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Averon took one whiff of the air and his face bunched up into a disgusted grimace.

The streets leading up to his home in the squalor of Cintra's dregborne district had grown narrow over the years, thanks in no small part to the houses built upon each other that seemed to arch closer and closer, leaving little room to wiggle. The horrid stench of effluent spilling out of leaking ancient pipelines mixed in with the aroma of freshly baked bread from haphazardly bolted windows. The misty atmosphere of the pathways choked the setting sun's rays, leaving most of the place in perpetual darkness. A fitting trait, given the ill-reputed clandestine activities that happened there. Whatever festive air was reserved almost entirely within the Golden Harpy's walls, for one only had to listen and all the sounds of mirth came from that singular source. Someone was playing the lute really well, livening up the atmosphere with gentle song and a great deal of bawdy lyrics.

The Myrmidon went home alone. His half-brother, the toast of the town, chose to pay a visit first at the shrines of the Eternal Fire. Reyncourt found religion in the midst of battle, Averon couldn't imagine why nor did he care enough to ask. It didn't stop him from doing his job, which was fine all thing's considered. Averon didn't have many friends in the city to visit, most of them were now dead and buried, the rest were carrion for the crows and necrophages in some forgotten battlefield. But returning to the city of his birth, even the man who fancied himself with a heart of stone desired some measure of succor after years on the frontlines. He sort of dreaded coming back to the Harpy, the last time he left those doors wasn't a pleasant memory. Nevertheless, he hoped to find comfort in a familiar environment where he could just relax in a hot bath and soak for the rest of the night.

But first, he would have to face his mother.

Serah never approved of his decision to sign up for the army regulars, her vehement protests verging on disowning her stubborn son should he walk out the door. He would always be her little Bov, no matter his posturing. How he would grimace at the memory of his words, those barbed taunts he threw back at her, trying to goad her into throwing him out. He only succeeded in bringing her to tears. Somehow, that was worse than being in a shouting match. Wise men say that time heals all wounds, and if that was true, it certainly made the scars more palpable than wounds. Many a sleepless night, Averon would dream of that moment. His mother refusing to look at him, eyes all red when the tears finally stopped flowing, the open door leading to a life of bloodshed in the name of the crown. Reyncourt had it better than him. If Aunt Sandy had any reservations concerning his enlistment, she certainly didn't show it. If anything, he went from the house with her blessing, bringing with him the promise of looking after Averon for her.

As the man stepped out of the shadows and in the open, some bystanders recognized him and two things happened. Either they slipped away to avoid his gaze or they said hello to a face they hadn't seen in years, proof that not everyone hated him for being a freak. Averon's iron skin glistened beautifully under the glow of lanterns and sparking bonfires, a sight rather familiar to the neighbors who practically raised him. His shield and spear were lashed to his back, leaving his hands free to nervously rub at their wrists. The Golden Harpy stood before him with the looming presence of a grand cathedral. Indeed, the place had grown bigger in his absence. The madams, pouring in coin and effort, extended the establishment to the point of becoming its own pleasure district.

Now Averon knew why the place was a lot more cramped than it used to. People just like to live closer to a sliver of earthly pleasures.

"Averon!" An old cobbler who looked to be at the twilight of his years greeted the warrior from the open window of his shop. He wasn't a patron of the whorehouse, but he was an old friend of the boys when they were little. It wasn't hard to remember Serah's little Bov, only one person could make his skin look like that. "Welcome home!"

"Master Vogt." Averon returned the greeting, his voice sounding like the deep grinding of two millstones. "Glad to see some things haven't changed around here."

Vogt Hessler smiled a gap-toothed smile, "Well, in ya go. Yer mum's gonna be right glad ta see yer home safe."

"You think?" The Myrmidon hesitated, glancing up at the creaking signboard hanging overhead. The sign was noticeably new, sporting a buxom winged angel with amply displayed bosoms. "Maybe I should just..."

