Peace is Not Savory, Despair is.

"I really should stop."

"No no. Much of the story has yet to be told. Besides, there are no errands for me to run until nightfall. I insist."

"Well as you recall, she and I set upon the farmlands north of Silva where we had hoped to last a good year or so before returning back home. The price of the gold that I excavated during my adventures would have driven the landlord insane with greed. But alas, a quarter of our earnings was enough to satisfy us both."

The mage made no distinct display of intrigue for the gold, but hung on to every word as if they were sacred to him.

"The year unfurling, me and the girl, who had since become my wife, indulged in the life of simple people. The call for quests and glory still churned within us as brightly as the hearth in our cabin did, but our recluse life surrounded by a community of folk too pure to understand became a greater reward to us. The at ease chatter of those with radically different lives than ours was fascinating. More so than the message we received."

The mage cocked his head. "What message be that?"

"The one that we got just about the turn of winter. It's signature bore a servant of Jielard, a name I nearly had forgotten"

"They were the ones that sent you on the quest to retrieve the girl from the east. I beg of you to rekindle me with the importance of the girl, beyond simply your gradual infatuation."

"She was a woman of great contrivance dedicated to developing weapons. The ones you may have heard of were the phosphorus bombs, and the Sweeper-"

"Ah, yes. The one that incinerated an entire garrison. No doubt why Jielard desired such a brilliant mind. Even less doubt as to why they sent you to retrieve her, assuming your reputation is what you speak of."

He gave a monotonous hum as if to confirm it. The mage proceeded.

"But upon the journey back, you grew to care for her, and she you. The numerous brawls with the Freyalights certainly was a factor. It is strange I must say, how often I have heard that conflict can bring people together faster than peace. But however peculiar it is, there can be no doubt of the results."

Only slightly comprehending the Mage's cryptic opinion, he took the opportunity to scratch an itch that had been festering since he was approached by the specter.

"Why are you so keen on my story anyhow?"

"Because stories are the only solace I find in this cruel world. Some men find it in their loved ones, in riches, or in power. Luxuries that downcasts like myself can only descry. Sad or triumphant, they are experiences that should not be taken for granted. Despair is just as savory as happiness. Now tell me more!"

Though dissatisfied with his answer, he continued. He reasoned that if the Mage wasn't letting him go this easily, it would be far better to press on than back out.

"Jielard's name reignited the fire in our souls. Our year long rest was our most unforgettable, but we were nonetheless prepared to return to our roots."

It was at this moment that the passive reminiscence which had thus far coated his story suddenly turned to dismalness. He took in a large breath, examined his white knuckles, and tried not to meet the mage's gaze as he continued.

"When we were in the middle of Silva, upon the grey arrowed road, where the magic of the woods protected us from the winter's bite, it happened. The first arrow found her leg, but that did not stop us from drawing her bow and my sword. The second attack came from a rider who attempted to decapitate me before suffering the fatal injury from her arrow. We assumed that they had come for revenge. Regardless, we put as much distance as we could behind us, even in her condition, we still ran as hard as we could muster."

He leaned in closer. If the story had any profound effect on the mage, it was not transparent. At least not yet.

"We breached the wood, and kept moving along the road, the Freyalights came up behind us. She sent a few of them off their horse, and I slashed one on foot. And then..."

He wanted to stop. He did. He wanted to leave this person, and run back to where he was needed. Remaining here would gain him nothing but the comfort of a man too conceited to care. But then again, he reminded himself of why he was here. His next quest, the gold of Anaxel, dictated that the information the enigma of a lad before him bore. The man he spoke to now was, for better or worse, the best option.

With a sigh and resignation, he said, "And then it hit her in the neck. I dropped my sword and ran to her. She spoke...spoke no words, but smiled like she used to smile back at the farm. I just...couldn't take my eyes away from her. Even as the men carried me away for Hell knows what, I watched wanting to know what would become of her body."

There was something in the Mage's eyes. Though it bore obscured blackness of sorrow, the stenciled wrinkles just above the lid were indicative of guilt. As if he had been to blame. He licked his lips as he considered the gravity of the tale, and hung his head.

Pausing a moment to collect himself, the man shed a tear. He wiped it off as indiscreetly as possible, but suspected that even a blind king himself, seated aisles away, would have seen it.

"Three days, I was their prisoner. They never revealed their ill intent, or spoke to me, but simply treated me as the King would treat a rabid Volna. Except for the leader on the third, who knew my worth. Jaakobah, who I only assumed was the competitor in the chase for the gold we had been tasked with ere. With an obsidian mask, I could only discern his grisley tune, which bore no remorse and only greed. Perhaps it was my own dismay or desire for death that prevented me from recalling it well enough to track. I wanted to kill him. He said it did not matter. He'd be the last one I saw."

The mage wanted to ask more of the Freyalights but seeing the man enthralled in what could only be vivid memory, he restrained himself.

