"That's it!" the old man cried, there was an excitement in his voice that belied his age and frailty. His apprentice watched on in bemusement, expecting some obscure memory - real or unreal - to trickle from his lips. When nothing immediately followed, the dwarf's smile grew, his whiskers bristling with amusement as he obligingly asked.

"What's it, Master Sylinar?"

The response, while immediate, was neither expected nor part of the duo's traditional banter. On the contrary, while many of the master's tales could be over-embellished, extravagant, and frequently outlandish, they had always been followed with his voice trailing off and him bustling away to work on some brilliant alchemical, mathematical, or mystical equation that opened up the inherent powers of the nearest item within his reach.

"We are moving."

Amear dropped the gourd-shaped container that he was fitting with a new brass nozzle. He didn't move or raise an eyebrow. He was so stunned by the sudden proclamation that he became rooted to the spot that he was standing in. In short, he simply stared at the aging gaffer, who began the most coherent rant that the dwarf had ever heard him launch into.

"The cold is too much for these bones of mine. I want to live out my final years, of which there can't possibly be many left, in a place that fills me with happiness and one that doesn't constantly remind me of the people I've lost. My talents need to be shared with a wider audience; squirreled away in a spire named after myself has grown tedious. Besides, this musty old tower is filled with too much junk. It is time, my dear boy, that we move out into the world and live our lives as part of society, not on the fringes of it where no one can see our worth."

Falling silent, Sylinar picked the gourd-shaped item up off the floor and handed it to his apprentice.

"You will move with me. Won't you?"

Amear took the item from his decrepit master, his own meaty hand nearly dwarfing that of the ancient mystic's wrinkled and liver-spotted one. He slowly sat down on his stool and stared for several more moments. Fondness softened his features and, surprising himself, he answered.

"I suppose I will."

Silently slipping from the room, a young elven serving girl leaves without sound or notice. She creeps on silent feet to the attic of the spire where a small writing desk sits perched amid crates of carrier pigeons. Selecting one fine avian with purplish-blue feathers, she ties the small pigeon to the perch by the room's only window.

Taking both quill and tiny paper from the desk, she writes a single sentence.

It is done.

Moments later, the bird with its message flies out the attic's only window and heads southeast through the cold mountain air.

~*~ Thandiwe ~*~
ASGM of Events