"Anyways, whippersnapper, what was I saying? Of course. Replace the fourth engine cog with a lubricated jack-bolt, and your steam wagon will move at twice the speed. Perhaps thrice!"

"What are you talking about?" The youth demanded, face as red as his hair. "What's a steam wagon? What's a jack-bolt? What does lubricated mean? Look old-timer, we agreed that if I bought you a few cups of whisky, you'd share valuable Alerian secrets. So far all I've heard is a bunch of made-up sounding words spewed by an old drunkard. Should I tell my brothers you went back on our bargain?" The boy nodded at two older, much larger youths with red hair to match his own. They waved menacingly from the bar and flexed their muscles.

"If you'd been bloody listening," Phyr Sa'resh muttered, "you'd have learned plenty of use already. And you should know better than to threaten an armed elf." He tapped the sheathed flintlock cutlass he'd lain upon the table before sitting down.

"You mean a one-armed elf?" The boy scoffed, looking at the empty sleeve where Phyr's right arm would have been. The old dark elf shuddered. Twenty years since he lost the arm in that Salvic prison, and he still felt phantom pains in it.

"A wise one-armed elf," Phyr retorted, "with more experience and knowledge than you and your whole family combined. So, you don't find my ramblings helpful. Ask a question then, youngling, and it shall be answered." Sa'resh picked up his tumbler glass and took a long swig of mediocre whisky. It burned all the way down, but the fire was pleasant once it reached his belly.

"If you're such a clever steam-smith or whatever, why don't you build yourself a new arm?" The boy asked. He sipped his ale, still fixated on Phyr's empty sleeve.

"I was a gunsmith, and a clockwork mechanic," Phyr corrected. So long as the liquor kept flowing, he could have all the patience in the world. "But here on Corone, I don't have the technology required for such a mechanism. I would need to return to the laboratories of Alerar in order to even attempt to build a functioning arm."

"So why don't you go back?"

"I lost my arm in prison," Phyr growled, "after being falsely arrested for treason. If I returned to my home country, I would be imprisoned again, or even executed."

"You were in prison?" The youth sounded impressed for the first time. His eager eyes roved the scars on Phyr's face, his long crooked nose, his matted silver hair and his bent posture. "I suppose I can believe that, just from the looks of you. Where'd they stow you? Dour? Terrinore?"

"Devil's Keep," Phyr said darkly, "it lies on the border of Salvar and Berevar. No one sent there was ever meant to leave." He took another long drink, hoping the heat would burn away the bad memories.

"But you did?" The youth inquired.

"I did what?" Phyr growled over the rim of his glass.

"You left. Were you released?" The boy leaned forward, crimson hair falling over his brow.

"No," Phyr said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I orchestrated a great escape, and then a Coronian Ranger named Christina Bredith chased me the length of the North. But eventually I found my way onto a ship sailing for Corone, and-"

"Alright, alright. I didn't ask for the tale of your entire life." The boy said, waving his hands. He scratched his hairless chin, a faraway look in his eyes. "Let me go talk to my brothers," he said, "you might be worth some coin after all." He stood and moved away from the table, slopping ale across the sawdusty floor as he went.

Phyr was content to sit in peace and drink. He had only recently returned to Radasanth after the events surrounding the invasion of Corone. He shook his long silver mane, scarcely believing everything that had happened in the past year. First he'd abandoned his post as Captain of the Watch in Underwood, and taken up a station as special advisor to the Baron of Serenti. When the invasion had begun he'd done his level best to keep the nation intact, but some of his actions could easily be misconstrued. When the fighting ended and the dust settled, he'd no longer been welcome in the Baron's employ. And so he'd returned to Radasanth, and returned to the drink.

His azure eyes followed the redheaded youth to the bar, where the boy spoke briefly with his brothers. They exchanged words, and the larger of the brothers pointed several times to a table at the back of the tavern where a lone man sat as if waiting. The boy nodded and carried his ale to the table. He kicked a chair back and sat facing the burly older man.

"So," the redhead said, and then leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I hear you're looking to break someone out of prison?"