Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, and even those who didn't but read the story. I'm hoping to finish writing chapter four by the end of this week. Expect chapter 3 on Friday. Again, Blizzard owns everyting.


The rogue shifted his weight from his left foot to his right nervously. Rubbing his clammy hands against the front of his leather hide pants, Matheus Williams willed his rapidly beating heart to slow to an even pace. No longer bearing the weight of his weapons, his figure assumed a more relaxed stature to it. However, he still rested on the balls of his feet, as if anticipating a battle to break out. While he was still regarded as relatively young in his late 20's, Matheus was a well trained soldier and a deadly being on the battleground. He was decorated from years of reconnaissance scouting's and honorary achievements against the Horde. With being an accomplished linguist as well, reconnaissance was a specialty of his. Matheus was recognized as one of the most well known assassination rogues, his aim with his poisoned blades being deathly accurate. While a very fearsome foe to be up against on the battlefield, he was a nervous wreck when it came to debriefings or meetings with his superiors; which was the situation he presently found himself in. Swallowing several times to try in vain to allow moisture to his parched throat, Matheus turned his attention to the panel of his superiors and king.

"I was stealthed when the elf got to the roof," Matheus gave a shrug. "Been up there for probably ten minutes before he showed up. He looked like he was scouting too, so I just let him do his thing."

Taking another break to try to gather moisture in his mouth, Matheus studied the group of humans in front of him. At the center of the table was King Varian Wrynn, arms resting on the table in front of him, his posture leaning forward. His face was nearly unreadable to Matheus as it held a very passive expression. But there was a hint of interest in his eye. To his immediate right was Jes-Tereth, who had her head cocked to the side as she listened to his tale. On the left of Wrynn was Warren Steele, a long time friend of Matheus' and commanding officer on many occasions. Though his hair had signs of gray mixed between the dark blonde, he was one of the most admirable warriors the Alliance had to offer. Quick with a blade in both mind and strength, Matheus looked up to his commanding officer in many ways. Warren was leaned back with a confused and troubled look in his eye, arms crossed over his chest. On Warren's right was Marcus Jonathan, a general with a broad stature and intimidating posture. His face had an almost permanent scowl on it, and Matheus found himself on the receiving end of it. Moving out from the initial four were Wrynn's advisors, most of them with confusion painted on their faces.

Warren, taking notice of the rogues growing discomfort, leaned over the table to push his glass of water forward slightly. The gesture was immediately picked up by the rogue who moved forward at amazing speed. Gulping down the water, the rogue gave a small smile in thanks to his friend, who held an amused expression. Licking his lips, the rogue continued his story.

"So, I watched the trolls from behind a crate. Kind of similar to what the elf was doing," he paused to gather his words. "The trolls were saying that Vol'jin wants Lor'themar dead. I saw that damned Horde symbol on each of them. It's not like this is a renegade group doing it for their own advantage, right? Well, anyways," he paused to lick his lips again and shake his head a bit, "the elf seemed pretty surprised by the information too. His face sure as hell showed it. Looked like he was getting ready to make a run for it so, I, well, stopped him."

Wrynn leaned forward slightly. "Stopped him? Care to elaborate?"

Matheus gave a shrug of his shoulders and downcast his eyes. "Got him with crippling poison. Didn't take long for it affect him. Followed up with a mind numbing. Figured we'd might want him for…," he paused in his musings, his brows going together in concentration as he shook his head in confusion and anger. "Just… something seemed off. Wrong almost. I don't know how to better explain it. Figured it'd be best to incapacitate than kill, right?"

Warren, arms resuming their position crossed over his chest, bore his confused and frustrated eyes into the rogue. "And how did you end up in the middle of the trolls?"

Matheus gave a dry chuckle that shook his shoulders. "Kid tried to wrestle me. Somehow, he managed to toss us over the edge." With a grin on his face, the events replayed through the rogues mind. While it wasn't the least bit humorous at the time, it held little humor when thinking back on it. Suddenly, a dark thought crossed the rogue's mind and a frown replaced the grin. "You know, it was interesting. One of the trolls, I think he recognized the elf. He even tried to kill him by putting an arrow through his chest," the rogue's face contorted into concentration. "I think he called him by his name. Called him Dimos or something like that."

