Summer 50, 512 AV
It had been a weary three months. Arrow had originally thought that his journey to The Spires would bring him back to a place that, though damaged by the effects of the storm, would at least have been recognizable. Their guides, citizens of the forest city, had tried to warn them, about the feral beasts, who were only a few short weeks before some of the most cerebral, erudite, and peaceful beings in all of Mizahar. Arrow had thought he had some grasp of what they were saying, but nothing had prepared him for the reality that met them when they arrived in the ravaged city. Many, if not most, of the structures were significantly damaged. Some destroyed outright, and the Ethaefal could only stare open mouthed at what once had been so very beautiful, so tranquil and so pristine. Now it was ugly, scarred and disfigured, and the mist that wrapped like a malignant miasma throughout the forest and the arboreal city held great danger still. He had thought he could be of assistance recovering and reorganizing and resurrecting their voluminous stores of written history and literature. Instead, he had been in a veritable daily battle to hunt down his former friends, trying to take them down gently and bring them in for rehabilitation. It had been exceedingly disheartening, to see one after another of the beautiful, superintelligent creatures having to be fought to the ground, some ending up injured, or worse. It had made him ill, but it was necessary. The alternative just wasn’t thinkable. Knowing what he knew, having lived here for decades once before, long ago, he had to keep on, as bereft as he felt.
Finally, though, things were easing up. Order was day by day being restored. The structures on the petals were being repaired, rebuilt or replaced. Old friends seemed to recognize him more and more each day. Life was proceeding, and Arrow had to think long and hard about what he would do next. The work camps would close eventually. Even now, people who had come to help, from all over Mizahar, were beginning to trickle away. He would consult with Trouble. He had insisted that she stay safely tucked away with Cat while he labored. Well, as safe as she could be with the ever hungry feline. Arrow looked at her and knew, she was growing up, before his very eyes. He debated within himself if it was fair to keep her here, in the deep forest, amongst other kelvics who were still on the wilder side of feral. But if they left, where would they go? He had no means to make a living now. All his equipment and inventory and supplies were long gone, in the storm. What to do?
He thought more and more of his old friend Grath, who had opened his lovely tavern, up on the Petal of the Endless Epoch. It had sustained its fair share of harm during the worst of the storm’s aftermath. But it was not entirely demolished. And the proprietor, and his beautiful mate, Kashal, were seemingly recovered from their own experience with the evil fog. But much of their inventory was gone – spilled and spoiled, and as more of the Spirians were returned to their daily lives, Arrow had noted that businesses all over the city were slowly picking up.
So it was that on this day, he clambered up to the Petal and made his way to Grath’s Rest, with the intent to ask the Jamoura if he had any need for some help. Some paid help. Arrow stepped with a lighter tread, thinking how pleasant it would be to get back to a trade he knew, and Trouble walked by his side, determined to make sure her companion did not have any fun without her. They reached the open air bar counter, with the great tree-ceiling overhead, and Arrow called out, “Hello? Anyone here?”
