[Shei'yein Neydremi]

The chill wind blew.

The twin suns had receded into the horizons. All good men had returned home, settling the children and retiring to bed with their wives. The shops had been closed and barred; even the din of the various taverns in the city had begun to die down. The night had no qualms or misgivings about who ran it. Only the briefest candles flickered – the militia and city guard, patrolling the streets. They were pitifully outnumbered, surrounded by an ocean of darkness. All it takes to bathe a city in night, after all, is one moon; one eclipse to extinguish a million flames.

Once more, the chill wind blew.

Were that moon to take form and walk upon the firmament, it would be a form of white, bathed in silks and leathers of alabaster and white ivory. It would grip a sword of static in its left hand, and a glove of pulsing energy in its right. Perhaps wings of pure energy would trail behind it, an ethereal reminder of the sea of souls that followed in its wake. The sound of chains rang out into the night, a soft shuffle of link upon link. They were heard by anyone who listened, though only by the will of the bearer. If he were to wish the city to hear nothing, it would hear nothing; if he were to wish the city to sleep forever, it would never wake.

Master among Masters, First of Equals; the Philanthropist of the Dusk, Shei’yein Neydremi. His business took him through the city streets, an uncaring beacon of the purest justice – neutrality. He fought for no man and no god, only to restore the balance that had swung in the favor of Aetheria for far too long. In that quest, he had met many compatriots. Some were driven by madness, some by personal gain; others by some depraved evil, or inborn quest. The elf cared not, as long as they served his purpose, fought by his side.

He drew a cigarette out of a case in his jacket pocket, igniting it with a match. A drag, followed by a long exhalation of smoke into the Prime night. To others, he’d seem naught but a human of some thirty eras – perhaps of noble birth, taking to the streets for a sick demonstration of his fencing training upon live flesh. Certainly, he’d be draped in black leathers and fur, a mark of colour and nobility restricted in many cities around the empire. The illusions he wore were limitless; for him to show his face would be suicide – if not immediately, then in the future. Cities had been brought low to his feet; men and beasts alike had been slaughtered by the thousands; even the regent himself had bent his knee, surrounded by the raging winds of mystic chill. To spectators, it was never done by the same man. The elf knew better.

The world was small indeed. A familiar presence pulsed on the elf’s Awareness aura. The man that was approaching – he knew this man; he’d fought beside him, once. He was one of the few on Telath who’d seen his true face, and that alone entitled him to some degree of comradeship. The elf took another drag on his cigarette as he approached the man, flickering his illusion off for but the span of a moment, and only to the human. It was up to him whether he’d recognize the elf’s form.

“The pardon hath passed the prince’s hand and seal; and yet, not put into the prisoner’s hand, carried by the unyielding winds of fate and gods,” the elf quoted, a smirk on his face as he paused to take another drag off of his cigarette.

“You’ve found yourself to be a popular man since we parted ways at Dar Havark, Fidelis,” he said, an easy smile on his face, his cigarette resting between his fingers. Idly, he tapped the end, sending a soft shower of ash to the cobblestone ground as he walked.