The storm rolled on by dawn, leaving a bright, clear, early spring morning, still refreshingly brisk with the passing of winter, but fresh with the promise of new beginnings, and, as the locals bustled about their daily routines, the inn’s common room found an odd group, seeming collected by chance, gathering within it. Dorn sat solemnly over his breakfast; his hulking figure slumped under the weight of his grief, when the surprised gasps, murmurs and suspicious eyes of those around him turned his attention to the stairs. Although the sight of a female drow wasn’t as unexpected here as elsewhere, with the sisters of Eilistraee from the Velarwood temple appearing occasionally to trade for supplies, a lone one in the company of humans was. But since those suspicious eyes recognized Coren, a local son known to defend those in need, and he led her with clear familiarity, no one took action with anything other than their wagging tongues. They could sense the incriminating stares and air of tension, heavy with whispers, as they descended the stairs, but Coren met every eye with a challenging glare as he and Lux stood to shield Sabrae, and only one pair dared to hold against him; more filled by grief than accusation. He’d known Dorn well when they were boys, and knew the tragedy that had befallen his family after he’d left for the Abby of the Just Hammer. “The gods give you comfort,” he greeted the gentle giant as he rose and they clasped hands, the sorrow in his eyes making it clear that he’d already been home… or at least to the runes that were once his home. “What comfort can gods who’d let such a thing happen offer,” Dorn bemoaned, but smiled weakly in recognition of Coren’s sympathies. Then he turned his eyes to the curious pair of beauties that accompanied him. As all from the area, he’d heard tales of the drow temple in the Velarwood as a boy, but this one didn’t have the look of a priestess. However, the other bore the symbol of Mielikki prominently above her buxom chest, carried a scimitar, longbow and quiver, and wore a forester’s leathers as he’d expect of a servant of the Forest Queen. Coren introduced Sabrae and Lux to his boyhood friend as they settled around the end of the long table and recounted a greatly abridged account of their meeting, which left Dorn with nearly as many questions as it answered. But, even if he’d dare to inquire about the trio’s relationship, he didn’t have the opportunity, as a shrill roar drew everyone’s eyes to the stairs and the sword wielding figure that rushed down them. “No… not here too,” Fhariel howled in blind rage as she charged toward Sabrae, heedless of the others with her, but found herself caught by her sword arm and flung to the floor by the blonde man who’d sat beside her and reacted with surprising speed. “What are you doing?” Marlykan rushed to stop the beautiful moon elf. She’d left him stunned on the stairs when she’d leaped toward the drow with her sword bared, but now he crouched over her to both aid her back to her feet and restrain her from making another murderous lunge. “I told you there are drow priestesses of a god goddess in the Velarwood that stand against those infesting the Court.” By the time Marlykan had Fhariel back on her feet, keeping a good grip on her arms, Coren, Lux and Dorn stood between her and Sabrae, who crouched like a cornered animal, ready to strike back.