Warren felt his blood go cold and his face go ashen white. "Deimos…" he replied in a strangled whisper, his eyes cast down on the floor. His arms broke their crossed position as he leaned forward on the table in thought. "Deimos Ares'mar."

Heads whipped around to the older warriors direction at the odd reaction Warren displayed. Marcus was the first to have realization seep into him as memories came flooding back. His fist curled angrily at the thought of the elf being within his beloved city's walls. "Ares'mar?" Marcus asked through clenched teeth. "How can you be sure?"

Warren glanced up from his reverie to meet the generals steel gaze, returning it back with ease. "When we brought him back to the city, I noticed his necklace. It looked very familiar but I couldn't place my finger on it. It was his family's mark."

Matheus was more than confused; he was close to frantic. Completely baffled by what they were saying, his eyes lingered from Warrens' and Marcus' angry gaze to the Kings continued passive and unreadable one. "Wait…," the rogue crocked out, eyes darting around the room. "Who? What are you talking about?"

Warren, breaking eye contact with Marcus, heaved a heavy sigh, bringing his arms back into his chest to a closed posture. Turning his glance at the rogue still standing awkwardly in front of the panel of humans, he took in the bewildered expression on his face. Yes, Matheus was thoroughly and indefinitely confused.

"Years ago, back when the blood elves were fighting against the Scourge with the Alliance, I fought side by side next to Tharsis Ares'mar. He was ruthless on the battleground," Warren shook his head in disgust at the memories. "Didn't believe in taking prisoners. He was a 'kill first, don't ask questions' kind of warrior. We had a lot of falling outs. Yes, he had honor, but it was very twisted and dark."

Marcus gruffly let out a humorless chuckle. "If you want to call it honor."

Warren, sparing Marcus a quick glance, continued his explanation. "When we… were no longer aligned with the blood elves, he became bitter and more hateful towards us. Particularly humans. He must have stayed in Quel'Thalas because I've run into him several times in battle. His forces are not to be trifled with."

"Some of our bloodiest battles," Marcus chimed in quietly, anger still laced in his voice. "He helped arrange for that assault on Stormwind nearly four years ago." Matheus felt a shudder rack his spine. 'Assault' was a kind word for it. The aftermath revealed it to be more a genocide. "So many people…"

Matheus found it easy to avert his eyes as Marcus' voice cracked. It was no secret that Marcus' kin were ruthlessly slaughtered during the assault. Marcus, standing guard at the Keep to protect the king and his young son, was unable to offer the needed protection to his family. Matheus fought in the assault and thankfully walked away with his heart still beating and his limbs still intact; not a luxury many of the residents were given.

With a shaking voice, Matheus broke the uncomfortable silence weighing heavily on each inhabitant in the room. "Yeah, but that's Tharsis Ares'mar. This is Deimos…" he lingered off.

To everyone's utter surprise, it was the king that responded. "His son."

The advisors, who were as hopelessly as lost as Matheus, seemed to begin grasping the implications of their words. Jes, however, shook her head as a thought came to her. "It's not fair to judge someone just by being one's offspring. What intel do we have on Deimos himself?"

Marcus shifted uneasily in his chair, his hard gaze never faltering. The anger and hatred were still very prevalent in his voice. "Strong paladin on the battleground but I haven't heard anything particularly morbid… yet. Though I'm sure his father has trained him in a similar way."

Warren shook his head with a sigh. "I'd have to visit the library. Nothing stands out in my mind, other than some run of the mill battle debriefs. I'll read up on a couple books before paying our guest a visit." He directed the last sentence to the king, who nodded solemnly in response. "However, I believe we've gone off on a tangent. Williams, do you have anything else to conclude about your debriefing?"

