The elderly nekojin couple didn’t just give Phyr a cup of whisky; they were kind enough to refill the flask he carried in his cloak as well. Bathed in humid warmth and the aroma of cabbage ste, the old dark elf went to work. He swirled the whisky around the bottom of his glass as he puttered around, reaching out with his mind to sense the metals available. He found a length of stiff iron wire in the back of a busily arranged oaken cabinet as he took a sip.

The whisky was a fine Coronian rye with an initial barky bite but a smooth finish. Phyr swished it around his mouth as the iron wire slithered sinuously off the shelf and settled around his shoulders like a friendly snake.

The catfolk watched in apparent awe as Phyr crossed the closely swept cedar floor and bent over the clogged sink. The wire flowed off of his shoulders and down the drain, weaving around obstacles it encountered and corkscrewing until it reached the bend in the pipe. It then retracted itself, pulling out a long ball of grimy hair and food particles.

“Out the back with that, if you please!” Ma exclaimed, throwing her paws up at the dripping mess. Phyr bowed his head and levitated the wet wire down a short hallway to the rear entrance, which was barred with an iron deadbolt. He had to concentrate a little harder, but he managed to mentally unlatch and open the door while keeping the wire afloat. He stepped outside and set the wire down gently, and then darted back in and shouldered the door almost-shut as he heard voices.

The smooth Aleraran accent belonging to the spies’ leader was unmistakable.

“Search that fucking tavern, and then we’ll move on. I’ve got a feeling he ran, he’s been running since he escaped from Devil’s Keep. No reason he’d stop and hole up now. But check it just the same.” They were circling around to the front of the tavern, as Phyr had done.

The dark elf shouldered the door shut and leaned against it, sucking a deep breath as cold sweat sprang up on his scalp.

“Phyr-san?” Pa called down the hall. He had only provided them his first name. “Is all well?”

“I’m afraid not,” the one armed drow said. He stepped back into the kitchen and set his empty glass on the scarred counter. His azure eyes took in the elderly couple, who glanced at one another, seeming to sense his seriousness.

“I have not been entirely truthful with you,” Phyr confessed, casting his gaze down at the clean floor - Ma had already mopped. “I came in here not for a drink, but to hide. There are elves in this town who seek to do me grave harm. I have done nothing to deserve their pursuit; they wish to profit from my inventions. I’m afraid they are about to come in the front door - and they will ask after me. What you say - and what you do - is up to you.”

They exchanged another glance.

“We sensed you had a secret,” Pa said, his tone gravelly. “But I never suspected it would be something so dire.” He screwed up his nose and sighed, and Ma took his paw in hers. He nodded. “Get you upstairs and hide, then. We won’t be the type to give up a friend in need, even a newly forged one.”

The offer sent a wave of relief through Phyr’s racing mind. They would not turn on him.

“I could never accept such a risk on your part,” the dark elf shook his head. “But I thank you. Tell them only that I was here, that I left some ten minutes ago, and that I said I was headed for the mountains. I will make my escape through the alley out back.” He clasped each of their hands with his lone left, somewhat awkwardly, but sincerely.

He heard the spies calling from the common room, asking for ale, behaving like boisterous tourists. He gave the Akashiman couple a short bow and then turned and fled.

He did not flee far, or fast. Instead he sneaked around the front of the tavern, finding the square there once again deserted. He crossed the street, heading away from the mountains, toward the coast. If he could catch a ship, he could -

The front door of the tavern creaked open part way, and the spy leader’s voice poured out. He was talking with the old couple. They held his attention. He was pretending to be a tourist, looking for his lost one-armed friend.

Phyr knew he had less than a moment before the spies poured back into the street. He was not positioned to hide behind any of the buildings, and there were no convenient shadows to expand and blend into. With no other options, he opened the door to the alchemist’s shop and darted inside.

The smell of alcohol struck his long nose, as strong as an operating room in an Alerian hospital. Three feminine faces swiveled around to look at him, making the quaint shop feel almost crowded. Phyr smiled and bowed, moving away from the windows. The grey dwarf and the Alerian elf both looked a little caught off guard, but curious about his entrance. The young woman who appeared to be a hybrid of nekojin and human simply looked at him with loathing.

“Ladies,” Phyr said as pleasantly possible, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. “If I am interrupting, I must beg your forgiveness.” Without knowing whether or not the spies had spoken with any of them, he decided to wait and see how they responded before continuing.