The sun had begun its creeping descent toward the horizon, painting the guildhall's windows in shades of twinkling dimming gold. A moderately busy establishment during the afternoon, the entire place had transformed into celebratory chaos as evening settled over Harrathen’s soft skies.

  But a storm brewed within the Necromancer.

  Nyssa sat at the bar, staring down at her sixth tankard of ale, or perhaps her seventh. She had stopped counting somewhere after the third, though the alcohol had no effect on her elven constitution whatsoever. The bitter liquid might as well have been water for all the relief it provided from the crushing weight of her earlier revelations. Lyanne kept buying the woman drink after drink, taking Nyssa’s silence and constant imbibing as permission to ply her with alcohol.

  The woman was beside her on a stool, blabbering — always blabbering.

  "Right!? And that's when I told her, I said to her, 'Listen here, you little k’rara, you can't just go swingin' that sword around like it's some kind of club!'" Lyanne was saying, her voice considerably louder and more slurred than it had been an hour ago. She had kept pace with Nyssa drink for drink, though the alcohol was clearly having a much more pronounced effect on the human trainer.

  Lyanne leaned closer, her breath heavy and panting with ale as she continued her rambling story, "But you know what the real problem was? She wasn't payin' attention to her footwork! Always about the footwork, innit? Can't fight prop– properly, if you don't know where your feet are. Look! Look–”

  She punctuated this observation by nearly sliding off her barstool, catching herself with a laugh and positioning her feet in some stance that Nyssa assumed was ‘the proper footwork’. A passing adventurer nearly got tripped by the drunk woman, and curses were exchanged before Lyanne sat back down and sighed out in relief.

  Nyssa wasn’t even paying attention, not more than what was expected.

  Around them, the guildhall had filled to capacity. Adventurers streamed in from their day's journeys, some still mud-splattered and weary from the road, others already changed into more comfortable attire after securing rooms upstairs. The guild offered discounted lodging for registered adventurers, a practical arrangement that kept their clientele close at hand and ensured a steady flow of evening revenue from food and drink. Each of these filled cups was four coppers, twice the amount of the taverns in most towns, from what Lyanne had mentioned. They were paying for convenience.

  The atmosphere had grown raucous and celebratory in the meantime. Musicians had claimed every far corner, filling the air with competing melodies that somehow managed to blend into a surprisingly harmonious cacophony. Laughter echoed from every table, punctuated by the occasional cheer as someone succeeded in a feat of might or finesse. The one fellow to have fired an arrow at a lobbed mug was swiftly escorted out.

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  Near the far wall, a group of Warriors and Fighters had organized an arm-wrestling tournament, their contests drawing crowds of spectators placing increasingly creative bets. Most of the prizes were just more drinks, the occasional extramarital kiss. At another table, a party of bards were engaged in what appeared to be a musical duel, their instruments strumming and blowing increasingly complex melodies as they tried to outdo each other for adoration.

  "You're not listenin' to me." Lyanne accused, poking Nyssa's arm with a finger that missed its target on the first attempt, "Story of my life, that is. Pretty girls never listen to Lyanne.”

  Normally, Nyssa would've cursed the woman for placing yet another part of her mortal flesh on her body. This time, she was too preoccupied in emotion to care.

  "I'm listening." Nyssa lied, taking another long drink from her tankard. The ale tasted like disgusting disappointment, which seemed appropriate. Not even a wine could help her mood.

  Smoke drifted through the air. Some of it from the hearth fires, but much of it tinged with the sweet scent of herbs that made colors seem brighter and laughter come easier. A pair of Sorcerers sat in one corner and shared what looked like a hookah pipe, occasionally producing small, harmless bursts of colored flame or floating lights for the entertainment of nearby friends and adventurers.

  "Nah, you're not. You're thinkin' about somethin' else. Been thinkin' about somethin' else since you talked to those Hardshells." Lyanne leaned back against the bar, studying the brunette maiden with the drunken concern that arose with flayed sensibilities, "They say somethin' that upset you?"

  Upset was an understatement.

  How could she explain to Lyanne — to anyone — that her entire sense of self was shaken with a few casual words? That centuries of carefully cultivated reputation had been dismissed with laughter? That she was apparently so irrelevant that adventurers preferred fighting liches and dragons rather than bothering with her?

  It was Skyfallow. It had to have been. She had grown complacent in enjoying domestic bliss, and now she was suffering the consequences.

  "They were... not what I expected," Nyssa said finally, coming to terms with her predicament.

  Lyanne waved her hand dismissively, nearly knocking over her own drink in the process, "Don't let 'em get to you. Half of what they say is just showing off anyway."

  But they hadn't been showing off. The Hardshells had been genuinely puzzled by the idea that anyone would still consider Amithaera a threat. The dismissal had been so complete — so casual — that it couldn't have been anything but honest. They feared her long-gone Master more than they feared her.

  She couldn't even live up to a dead man.

  In the far corner, true to form, a collection of rogues had claimed the darkest tables, their hoods pulled up despite the warm interior. They huddled over their drinks like conspirators, occasionally glancing around the room. More than a few of them kept trying to make eye contact with passing serving ladies, apparently under the impression that mysterious brooding was more attractive than it actually was.

  Nyssa drained her tankard and pouted.

  Around them, the revelry and dance continued. A group of Clerics at a nearby table had started a drinking song about smiting undead, their voices raised in drunken harmony. The irony was almost too much to bear.

  If alcohol wouldn't numb the pain, perhaps she had to resort to another outlet. She looked at the woman beside her and commanded her with the tone she used for Veratreez, “You and I, dance. Now.”

  Lyanne put her drink down immediately.

  The night was still young, and she had a reputation to mourn.