Matheus jumped slightly as all the attention was once again averted to him. "Um… I don't think so. I mean, the caravan saved our asses, the elf passed out, and I'm sure you've heard the rest of the battle from other debriefs."

Wrynn nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed we have." Pulling his hands together in a grasp, the king gave a sigh. "But now we're riddled with a question: what do we do with this information about Lor'themar?"

The question, however innocent enough the intent, was a loaded one. The Alliance members shifted uneasily in their chairs, diverting their gazes from one another at the prospect of answering the question. The advisors even seemed to ponder on the question, not quite sure if it was meant to be taken rhetorically or not. Marcus, his angry expression softening at the slightest, downcast his eyes in concentration. Warren looked evenly ahead, not quite sure how to respond as he wasn't sure himself the answer. Jes found her quill increasingly interesting as she also pondered the answer to the question. The uncomfortable rogue at the front of the room shifted nervously, wondering if the question was asked directly at him or everyone.

A small knock on the door pulled everyone from their mullings. The wooden door opened slowly to reveal a small boy, followed by a tired and slightly aggravated woman. Both were dressed in their night clothes, the woman with her hair messily held up in a bun on her head and lines of frustration on her face. The child's face was full of concern yet boyish happiness. "Father, are you going to read me a story?"

Wrynn felt his face fall into a smile and his eyes gloss over with happiness. "I'm sorry everyone, I promised my son a story before bedtime. If it would be acceptable with everyone else, we can conclude this meeting in the morrow, when the sun is half past day?"

It was more of a statement than a question. All the inhabitants of the room pushed their chairs back with scratching resonating on the stone floor. Silently, they sent their thanks to the small prince for calling an end to the meeting at such a stressful question. They knew, as well as the king, that it would allow them to muse over an answer throughout the night and discuss a solution the following day. Matheus seemed most relieved with the conclusion of the meeting, his lips unable to stop the sigh that emitted from them. Warren gave him a little smile at the gesture as he made his way over to the departing king. Gingerly, he placed a hand on his sovereign to get his attention.

Wrynn stopped to turn his attention to his commanding officer. "Yes, Steele?"

Warren addressed the king in a low voice. "If it would be my kings will, I would like to spend the remainder of my night in the library. I can visit the prisoner at dawn in the morrow. The poisons' and sedatives' effects should wear off around that time."

The king felt a tugging on the sides of his mouth that slowly developed into a grin. With a shake of his head, Wrynn placed a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. "You have my permission, Warren. But after the day's events, you should really reconsider. Rest. Allow the prisoner to sit in the Stockades another night. I assure you Warden Thelwater is more than capable of handling him."

With a smile at his friend, Warren shook his head at the jab. "I don't doubt Thelwater's abilities. And I appreciate your concern, but if you need me, I shall be in the library."

His grin turning into a full-fledge smile, the king gave a couple friendly smacks on the warriors shoulder. "And this, my friend, is why you live alone."

Tossing his head back into a hearty laugh, the older male made his way over to the door. While they assumed their responsibilities as sovereign and commanding officer, Varian very much enjoyed the relaxed company of Warren. When not discussing tactic and strategy, the two were easy friends, forming a strong companionship. The king took comfort in knowing that, if need be, he had a friend he could turn to without having to worry about etiquette. His advisors regarded him as a king; never as a man, father, or soldier. Their duties were strictly to advise the on-goings of the kingdom, leaving little to no room for friendships to develop. It was not the case with Warren.

Leaving the meeting room, Warren easily navigated his way to the Keeps Royal library. The halls were deserted, minus the guards, as most everyone had concluded their days. The library was no different. Polished oak shelving made up the entire room, with books jammed inside the shelves. Tucked into a corner of the room were four chairs, all surrounding an equally polished oak table. Grabbing a scroll and quill, the warrior made his way to the first shelf full of books. He knew it would be a long night.