"Nonsense boy, just head in! Whate'er ya have ta say, it'll come."

Averon stared at the cobbler for a full minute, realizing that he knew about that shameful moment the day he left for enlistment. Hessler had been his mentor for a very brief time in his youth, when Serah insisted on getting him to learn a trade that didn't involve boxing a nobleman's face in. Being a cobbler's apprentice didn't last long, neither did other jobs involving apprenticeship. The only thing he proved to be good at was hurting people, and there was plenty of that to do in the Royal Army. In a way, Averon found his calling by choosing that path. With a resigned huff, the walking statue entered the whorehouse and braced himself for the moment he was sure he'd be thrown out into the streets. There were no guards at the door, surprisingly. The festive atmosphere didn't cease when he walked into the place. It was as if everyone was in their own little piece of heaven, and in the Golden Harpy it wasn't that hard to imagine why. Between endless cups of the finest wine, the finest food and the finest courtesans, it was easy to lose one's head in a sea of sensations. That, and Averon was certain that the food and wine were spiked with opiates. He could even smell it from the smoke puffed from the waterpipes gripped tightly in the fat fingers of opulent patrons.

Amidst the din of laughter from drunken louts swapping spirited tales in the corner bar, the pleasured moans of doves plying their trade upstairs served as an ever-present reminder of what kind of establishment the Harpy was first and foremost, regardless of the additional amenities it accumulated over the years. The air oozed with happiness, instilling a sense of wonder in the uninitiated youths who arrived just moments after Averon stepped through the door. Indeed, some things never change. Averon grew up in this place, among the whores and cutthroats under his mother's employ. Whatever sense of wonder had faded early. To him, it was just simply home. He ignored the stares as he passed the patrons, some of them had to look twice to see if he wasn't the work of the drugs. The guards who should have been waiting at the door paused in their drinks, glanced at the iron-skinned creature, then went back to drinking when they deemed him too much of a trouble to throw out.

"Oh!" A lively brunette server bumped into him and squeaked when she saw that the iron statue moved, even looked at her. "Goddess preserve me! W-What... what are you?"

"Steady there, girl." Averon said, slightly amused by her reaction even though he'd seen it hundreds of times before. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just trying to find someone."

Calming down somewhat after noting that the thing was sentient, the server girl stammered as she reverted to her service mindset, "And... who are you looking for in particular? Are you a regular, sir?"

"No." The Myrmidon replied, "I'm looking for my mother, you may know her as Madam Sansavieria. She owns the place."

"Oh... I'm sorry, I don't know anyone by that name." The girl confessed, pointing towards the stage where the merry band was playing music. A lone woman's voice was singing now, leaving the band all hushed to let her have the stage. "You can ask Half-Leaf, or maybe one of the guards. They worked here longer than I have."

"Half-Leaf?" Averon straightened up, "Ah, I knew I recognized that voice from somewhere."

A lovely elven woman sat on a wooden bar stool, dressed in colorful green and white that complimented her shapely figure. Lithe fingers danced furtively over the strings of her lute, while an ethereal voice rolled from her open mouth to melodiously recite a ballad in the form of a song. Honey-gold locks cascaded gently over her shoulders, parted only by the distinct sharp ears that denoted her nonhuman heritage. A cuff earring made out of gold masked the scars from her childhood disfigurement, locked in place by silver chains to make whole what once was lost. From then on, Lunala was called Half-Leaf. Although nonhumans were shunned and discriminated in most parts of Cintra, at the Harpy such a bleak perspective was kept to an appropriate minimum.

Half-Leaf was a precious minstrel, a vital part of the never-ending euphoria in that den of iniquity. She was also Averon's best friend. When her beautiful aquamarine blue eyes met his, Half-Leaf smiled sweetly and gave him a wink. Her song was almost over and she felt eager to finish it up to share a drink with the Myrmidon. The band picked up where she left off, and Half-Leaf leapt off the stage to give Averon a good-natured sock in the arm.

