After several hours of searching, Brexar finally found Arvelen down at the Royal Stables, grooming his Ellyrian steed. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you, and you’re down here tending to your… Food.” Brexar remarked with a toothy grin.
“Wind Dancer is not food, dwarf.” Arvelen bristled briefly, until he turned around and saw the young Slayer smiling. “But then, you wouldn’t know fine cuisine if it were sat in front of you, would you?” He shot back with a smirk.
“Haw! You got me there, elf.” Brexar guffawed.
“And what brings you in such an urgent search of me?” Arvelen turned back to the horse and continued grooming.
“Kerik’s leavin’. He just got word that their hold was overrun, and his father’s dead. He’s heading south to meet up with what’s left of his people and guide them to Barak Varr. Wants us to come with him.” Brexar leaned up against a post and pulled out a pipe before lighting it.
“Very well. My things are already packed. When do we leave.”
Brexar took a few puffs on the pipe, blowing smoke rings out into the air. “Tomorrow, before dawn. You know what this means, right?”
“Perhaps you should explain.” Arvelen turned and looked at the dwarf quizzically.
Brexar scowled. “The boy’s father’s dead. That makes him King. He won’t be joining us in battle again, not any time soon, and certainly not like it used to be. And when he does, he’ll have an army at his back.”
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