Pain and dizziness were the first sensations that Deimos were faintly aware of. Lack of breath and coldness came as a close second. Eyes still closed, he felt like his head was splitting in two. Bringing a hand up to his head in pain, he groaned while squirming a bit. Strangely, he felt rough and itchy material rub against his bare shoulders upon the movement. His chest felt as though someone was grabbing around his midsection and squeezing, not allowing the correct amount of air to enter his hungry lungs. Allowing a hand to travel to his chest, the young elf was surprised to find the lack of plate armor but instead what felt like bandages. Confused at his current state, Deimos forced his aching head to comply with him in remembering past events. He was given that dreadful scouting mission, heard the humans talking, saw the damned trolls, and then… ah, yes, the annoying rogue. A groan out of irritation and pain escaped his slightly parted lips as his hand again held his hurting head. The question of where he currently resided dawned on him as he felt the itchy material once again in his movements.

Forcing his lids to open slowly, Deimos' vision was first plagued by blurriness. Rapidly blinking and willing his head to clear, he was able to make out a darkened ceiling with the shadows of fire dancing on it. Staring at the ceiling, he realized he was laying flat on his back. His elven senses were heightened at the prospect of being in a foreign environment. Turning his head slightly to the left, the young elf took in his surroundings. He was definitely in a prison. The dark colored walls and shadows dancing across them helped confirm this as well as the smells. The putrid aroma of human waste and death filled his nostrils. It was enough to trigger his gag reflex which, combing it with his splitting head ache caused him to painfully roll to his left side to hang over his cot as he emptied his stomach on the floor. Bracing himself with his hands gripping the steel sides of the cot beneath him, Deimos painfully closed his eyes as the retching made the intake of breath even more difficult. He rested his head against the cool steel, willing the pain in his head to ease. Concentrating on his breath, Deimos sat silent for several beats before lifting his head to finish his inspection of his cell.

The cell was small, with his cot in the left back corner and what looked to be a makeshift toilet on the other side. The floor and walls were constructed of the same moist stone. Propping himself up on his elbows, the young paladin took in his own body.

Not surprisingly, Deimos was stripped of his weapon and plate armor. He was barefoot, his pants stopping just below the knee. The white linen shirt he once wore was gone, only to be replaced with off-white bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. Running a hand over his bare neck, Deimos found not only his necklace gone but also his rings. The only jewelry that remained was a lone earring in his left pointed ear. Still not quite sure where he was, Deimos ran a hand through his messy blond hair in thought. Will the Horde come get me? Doubtful. I'm on my own for an escape plan. Swinging his legs over the sides of the cot, he placed his bare feet on the cold stone and pushed himself up.

The elf realized his mistake too late as the world spun on an axel and the floor came up to meet him. Reflex's kicked in and he brought his hands up in time to stop the stone from reaching his already aching head. Breathing heavily, Deimos began to push himself back to his feet when he heard movement in front of him. Looking up from his spot on the floor, he saw a dark figure standing by the bars of his cell, one hand resting on a bar as he tilted his head forward.

"I'd take it easy if I were you," the figure said in Common, indicating to the young elf's current predicament.

Still breathing heavily, Deimos kept his eyes trained on the dark and mysterious figure. Though he doubted the individual could see it, the paladin mustered the best glare he could as he took in the silhouette of the visitor. Although he wasn't able to make out his facial features, Deimos easily spotted the sword hanging threateningly from his belt. He had short cropped hair, from what Deimos could see, and a broad posture. But not broad enough to be an Orc or Tauren. Based on his lack of height, he had to be a human. The mysterious man held himself in a confident aura, which seemed to strangely put Deimos at unease. His current position was vulnerable as it was. Shifting slightly, the light from one of the torches illuminated the figures right side, which allowed Deimos to spot the dreadful insignia on his arm. Alliance.

The visitor must have seen Deimos tense upon the discovery. He gave a small chuckle and glanced down at the blue and gold mark on his upper arm. Deimos gave a small swallow, still holding his glare, only to remember he was still half crouched on the floor.

"Yes," the man began, "you're in an Alliance prison." Well, that confirms it. Deimos, still keeping his eyes on the figure, slowly picked himself off the floor, blinking several times to try to filter out the blurred vision. "Like I said, I would take it easy. You're still feeling the effects of the poisons mixed with some sedation elixirs."

