After the elf's massacre, Marschal wasted no time retrieving his horse and pulling her reigns, before fleeing the broken tavern. On his way down the street, the Paravellan didn't slow his pace until the angry wooden structure disappeared behind him in the crowd.

The Paravellan couldn't stop thinking about the elf and what just occurred. Who was he? What did he do? What was wrong with his arm? Questions that tumbled over in his mind until his gaze rested on the spire in the distance.

The Iron Factory.

All thoughts of the monstrous elf slowly faded away, only to be replaced by an anxiety that had been niggling in the back of his mind. Why was he here? What was he looking for? In a foreign city? Spurred by a strange, hooded elf? Only to be almost killed by an even stranger, more violent elf?

Despite his reservations, his feet still carried him forward deeper into the city.

"Hey! Come back here, you bastard!" a voice yelled in a language the Paravellan hadn't heard in ages.

He turned back to see a familiar face racing towards him, weaving through the crowd.

The thief he saw earlier in the market.

Too pre-occupied to notice Marschal, the thief spoke out loud to himself as he flew past the Paravellan.

"That is not helpful, Sif. Not helpful at all."

Belatedly, Marschal directed his horse's reins and stepped to the side of the street. While his attention was fixed on the thief in front, he was suddenly shoved aside by a figure charging from behind. The Paravellan's face hit the pavement as he caught a glimpse of a golden beard on a bulky body. Marschal glanced up to see another lean, red-haired man ignore the Paravellan and race through the street after the heavy bulk.

Marschal groaned softly while he pulled himself back up. Then he noticed the woman with short, dark hair running towards him. At first, it seemed the woman was also going to ignore him like the other men. Which was why he was surprised when she not only stopped before him but also approached him as well.

"Sorry about that," said the woman. She was speaking Piosian but Marschal could hear a faint and familiar accent in her words. As she neared him, the Paravellan glanced down to see a long sword sheathed at her hip. "My friends can be a little rough some-"

That was when Marschal noticed the woman's bright sapphire blue eyes. The eyes of a fellow Paravellan. With a studying look, the woman peered closer at Marschal's face before suddenly grasping his chin.

"Are you-?" she never had the chance to finish the question before a loud voice roared down the street.

"Where did that scum go?!"

The woman glanced at the crowd distancing themselves from the stocky, blonde-bearded man loudly venting his frustration. She then turned back to Marschal.

"Don't go anywhere," she ordered. "We must talk."

Before he could answer, the woman moved off to follow after her friends. When they disappeared down the street, Marschal stood there and waited for a bit.

More Paravellans? Was this a good thing or a bad thing? Time passed as the questions tumbled through his mind.

He eventually looked up to see the three spires of the Iron Factory still pumping columns of smoke into the sky.

"Sorry, stranger," Marschal spoke out loud. "But I have places to be."

With that, the Paravellan grasped onto his horse's reins and continued his way through the swarming street and deeper into the city. Straight towards the Iron Factory.

The thief raced down the street.

As he weaved his way through the crowd, he noticed an extravagantly wide-brimmed hat on a woman's head not too far in front of him. Once he reached her, the thief snatched the hat from her head and sped down the street before she had the chance to react. He could hear her yelling while he held the hat close to his chest. When he was at a safe distance, the thief slowed down and gazed back over his shoulder.

That was when he saw the large bearded man searching the street around him.

"Duvi sio?!" the bulky man roared. The people surrounding him jerked back from the volume of his voice before warily keeping their distance. In doing so, the crowd dispersed until a clear path formed between the thief and the large man.

Their eyes met. He hid the hat behind his back.

"Aha!" shouted the bulky figure. "Iccuto!"

The large bearded man then charged down the street at the same time the thief whipped around to flee. He only took a few steps before he noticed a cloak hanging by a nearby stall. Even with the furious man pursuing him, the thief never slowed his paced as he lifted the cloak from the stall without the vendor noticing.

Shortly after, his attention turned to a woman sweeping the front steps of a bakery with a broom. The woman then turned and headed back inside. Before she did, the woman left the broom leaning on the wall near the entrance. Seeing the opportunity, the thief wasted no time grabbing the broom's handle from the bakery and continued to flee.

As the bulky man's snarling grunts gradually grew louder as he closed the distance behind him, the thief rounded a corner and immediately slowed his pace to a brisk walk. While he navigated his way through the crowd, the thief wrapped the cloak he acquired earlier around himself and placed the large hat onto his head. To finish the disguise, he snapped the bristles off of the broom and hunched over to use it as a walking stick.

The thief feigned a limp and stepped forward when he heard the footfalls behind him. He was then suddenly shoved aside by the large man before the brute raced down the street, paying no mind to the cloaked thief.

"Nun pauo scepperi de mi pir simpri!" shouted the pursuer.

The thief wasn't sure what language the man was speaking but he wagered that it was a western language. Perhaps somewhere in north-west Pios or maybe even from across the channel; places he had never been before.