"Ow!" The elf shook her smarting hand with an irate hiss. It felt like punching a brick wall.

Averon grinned, "Serves ya right."

Half-Leaf laughed heartily, beckoning him upstairs to her room on the third floor, away from the patrons and the busy dove rooms. She'd forgotten how solid those arms were, no matter how fleshy they ought to be. Once she got him inside, she locked the door and went through her mess of a cabinet to fetch a bottle of Touissant Cognac, a bourbon of expensive make for expensive tastes. Knowing Half-Leaf, she probably swiped it off of some snotty lord who had the misfortune of crossing her path. The glass lid came off with a soft pop, releasing an intoxicating aroma that made Averon's mouth water. Out in Nazair, he and the lads had to get by with cheap ale from plundered kegs- drinks for grunts, not aristocrats.

"I like the way you look in..." The elf waved one hand about as she attempted to find the right words to describe her friend's whole ensemble. "Whatever the hell that is."

After setting down his spear and shield, Averon downed his cup in own mouthful, while Half-Leaf sniffed at hers first before taking a casual sip of the thick and dark liquid. "Thanks, I made it myself." Averon said, "I have to admit, it's damn good to be back."

"You're looking for her, aren't you?" Half-Leaf asked, answering his question before he even got it out. "Well, you won't find her here, Bov. The good Madam Sansavieria has become the Marchioness Gusteele."

She saw him scowl from the corner of her eye, "Oh?"

"Yes, in a bid to reclaim the estate that once belonged to your father, she became mistress to the Marquess Archardee Gusteele. Weren't long afore they got wed. They were married for naught but three months when the marquess was killed in a hunting accident. She inherited everything upon his death, left this place to live up there in the highborn boroughs. Although unofficially, she still has a stake in the claim of the Harpy as Madam Crassula. Best way to keep the coins flowing from both sources, I guess."

"Leaf, I may have been gone a while but I know you're not one to simplify things. What part of the whole story you're not telling me?"

Half-Leaf sighed, "She's had a child with him, Bov. A baby girl."

Averon's burning red eyes stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Her name's Lyra, she'd be a little over five years old by now."

"Fuckin' hell."

"Mean no offense, but you shouldn't be surprised so." The elf declared, "Serah wasn't the same without you, and business wasn't all that good then. The nob had taken a liking to her, though she put him off polite like more times than I cared to count."

"Yeah, I know..." Averon's gaze wandered over to the stubs on his left hand where his little and ringfinger used to be. His mother was a whore, no way around that thought. She simply fell back on what worked at the time, and it worked sort of beautifully for her. Now, she was living the high life and business was better than ever. How could he even begrudge her for that, after abandoning her to pursue a life of his own? "I don't hate her for what she felt she needed to do, and I don't hate her for what came next."

Half-Leaf was astonished, fully expecting him to fly into a rage just as he usually did when they were children. "Really?"

"I'm just glad she's alive." Averon nodded.

"You going after her, then?" The elf asked, pointing to his armor and exposed iron flesh. "You're gonna have to be a lot more presentable than that. The guards there at the estate are a lot more vigilant than the thugs here at the Harpy. They'll throw you out afore even calling for the marchioness."

The Myrmidon rose up and retrieved his things. He didn't care if anyone tried to stop him from seeing his mother. In fact, he was itching for a fight. "They can certainly try."

Cintran Highborn Boroughs

Serah, widow of the Marquess Gusteele, sat by Lyra's bedside. Her daughter was burning up with fever, despite the expensive medicines prescribed to her by the boroughs medic. The girl lay still, bundled up in the covers and sweating profusely from the fire that burned in her veins. She was a pitiful sight, especially in the eyes of her mother. For almost a week, she'd been that way without any sign of recovery. One time it got so bad that she started to convulse and mutter incoherently as the heat overwhelmed her head.

