From his high vantage, Albin Darkweir looked down upon a moonlit cityscape, the city of Mistvale, his city. Snow had fallen two days before and since then the skies had been clear and the air clean and crisp. Streets, muddy from day time use and frozen over with a shiny crust, formed an intricate and dark maze between moonlight lit snow encrusted rooftops. The inhabitants celebrate the beginning of the storm season at this time of year, the season of mist, the season of darkness and secrets. This was the last night of the three day festival. This was a night of overindulgence before a coming time of belt tightening until the spring. In years past, Albin would have visited many parties on this night. He was getting old.

A small campfire behind his back kept him warm. The loud pops and crackles of the damp wood were an audible random counterpoint to the regular, crash of distant ocean waves from the rocky coastline below. Their violence and regularity suggested another winter storm would arrive before the sun rose. Albin took up a leather wine bag and poured himself a cup, another cup, into an old weathered travel mug.
"You are leaving then." Albin turned at the sound of the young man's voice. He was not surprised, though he should have been. The soldier, a member of the Midion Guard, had quietly made himself a place beside the campfire, warming his hands against the cold.
"I am old, and the city has changed." Albin looked down at his hands, the old cup held within them. His hands were weathered too, scars and wrinkles recording a secret history.
"Not so much, I think." said the soldier.
"It has seen peace for ten years. I disapprove of those who rule but they have allied themselves well with their neighbors. The city prospers. ...and if they knew of me, they would disapprove of me as well." Albin sighed.
"They speak of you, you know..."
"The Council?"
"No, who cares about them. The townsfolk, your people. They tuck their younger children in bed voicing your myth like a protective charm." The young soldier chuckled. "... and then turn to their older children and threaten them with you should they stray from a righteous path."
"Fools..."
"You don't mean that."
Albin sighed again, his face drawn, "no, I don't." He took a long gulp of his wine.
The soldier smiled. His smile was sad and old. It didn't fit on his youthful face.
"You think I should stay."
"I think you should ask your friends before you consider leaving without saying goodbye."
"My friends are dead."
"Not all of them, not yet."
Albin looked behind him, beyond the soldier. From this angle, the Mistvale View Inn looked like an old fort. The moon was setting behind it creating a jagged silhouette. The dark shadow of the inn was illuminated within by squares of light where warm torchlight and the flicker of fireplaces escaped around thick winter curtains. A heaviness on his heart lifted a little at the sight of it. It was home, had been, though he'd never slept there. He turned from the sight, glancing back across the city.
"We had a falling out."
"I know. He doesn't blame you for her death and it was a long time ago."
"All true, but I blame myself. Changes nothing."
"It should mean something." The soldier shuffled around the fire a little, moving closer. "Can I have some of that?"
"I don't know, can you?" Albin looked at the soldier with a peculiar grin, almost a grimace, as he fished around in his bag for another cup. He filled it with wine and set it by the soldier. The soldier took the cup and drank it down in one long gulp. He carefully put the cup back down on the ground.
"Thanks, I think should move on then. Other parties to visit." The soldier stood. "Thank you for sharing your fire."
Albin nodded. He watched the soldier leave the light of his fire and disappear into the shadows of the cold night.

Albin cursed and stood up shaking off icy stiffened limbs. Self doubt was not an emotion he was used too. He put the remains of his wine and his cups back in his bag. He grimaced again as he spilled wine on himself as he cleaned up. He put knives in sheathes, picked up his bag and shoved a compact crossbow in the harness on his back last before kicking dirt and snow onto his campfire. The flames extinguished with a hiss of steam and a billow of dark smoke. He strolled back toward the main trade road distancing himself from a last look at the city of Mistvale.

"Damn," he swore at himself. Albin stopped mid stride. He looked back once and then he turned on the old stone path. He could not see the city from where he stood, but the light of torches, parties, civilization made the mist settling on the city glow with festive light. Closer by, the front doors of the Mistvale View Inn were wide open. Light poured out from within along with sounds of minstrels playing, and raucous laughter and song. The party was in full swing, but even now more partygoers from the city were arriving.

"I hate crowds," Albin muttered to himself as he walked slowly back toward the Inn and nearer to the city. As his decision settled within him, his pace increased. He did not make for the main entrance. He slipped into the courtyard and entered the building through the old side door. Rich Ardanain oak paneling gave even the unheated corridor a warming appearance. It was relatively quiet out here though he could still hear the excited banter from the common room. He turned away from the noise and headed up the stairs.

"I'm not leaving."
"I didn't realize you were still here, it's been five years. You were missed."
"Really...."
"No, not really, your presence was always felt." Gareth, politician, mercenary, trader and thief, in other words, innkeeper and owner of the Mistvale View grinned.
"Where've you been?"
"In the shadows, where I belong. Mistvale doesn't need that anymore. I'm too old. Holy Ebrus, I've said that too many times tonight."
"Have a drink, and tell me why you are here."
Albin took a glass from Gareth, "two reasons: you're owed an apology; and Tyro visited me tonight."
"But Tyro's dead"
"A long time, a long time....," Albin shuddered finally, as if he'd been waiting to take a breath.
"...and that's why I'm not leaving. Damn, it's good to be talking with you again. Now, let's get down to business."
...and in the common room below, the inhabitants of the city of Mistvale celebrated the coming of a new year.