"But on the fourth night, I awoke to the screams of my captors. There were no torches, and so all death and its victims were shadows. I am not sure how many escaped, but those that had did not think twice about going back for me or their caravan. But I soon found myself being rescued by none other than my old friend, the Captain of Jielard."

The corner of his mouth turned upward at the mention of the Captain.

"Of course. Very fine fellow."

No longer weeping, he slightly raised his head and moved closer, "You know the Captain?"

"Why yes. I met him once before. Down at a tavern during last Spring. I attempted to make menial chatter with him, only to discover his identity through his disposition of steel and a partially concealed uniform. After asking enough times I suppose, he said the king had given him a task of the highest priority, but one that he felt he could not undertake. He said he was looking for a man worthy to bear it, but could find none."

The man blinked. The captain was never one for sharing information around commoners, especially shady ones like this. But perhaps his own absence and his friend's desperation had made him more overt. His wife was a good friend to them both.

"Well," he said, hoping to reach the story's conclusion with as much brevity as was left, "that was before he did recruit me. Recruited me to seek out the Four Fangs, whose status of myth had since crystallized into existence and common knowledge just two fortnights ago. But to you, it's been longer than that I'm sure. "

"Yes, few knew they were more than legend. I as one of them, the Four Fangs were a secret that I was entrusted with for many years. Come to ponder it, it is incredible that I have had no desire to gaze upon the four oddities with my own eyes. But then of course, I'd be distrusting my master."

The man nodded, despite sharing no similar feeling towards his sense of duty. He knew that if her were in his position, he'd take the Four Fangs and run where he'd know he'd be safe.

"Therefore, good sir, I shall tell you that they four of them lie at the border of Pinesheild. Many thanks for your tale of woe, and good luck on your journey. May you find your peace."

The man didn't move. He didn't even blink. His hands were intertwined before him and he was studying the Mage. The latter, not knowing what to make of him, repeated his final salutation.

The man smirked. But he did not stand. He made no motion to depart.

"You know, I may not posses your philosophical view of the earth, but peace is a prospect that consumes much of my recent memory. At first, I thought my peace lied in my pursuits. The adventures, however rewarding they were, were my sole purpose. A lonely one, but a fulfilling one nonetheless."

His hands fell under the table.The mage's were flat on the wood.

"But then, during one undistinguishable heist, I meet a girl. More than merely stoking my heart with her humor and kindness, she acquainted me with the notion that perhaps the greatest frontier lies not on uncharted maps, but within. The greatest treasure I found was the one that did more than bear worth; it bore a lesson. A man typically masters all of them at my age. But then, we granted particular praise from our latest employer, we gifted ourselves with a chance at a simple life. And we were marveled at what time did in those months, not only for the restoration and rumination that we lacked day to day, but for a chance at freedom."

As he stopped upon the other side as the Mage watched.

"True freedom from the greatest captors we faced. And we still chased our adventure after we learned, but we we armed with a new weapon. Do you understand?"

The mage hung his head in agreement, and then raised it.

"Beautiful.," He said softly, "It is disturbing that men who speak with such eloquence as you have while holding no shred of dishonesty and no shame are very lax. Praise be to you, lad. Your story of loss and lesson is a golden one. I shall remember it forever."

The man gave a small nod, keeping his eyes fixed on the Mage, negating the grey clouds overhead. The prospect of a storm was not the concern of his.

The mage reached into his cloak and produced an untarnished sand parchment.His passive cadence had brought the moment out of its bitter reminiscence.

"Now then. I promised you the location you desired. May the odds be in your favor."

The Mage offered the paper as a vendor offers a Stag rack to trophy hunters. The man took it, and but did not turn to his satchel. He kept himself still, holding the roll, and watching his guide.

"You know, for a long time I grew weary with the impure thoughts that I would not outlast this grief. I dreaded the thought of returning to the humble place that fate's right hand guided us to, we found true fortune, for it would bring me only misery. Though I longed to resign myself from all activity, fate decided to offer me another hand- a hand of vengeance."

His last words were delivered with deeper tone which caused a twitch in the creases beneath Mage's eye. The lines extended all over his face, down to his neck and onto his bare scarred hands. He wasn't a generation older than the man, but something had done its best to propel his physical life faster. The twitch had to be a byproduct of the same experience.

The man continued, "My strength forbade me to even consider taking it. Fighting by the sword was honorable in the right moment, but dying by it was a path I hoped to never take. However, the more I hunted, the more I travelled, I began to see that it has its benefits. Blood is more common and valuable than gold. So was trust, but that was shattered."

The Mage fiddled with his hands, which looked as if they wanted to reach for something but were too uncertain. Too nervous. Too scared.