Putting his right hand on the cool stone to keep himself steady, Deimos refused to show this man any sign of weakness. The figure took a step away from the bars and turned slightly, allowing the torch to fully reveal his face. Deimos fought hard not to allow his face show surprise. It was one of the warriors he saw at the scouting mission.

"Ah," the older man replied, taking in Deimos' quick surprised expression. "You do remember me. Good. Now, I know you understand Common..."

Deimos shook his head in disbelief, only to regret it seconds after doing so. Slamming his eyes shut in annoying pain, he rubbed his forehead with his left hand. "Where…where am I?" His voice came out in a hushed whispered that took Deimos by surprise.

If his voice surprised the visitor, he didn't show it. "I told you, in an Alliance prison."

"But where?" Deimos pressed on, taking in the face of his visitor. It seemed both were observing each other with scrutinizing eyes. The man was older, with gray visible in his hair. He was several inches shorter than Deimos, which was relatively tall for a human. His eyes held curiosity and calmness but also mirth. The air around him was stiff, and Deimos assumed him to hold a position of superiority.

Warren took the time to inspect the young elf now that he knew more information about him. The intel said he just reached his twentieth birthday, and his face showed it. Though riddled with anger at his current situation, the elf still had a youthful appearance to himself. He stood at six feet and three inches, slightly taller than Warren. He had a well toned upper torso that showed off years of training and conditioning. His unnatural green eyes swirled with confusion and dizziness.

"Stormwind. You're being held in the Stockades," Warren didn't see much harm in letting him know. Deimos allowed the information to digest as he slightly nodded.

The young elf knew what the Stockades were. A highly guarded and defended prison, it was considered a maximum security. The conditions were notoriously as bad as the prisoners it held within its walls. From what he was told, prisoners were only released from the Stocks one way – death.

"Don't worry," Warren began, with a light joy in his voice, "you're only being kept here until your trial. We'll decide what to do with you after that, whatever your sentence may be."

Whipping his head up to meet the older man's gaze, Deimos returned it angrily. "Trial for what? What am I convicted of?"

Warren gave a light chuckle. I'm getting too much enjoyment from this. "For war crimes and terrorism, of course. You are a soldier in the Horde, and we're at war, boy," Warren paused to pull out a scroll, which he patiently opened, and continued in an innocent and light voice. "Let's see… I've got at least two thousand counts of first degree murder, which we can probably strike as genocide, aiding in the planning and executing of terrorist activities, such as the assault on Stormwind four years ago. You remember that, right Deimos?"

Pursing his lips in anger, Deimos let his arm drop from the wall as he approached the bars of his cell. Angrily, he grabbed the bars and leaned in closer to where the man was. "How do you know my name?"

With a smug smile on his face, Warren approached the bars and got within inches of the young elf's face. "Oh, I've read quite a bit about you, Deimos Ares'mar. Quite the biography," Warren broke the angry gaze the two held and indicated to a handful of scrolls in his clutch. "Hmm..." Opening up a scroll, Warren scanned the contents dramatically. "Father is Tharsis Ares'mar, a decorated warrior. One would think you'd follow in his footsteps, but you didn't. Looks like you started out in warrior training but changed to paladin." Warren looked up to the angry flushed face of the elf. "Why's that?"

Unable to answer due to rage, Deimos tried his best to harden his glare. How dare this insolent human…

"Don't feel like answering? That's fine, I'll just continue on then," Warren replied in a sweet voice. "Grew up without a mother, traveled around with your father and his battalion, and excelled through your teachings as a paladin. Saw your first battle at age twelve, led your first raid at age fourteen, and helped plan and carry through the assault on Stormwind at sixteen." Closing the scroll with a swift and loud slap, the older man approached the angry elf. "That's some resume you've got there. But I wonder, why would they send such a great soldier to do a lowly mission of scouting?"