"Mommy..." Lyra croaked weakly, a shaky hand stretched forth for a drink.

Serah immediately reached for the cup filled with cool clean water and tipped the girl's head in to dribble a mouthful to quench her thirst. Her hand, glistening with golden rings, wiped the droplets from the sick child's forehead. "There you go, my darling. Mommy's right here." Moments like these were when Serah prayed the hardest she'd ever prayed in her life. Unlike Averon, Lyra was just a normal girl. No magic in her, no divine spark to ward off diseases. A mortal just like her mother. The hours slowed to a crawl as she sat and watched, waiting for the sure sign that the medicines were to make good on their advertisement.

A commotion at the main gate rang clear in the air, Serah could hear it from the open window. The guards of her estate were arguing with someone, and their voices were getting louder by the minute.

"My lady, apologies." Nim, the young boy page who served the marchioness, entered the room. "A stranger's come to our gate, demanding entry. Says he knows you, that you're his... mother."

Serah's mouth was open, a biting command at the ready to send the scoundrel away from her home. Yet when Nim made mention of the stranger's intentions, her face paled. "Could it be...?"

She stood up and smoothened out her skirt. The glittering dark lavender fabric obeyed her practiced hands, and as soon as she made herself presentable the marchioness made her way to the gate. Her steps echoed through the wide halls as her shoes clacked noisily atop hardwood stairs. She rounded the winding staircase and broke into a trot when she heard the distinct thwack of someone getting hit in the face. Serah flew from the main door and was on the beaten path of the front yard before her loyal guardsman, Denholt, got his head bashed into a pulp. The stranger, a musclebound man with metal for skin, was upon the hapless guard and clutched the thin gorget that covered his chin. His free hand was a fist that launched one hefty sock after another, breaking in a few of Denholt's teeth with a resounding crack.

"Stop!" Serah thundered, her voice ringing clear with the commanding air of a queen. She glared furiously at Averon, arms crossed and with venom at the edge of her tongue. "Let. Him. Go."

Averon obeyed, letting poor Denholt fall limply to the grass. The guardsman, and his fellows who were also in as bad a shape as he, stirred to get themselves upright. Moments prior they were ready to send the strange walking statue to the street. It came as a painful surprise that the statue hit like a battering ram, and took blows with the enduring strength of a steel shield. The Myrmidon's eyes took in the wondrous estate that once belonged to his father and his family, then to the greedy lord that stole it from them, then back again.

He straightened himself up and smiled rather sheepishly, like a schoolboy caught fibbing. "Hello mother."

Serah frowned and pressed her lips tightly together as the roiling flood of emotions, all bottled up from the years of absence, threatened to spill out of her mouth. The tears were already starting to well up in her eyes, but her will was strong. She would not crumble, not now. "Averon."

Averon's iron hands, bloodied from his little scrap with the guards, relaxed and fell to his sides. When he saw that Serah stood immovable like a stubborn old oak, he walked up and loomed over the smaller woman till they were but a foot's breadth from each other. Still, Serah remained silent. In an instant, the statue became as flesh. Averon willed his shell to molt away, revealing himself for his mother to see. Not a scar had befallen him in all the time he spent in the battlefields of Nazair, not a one. He was taller now, rugged and chiseled from crude rock, the very image of her beloved Vandal. Serah wanted very much to slap him, to let him feel a measure of the pain he caused her when he walked out of her life. How dare he come now, here when her life was just about getting good? She felt her anger burn hotter, then suddenly went away like a raging storm suddenly blown out to sea.

She saw an arrogant, willful young man who thought himself wiser than his own mother. And yet, she also saw her little Bov. A child irrevocably changed by that madman in the old odd tower.

"Damn it all." She whispered hoarsely, reaching out to touch his face. Serah shook her head while keeping her eyes firmly fixed upon his. As Averon pulled her into a bear hug, she clung to him as if afraid he'd disappear from her a third time. "You stupid foolish boy... how I've missed you."

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