Eravon used the cover of night to hide his exit as he put the walls of Angelport far behind him. Spring had officially come, but the air still had a bite to it, and he kept a thin cloak wrapped tight about him as he followed the path north. Though he’d lived for centuries, for the first time ever he was experiencing the sensation humans called ‘feeling old’. His joints throbbed in the cold, and the days seemed to pass ever faster. Though the elf’s skin was smooth, he knew that in another hundred years or so he’d start to add a few wrinkles to his face, and his time among the humans would be at an end.

Not that he’d miss them.

The signal was subtle, just a few leaves placed in a specific way, with pebbles atop them to ensure they did not scatter in the wind. Eravon left the path, climbing up a nearby hill. On the other side was a tent, without a single torch or fire to give away its location. Eravon tightened his cloak, then approached. The tent was large, the front flap open. When he stepped inside, he bowed to the two elves waiting for him.

“It is good to see you again,” said the first, a young elf barely a hundred years old. His hair was short and golden, his eyes a vibrant green. Eravon accepted his embrace.

“You as well, Maradun,” he said before turning to the other, who remained seated. “Does your leg trouble you so much that you cannot stand, Sildur?”

The silver-haired elf waved a cane, the only sign that he walked with a limp, and that he was even older than Eravon.

“We have much to discuss, and little time to do it,” Sildur said, motioning to an empty seat before them. “Sit, and tell us what the spoiled children of the brother gods have to say.”