The warrior patiently waited for a reply from the silent elf. However much he tried though, Deimos couldn't hide the surprised expression in his eyes at hearing this human know his life story. Surprise, Warren pondered as he kept his eyes exploring the green ones before him, and fear. Good.

Deimos shook his head in growing fury. His reply came out in a strangled whisper. "Screw off."

Feeling like he won a battle, Warren allowed a satisfied smile to adorn his lips. Yes, this blood elf may have been a well trained soldier on the battlefield, but he was still affected by taunts. Warren felt almost bad to submit such psychological torture to the youth, but quickly chastised himself by reminding him who it was.

"I like you Deimos," Warren said, taking a step away from the bars. "I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other. But for now, I have an appointment I can't be late for. Enjoy your stay. Al diel shala." Finishing up with a farewell in Thalassian, the older man gave a wave of his hand and stalked away with a victory.

With brute strength and boiling frustration, Deimos slammed his arms into the bars in protest and let a growl emit from his throat. He had played easily right into the warriors palm. Feeling his blood rush to his cheeks in burning shame, Deimos was humiliated with himself. With an aggravated sigh, he spun on his heels and approached his cot with disgust; both at himself and his current settings. Sitting on the thin mattress and itchy woolen blanket, Deimos crossed his legs under him.

How did he get that much information on me? Perhaps the Alliance does have decent intelligence. The young sin'dorei shook his head in frustration. It doesn't matter. I need to get out of here to warn Silvermoon. And I somehow doubt that impudent human will realize the importance of this information for my people. I'll have to come up with another plan. Glancing at a rat as it scurried across the stone floor in his cell; Deimos rested his head back against the cool stone. An escape plan would be preferable.

Closing his eyes in thought, Deimos thought back on earlier memories. He was always taught that properly trained and abled soldiers were never seen imprisoned. Simply, if one was held captive, it was obviously not capable in either defending themselves or scared of the alternative. Snapping his eyes open at the thought of the "alternative", Deimos felt sick. It was common knowledge that an Alliance member couldn't interrogate a corpse. To Deimos, suicide felt more than futile; to him, it seemed to be a coward's route. Eyes trained on the ceiling in thought, he knew his commanding officer and father didn't share the same thoughts. If he somehow managed to escape the clutches of the Alliance with his life and return to Silvermoon, Deimos knew what awaited him. Disappointment. He felt a foreign sensation of prickling in the corners of his eyes. He was trained from birth to be the perfect soldier, flawlessness and perfection the only acceptable standard. Glancing around his makeshift home, Deimos knew he landed far below the set norm.


Giving a wave of his hand to the last set of guards at the entrance of the Stockades, Warren greedily took in the fresh air Stormwind had to offer. The stench that made up the secure prison was enough of a death sentence for the prisoners. Indeed, the Stockades was an effective prison and Warren didn't doubt their newest prisoner would be less than comfortable in his new settings. Glancing down at his hands, Warren was visibly shaken from the encounter with the elf. Stopping at a bench by the canal, the older man pondered his swirling thoughts.

However much he forced his courage and strength to be strong and unprovoked visibly, Warren was in disbelief when he looked at the elf. The strong cheek bones and emotional eyes were nearly identical to those of his father. The angry glare emanating from Deimos was also on par with the older Ares'mar, where Warren assumed he learned it from. Running an uneasy hand across the nape of his neck, the warrior also felt confusion when he pondered the prisoner. While he sensed anger and fury seeping from the very core of the elf's being, Warren also sensed something smaller. Fear. Buried and hardly flickering in Deimos' eyes, his fear was struggling under his willful control of it. However much the elf wished it to disperse, the fear was ever prevalent, and the warrior sensed it immediately in the youth. He may be impressive with a blade but he's still just a kid in a very daunting situation.

Shaking his head, Warren resumed his walk to his residence. Glancing up at the looming sun in the sky, he figured he had several hours time before the meeting with the king would take place, and hopefully conclude. While he was an able-minded negotiator and strategists, Warren didn't have a particular liking to the meetings. As a warrior, he felt most comfortable serving his kingdom with a sword in hand, not behind a table. However, he knew they were necessarily, and until they figured out what to do with the Horde currently residing in the Stocks, the meetings would be rather frequent.

