Disclaimer: I'm not very sure who the DOTA heroes belong to, but they sure as hell don't belong to me. The story and everyone else does, though.

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I

And so she died, smiling, as if fulfilled, as if, by chance, happy.

"Eh?" the man said, fiddling with his guitar. "Sounds odd for the beginning of a story." I smiled weakly at the dark-skinned man, forgiving his rude manners, for they were outlandish, as was he. He ate our food without reserve, drank our wine as if granted, but both Arthuria and I knew we had too much, and we shared it in return for the thin man's company, a trade of food for life.

I found him along our street shouldering a ragged sack and with his black hair in a mess. He was knocking on doors, from neighbour to neighbour, offering 'services' in return for the night's lodging. But even in his faded shirtsleeves and tunic typical of wanderers, almost everyone felt an air of ambiguity around him, as if he wasn't only the simple peddler he appeared to be, but a runaway of sorts, from law or vengeance, or even something greater. Why else would a rat come to this hole of unfamiliar rats, if not to hide among them?

"I come to tell and make stories, to show and weave, to sing," he said. I pretended to believe him, and took him in even against Arthuria's protests. September he named himself, and he was a wandering poet, having an old guitar as proof. His accent and soft, flowing speech was alien to city people like us, whom all speak roughly like grumbling lions. When asked where he came from, he said, "I don't know, really. Somewhere from the southlands, I think. I can't remember." He wasn't uneducated, knowing how to write a number of runes of Common, and he also had an uncanny ability to point out directions without guide nor compass. 'Street-smart' Arthuria called it; I called it 'wanderer's sense'; we were both not wrong, yet not completely right either, no doubt. He was content with simply staying in our house at first, trying to read the few books and rolls of parchment I had, relics from my time as a boy. But soon, even he got bored with that, and he roamed the dusty market streets of Gregminster penniless, chatting with whoever would spare him a few words or a song to sing.

It had been a lot of trouble for Arthuria and I to keep him out of the local police's way when he was in the mood for making conversation—loud conversation—with strangers. Not because I was afraid that they'd do him injustice, but because the mood of the city was grim, and the law-keepers might be less tolerant then they used to. Thankfully, he soon understood after witnessing the ruin atop the Centrehill, and kept his questions for the two of us to answer.

"I heard that you pale elves can do, you know, sorcery with the flick of a hand and a thought for company," he said, manning the fireplace while Arthuria cleared the table and washed the china. I hesitated, not knowing whether he had meant to mock me, although his tone sounded merely curious.

Arthuria decided to answer him. "Yes," she answered amid trashing of water in her washing basin, "you need only think of your objective, or close your eyes, and with a gesture of the hand, your thought rings true if your gift acknowledges it."

"Gift?"

"The gift of color. White, black, blue and red," she shrugged.

"What's the difference between each color?"

She stayed silent for a while, searching for me through the side of her eye, as if asking for help. "The gifts have a kind of caste system. White is the power to mend, to heal. To bring together what is broken, to sew back what is torn, and is the highest of the caste. Blue is the anti-magic, to stop, to silence. It is the magic which ends all others, the finger over the lips. Red is blood, to flow, to balance. It has no spells to its name, and most half-elves fall into this caste. Black is the power to break, to sheer, to destroy, and is the lowest of the caste."

He was quiet awhile, musing, watching the fireplace flame crackle meekly. "And Arthuria, your color is –?"

"I have no gift. I am human," she said.

"And Meister, you are –?"

"Black," I said. "I can turn a chair into dust, a spider into a pool of blood and wrench the living soul out of anyone I please."

There was an uncomfortable chill of silence, my companions being reminded forcefully of just what manner of person they lodged with. September thought it best to leave me alone, and continued with Arthuria instead. "Seems like pale elves are pretty common in Gregminster, huh?" he asked, to which Arthuria nodded as she emerged from the kitchen to join us at the hearth.

She took a seat next to our winter table and distributed the cups. A sweet, warm sensation caressed my face and entered my nose. Carefully, we sipped the beverage and felt its hands of watery warmth comfort us inside, and then we went on talking.

"Do you happen to know any others?" September asked, insatiable. "How do they live? What do they do? I'd love to have a talk with one of them."

"I used to serve two of them, a prince and the princess in the mansion north of the city. The Meister was the princess's teacher," Arthuria said, making a face as she mentioned them.

"Really? Tell them about them, please. I'd like to hear. Are they married?"

"No, they were father and daughter, and two of the kindest masters one could have," she gulped as she was reminded of them. "The lord was a great man who took my mother in when she came banging upon his door, her will shattered and with me. Even after her death upon my birth, he kept me and had me tutored in his own house. The princess was—"

"A black witch," I cut her short.

"I see, I see," he said. "The two of you keep using 'was' and 'were'. Where are they now? What happened to them?"

"They're dead, September," I said indifferently. "Gone."

Arthuria looked down, silent, trying her best to hide her eyes from us. September gave me a blank stare for a moment, and with a grave tone, asked, "What happened?"

"They were played with, the both of them." I was feeling a bit drunk, whether from the tea or frustration, I didn't know. "Played with in the hands of those old men, like a deck of cards. I did what I could to save the girl, but… araku!" I yelled, causing September to be taken aback. "Sorry. Looks like the city's moodiness didn't spare this house." I gave a small, pathetic laugh.

September stared at the two of us for awhile before getting up and returning to us with his guitar in hand, and began to play. Arthuria and I looked up at him. It sounded chaotic, and tragic, yet, it could draw no tears. It was just mournful, mournful and heavy upon my heart. "Does her song sound like this?"

I was lost for words, yet something tugged me. I replied with a yes. He nodded and continued playing, and in silence Arthuria and I listened, unflinchingly, broodingly. When he finished, we felt no resolve to clap. He did not care, only saying, "Please tell me more about her. I fear she her life might be a story my heart will regret should I fail to write."

We did not move. He repeated his request. "Please."

"Okay," I said. "Okay."