"Every man has their limit. Some call it love, some reliance, some honesty. But once it is cut, you can become capable of wonderfully horrid things. Wouldn't you agree,

The mage's mouth fell open. He was struggling for words, a plea, a chide, a question. Anything so that he wouldn't die a silent death.

"How did you know?" He said, for the first time in fear.

"Because I never spoke of the Freyalights. Not until you uttered it. You thought I'd not recognize you, foolish bastard."

His black eyes, formerly full of fabricated sorrow, morphed into terrified fury.

The mage tried to leap to his feat, but only succeeded in rolling twice backwards before standing. Out of his cloak he drew a spatha and aimed it heedlessly at what he thought was his unsuspecting opponent. The crevices that ran along its metal like tattoos were just as he remembered. The man produced his uncloaked longsword, unanimous in its complexion and surface. Walking two steps forward, he held the hilt parallel to the right of his head with his foot posed backward.

Five feet apart stood the opponents, one a warrior, hunter, hero, and husband; the other a thief who took pleasure in stripping men of those titles. His balanced longsword was motionless in his practiced clutch while the spatha in the hands of the mage trembled with age or perhaps something worse.

The mage rushed with his weapon and brought it down towards the man. The latter blocked and thrust his drawn back leg into the mage's side. A few feet stumble and the mage steadied himself. Bringing the weapon towards the unprotected side of the man, he was met with an unseen corkscrew from the man and a blow to his left shoulder. The man stepped aside as he let his blade slice through the mage's arm and the former owner fall to his knees.

"I thought you were swept away by the river those many years ago, but fate is a double edged sword that toys with us. Well, I am beyond fate now, Jakobaah. I am beyond harm."

He had hoped that when the time came, if ever, his confidence in his skill would not overbear his precise sense of vengeance. The latter was the quality that kept him breathing these months, the one that brought him here, and the one he would carry with him to the death should the fight ask. But after a moment of watching the mage rise, legs rippling, he smirked to himself. With his opponent's guard temporarily down, the mage clutching his concealed spatha, pivoted himself to face forward, while drawing a distinct line across the man's face.

The last thing his eyes saw were a blur from an amputated man. A man that should have been killed by soldiers long ago, and by the rushing waters before that, and one that should have died now. But in that moment, he underestimated his enemy, and now paid for it, with his sight. All he saw was a crimson screen.

"You piece of woodland trash! You will die even more dishonorably than her."

He barely heard the threat, drowned by the leers of pain he spurt. The scar painted his left eye, while his right, though untouched by the blade, was avarice with blood. His sword had thus fallen from his hand and he crouched hoping to secure it, while rearing with cries of anger.

"Take comfort in this, bastard: your story is by far the most tragic I have heard. I share your despair that it will end now."

Not finding the hilt, he froze for an instant. But upon hearing the mans words better, he thrust his arms in front of him kneeling. One of them seized the arm holding the spatha, and he hesitated not. With all the force that his pain had not yet blotted, he lunged forward, meeting little resistance. As he heard a body graze the ground he released his grip to retain his stance.

Both hands free, he seized the cloth from his forearm and absorbed the red decorated eye. Tow brushes and his eyelids flickered. Before him, was the mage trying to get to his feat without the aid of hands. He turned around rapidly and saw his sword. He rushed for it. But just as he seized the hilt, with as much focus as anger, a rasher of pain hissed form his back. He fell to the ground.

"Should've punched me blind, boy. Would've been wiser."

He could taste the seared flesh from the cut, and the blood gushing from it. By now emotion had since vanished, as did his focus, and all that remained was the pain. The nostalgia of his glory era, the peaceful skies which he lied under, and most of all, the warm brush of his lips against hers. The memories that he cherished with feelings beyond description now flashed before his one eye.

But he did not lose the grip on his sword. He would not die still and powerless. Not a second time.

The mage, experiencing the moment in a matter of seconds thrust his foot on the man's hip, so that he would look into his enemies eyes as he struck him down. He lent forward extending his neck like a bird of prey.

"And so I, Jakobaah, takes his place!"

As the man complied with the mage's push, with the greatest exertion of strength not felt in years, elongated his arm, and swung the sword North to South. It flew past his drew a line down his chest.

The mage hissed and his hand released the spatha and clasped his clothes together to seal the mark. He coughed twice as the man stood. The latter came to a rest fully erect and beyond panting, buried his fatigue. With both hands now bearing the weapon, he assumed a form three position, blade filling the distance between them.

The mage could not tell what had surprised him more: the flesh-wounds or the persistence of the broken warrior. Both were killing him on his feet.

"Do you flee now, and risk dying the way your men did those years ago, overtaken by the rush of bravery? Or do you pick up the weapon, and die as a warrior, the highest form of life you may ever assume?"

The sun was gone now, and the mage examined his enemy's countenance. Anger, sorrow, disillusionment had all been shed for something that he could not comprehend. But it was clearly beyond his reach.