Moving past the auction house, Warren could hear cries and pleas of the citizens bustling inside. He didn't prefer to travel through the trade district but it was the fastest route, and he was rather impatient to reach his destination. Turning right to enter a tunnel to leave the humming district, Warren saw a familiar figure standing in the tunnel, back leaned up against the stone in thought.

"Matheus," Warren called out, his friends head whipping up. "How are you?"

Giving a shrug, the younger man put on a half smile. "Been better. Not really looking forward to this conference we have. I was debriefed, so really I see no point in me being there."

Shaking his head in a friendly manner, the two fell into step together. "You were the only one present to scout the trolls. Of course you should be there."

The rogue gave a disgruntled shrug. "Did you see the kid?"

The warrior gave a short nod, his eyes downcast in thought. "He wasn't the least bit pleased. In fact," Warren offered the rogue a little laugh, "he was pretty livid."

Frowning to himself, the rogue surprised Warren with his reply. "Can't really blame him though. What would you do if you heard Wrynn was going to be assassinated?"

Stopping in his forward movements, the warrior turned towards Matheus. Eye's scanning over the troubled face of his friend, he gave a small sigh. "Yes, but we must remember who it is we're discussing here."

Pausing to hold the stare with Warren, the rogue gave a dramatic shrug before continuing on. "Just ignore me. I didn't get the best sleep last night and I think it's clouding my thoughts. Maybe I can tell Wrynn that… maybe he'd let me skip."

Warren chuckled to himself. "I wouldn't try it, my friend." Pausing at his reached destination in Old Town, the older man gestured with his thumb to a set of steps leading into a building behind him. The building was rustic and seasoned, similar to the surrounding structures. "I'm going to rest a bit before the gathering. Would you like to come in for a drink or two?"

Taking in the dark circles and bags under the older man's eyes, Matheus gave a small shake of his head. "No thanks. Think I'm going to hang around the Keep till it's time."

The two companions said their respected farewells, with Warren entering his silent house and Matheus continuing on his way. No inhabitant currently residing in the building, the rooms and halls seemed cold to Warren. Though never having a family or taken a wife, he had sadly gotten used to the feeling of loneliness. While it would be quite troublesome to most, Warren had come to accept his lot in life and adapted. He longed to serve his kingdom and sovereign, sacrificing the opportunity to care for a family along the way. With a sigh, Warren removed his shield and sword, placing it on a small table by the door. The house was in impeccable order and modestly decorated. Moving his way up the wooden stairs, Warren paused as he feet made contact with the flat second story floor. Glancing around, he regarded his empty house. To his immediate left were his chambers, door closed as if pleading for wanted privacy. Straight ahead of the warrior was his lavatory. To his right were two chambers, both of their doors were invitingly wide open. Eyebrows scrunched in thought, Warren couldn't remember the last time he entered the unused and vacant rooms.

Hand holding onto the door frame for support, Warren glanced into the bedroom closest to the bathroom. It was smaller of the two spares with a desk situated in center of the far wall. The polished wood was barren of papers or useful materials, a sign of its inuse. An equally polished chair was pushed neatly in place at the desk, waiting for an inhabitant. One wall was lined with a bookshelf, though only a fraction of the shelf space was utilized. Holding a sigh back, the warrior moved to the next unused room. It was slightly larger in size, with a simple bed centered against the far wall. The bed was big enough for two, though it was never slept in; its pillows and blankets never laid on. A closet was tucked into the left corner, which Warren didn't have to open it to know it was empty. Two windows bore the spring sun into the room, illuminating its bare contents. Shaking his head, Warren felt his feet begin to carry him towards his chambers on the other side of upper level. To live a life of isolation was a choice Warren would gladly make again. He had numerous tabards and medals to display his achievements for such a well trained warrior. However, the older man couldn't help the plaguing question at the back of his mind. Would he live to see those rooms occupied?