenty percent stake of your earnings while in the city, paid upon your leave of the city. Of course, if this is not suitable, I would have to redirect you west to Duhnspik or east to Duhnskors, but that would be a long ride through the night." 

"Enough of this," Vala scolded. "You are supposed to protect the city, not rob its visitors. Here." She held up a small coin purse of red velvet. "Five Arcan. This should be more than enough for my friends and I to not be hassled anymore." The purse sailed through the air and hit the guard square in the chest with a soft clinking. "Shame on you."

The guard stared at Vala, mouth agape without comprehension. 

"I will take your silence as an accord," she continued. "Now, pick those coins up like a good boy and stuff your mouth with them. I shan't like to hear from you again while I am in Clearwater. Now, shoo! Go open the gate and let us in. We are late." The guard stumbled backward, purse in hand, face frozen in confusion. As he turned around, Vala broke into quiet laughter, quickly stifled as if remembering her place. 

"Interesting negotiation method, girl," Sven crooned. "There is much more to you than you're letting on, hmm? All in due time I'm sure." He straightened himself and lightly snapped the reins. "Now," he continued, "let's make some coin."

Sven's horse trotted forward; the clapping of her shoes on the stone path echoed through the night, drowned out only by the creak of massive wooden doors welcoming the carriage to the port city.

After two kilometers on the main road, the group had arrived outside the Rusted Anchor. The tavern sat upon a cliff overlooking Clearwater's docks and Stormbreak Bay. The moons levitated just over the horizon, illuminating the night in a pale blue glow. Matua leaned forward on the old wooden fence and for a moment, allowed himself to be fully enamoured by the three cosmic bodies. 

Being raised in the Tei Clanlands, Matua learned the stories the goblins associate with the moons of Grandmother Kana and her two boys - Lōt, the warrior, and Tikill, the trickster. His favourite was one where Tikil convinced the torgons of vast treasures on the shore worth leaving the oceans for. Once those turtle dragons did come ashore, Tikil immobilized them by heating the sandy beach to glass around them. He and Lōt then slayed the beasts while Kana convinced the forests to walk upon the massive shells. Soon, after the roots had settled, Kana brought the goblins to the new hills and forests the three had created together.

At its heart, that is what Matua loved about the story; the togetherness. How easily the three worked together, how they all belonged. A feeling he had not known since his brother, Tāma, disappeared centuries ago. 

Matua's reminiscence was cut short by Sven's silky baritone. "I've squared everything up with the innkeeper; I'm set to perform in an hour, and I've even got the three of us lodging upstairs." He paused, arms spread, with a massive smile stretched across his golden face. Matua met Sven's smile with a blank gaze. "Really," Sven shot, "Nothing? No 'Thank you, Sven, you shouldn't have!'? Not even a smile? Most people would show at least a modicum of gratitude."

"I have a cabin outside the walls. Maybe tell the girl what a saviour you are. You even went so far as to get her her own room. And they say chivalry is dying." Matua pushed himself off the fence and began walking to the stables. "I'm taking my haul to the Guild. See you in an hour." 

Sven watched the tall elf sulk away to the stables before being lost in shadow. Sven let out an exasperated breath as he kicked at the ground. "What are you doing, boy?" He questioned himself. "You can't truly expect these two to want to stay with you, hmm? To go on a grand adventure?" With one hand, Sven pushed his gold locks back and off his slender face. His other hand fumbled inside of his jacket for a moment, before producing a tightly rolled smoking paper packed expertly with red moonleaf. The elf-man parted his tan lips and gently placed one end of the roll between them. At the other end, Sven snapped the fingers on his right hand to produce a brilliant aqua flame. He brought the flame closer until it was just kissing the roll. He only had to wait a moment there for the paper and leaf to spark before he could suck back the sweet, sticky smoke into his lungs.