Dofir had been peaceful under the watch of a waxing moon. Malagaste Ouss’ervsth enjoyed the quiet. The jail cells in the room sat empty, steel barred doors left flung open to invite their next guest. Light danced in the single window across from the cells, the movement of patrons in the streets between the building and the street lanterns casting shadows to dance on the stone walls. The braziers in the room were only half lit, and beneath one the Drow sat at his desk with a book open in his lap.

The wood was stained here and there with ink, marred with scratches. Once it had been covered in parchment but now they were arranged in neat stacks. There were many nights like this in the sleepy station, where the Drow found himself alone with his thoughts and time. The crackling of the torches in their holdings was his companion, and here and there they were visited by the shuffling of pages. He’d stopped to rub at his lilac eyes, ringed with dark circles, for a moment when a hiss and whoosh let him know that one of the torches had gone out. He placed the book on the table.

L'Elge d'Lloth

Crossing the room, he removed the torch and inspected it. The wrappings had yet to be burned through, but that wasn’t uncommon. The torch was positioned by the high window, where the breeze was known to sneak in, a thief in the night to steal warmth and light. He worked quickly to change the dressings and reset the torch with a neighbor, fitting it into the iron brazier once more. The mundane task was second nature now, and within minutes he’d turned back to his desk, eager to get back to the book he’d left behind.

However, the battered tome, bound in a deep amethyst with silver lettering upon the spine, was no longer resting on the desktop. It was in the hands of a stranger who reclined back with scuffed and stained boots resting on top of the desk. The stranger was thumbing through the pages, a bored expression in grey eyes before he snapped his gaze up at Malagaste though the fringes of brown hair that fell over his forehead. He smiled, but it felt no more like a smile than the expression on a snake. The Drow noticed that one of the stranger’s cheeks was scarred, and it didn’t dimple the way the other side did with the gesture.

The Drow slowly let his hand move, his fingers brushing against the grip of the revolver holstered at his side. Silver brows narrowed, his mouth sneering. He’d never met this man, but he could take a guess or two who it might be.

“Seth Dahlios, the Vasvrae.” He said, nodding his head in greeting, gesturing at the open steel doors of the cells. “If you’ve come to turn yourself in, you have the pick of your accommodations.”