He bowed his head to avoid meeting the brute's eyes and began limping away from him. The thief then heard two more pairs of footsteps running past behind him. He peered over his shoulder to see a lean red-haired man and a short dark-haired woman catch up to their large golden-bearded companion. Individually, they seemed dangerous; an impression that was only punctuated by the sight of them standing side-by-side. The thief struggled to keep his façade and not stand up and flee again.

However, he kept on limping towards the alleyway across the street while he noticed the three warriors continue in the opposite direction, their eyes scanning the crowd.

Suddenly, a bellowing roar split the air.

"Duvi sio?!" the bearded man yelled up into the sky, prompting everyone around him to back away. "Su chi sio qao de qaelchi perti!"

The thief quickened his pace almost at the risk of foregoing his limp and tripping over his own cloak. It wasn't until he was safely inside the alleyway and out of sight did he abandon his disguise entirely. He corrected his posture and hurried down the narrow, stone-walled corridor without looking behind him.

That went well.

'Shut up.'

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he eventually emerged from the opposite end of the alley. The thief glimpsed once more over his shoulder to see if his pursuers were still on his tail. Luckily for him, they weren't. For now.

While still donning his cloak and hat, the thief took the opportunity to step forward into the large crowd swarming the street. Even after he had blended seamlessly into the city population, the thief still didn't feel comfortable enough to remove his stolen garb.

Then he gazed up at the towering spire in the distance.

The thief nodded to himself. Maybe he had filched enough for one city.

At that moment, as the thief navigated his way through the packed streets, he decided that perhaps now was the time to return back to the Iron Factory to get what he came for.

Marschal guided his horse down the street and around the corner.

He was finally here.

To his left was an expansive port built into the natural rock formations pincering the bay. From a distance, the Paravellan could hear the bustling activity echoing from the multitude of buildings clustered up against each other along the shore. Waves crashed up against the docks, drizzling the sailors and fishermen nearby. He could imagine the freezing drops that struck the workers daily routine. Yet, despite that, they carried on with their day, showing no sign of being hindered.

The Paravellan also noticed the river he saw earlier being funnelled into the bay through a cliff-walled corridor. As he made his way through the city, Marschal had heard rumours of mermaids terrorizing the villages upriver. He found the gossip amusing.

Despite how fascinated Marschal was with the port, the sight of it was paled in comparison to the majestic palace-like structure overlooking the bay. After having spent the whole day looking up at the spires, the Paravellan finally had an unobstructed view of the Iron Factory. He could now see the trio of spires looming over several other buildings huddled around the base. Large iron walls fenced in the entirety of the Factory, reminding Marschal of a smaller metropolis in and of itself. The metallic destination was embedded precariously into the high rocky cliffs facing the bay. Yet, to the Paravellan, the Factory still seemed to be holding up an appearance of confidence, as though it knew that it wouldn't fall over the edge anytime soon, if ever. Carved into the rocky hill was a winding path that led up to a pair of iron gates, like a welcoming tongue attached to an iron jaw.

As he studied the Iron Factory on its perch, the hooded elf's words echoed in his mind.

I know who you're looking for...

How did he know so much about the Paravellan?

Marschal shrugged off the nagging questions and found himself carrying his footsteps over towards the metallic palace.

An hour passed before the Paravellan reached the foot of the rocky hill. And half an hour more as he trekked up the winding path through the jagged rocks. There were several times when the Paravellan was forced to stop and catch his breath. During those times he would think to himself about this 'friend' that he was supposed to meet. Marschal questioned whether she was worth enduring this exhaustive suffering. At the very least, he was curious about her, considering that he eventually found himself standing before the large gates of The Iron Factory.

The Paravellan was finally here.

To his surprise, the gates were already wide open, giving Marshal an unobstructed sight of the fully crowded courtyard within. None of the people inside seemed to be Factory workers. Were they all here for the quest? There were far too many for a simple expedition. This was an army.

He began to make his way forward through the gates when he heard an accented female voice approaching towards him.

"Wait, wait, wait! You can't-"

Her voice was cut off when a looming wall of flame suddenly erupted from the ground, engulfing the entire gate entrance. Marschal instinctively yelped and retreated from the searing heat while struggling with Penelope's reins. His poor horse reared back with wide eyes and whinnied against the roaring fire. The Paravellan fought to bring his horse under control while simultaneously moving away from the scorching barricade. As he stepped further away from the wall of flame, Marschal noticed the fire gradually shrinking in size and temperature. Did it grow the closer he was to the gate?

"So sorry."

The Paravellan glanced at the woman addressing him.

His eyes widened when he saw a pair of bright, fire-coloured eyes staring back at him. Marschal also noticed the sharp-tipped ears protruding from the woman's long dark hair. The Paravellan stood there frozen with his eyes glued to the slender elf speaking to him.

"Can't go through without permission." Her Piosian was impeccable. However, Marschal could still hear a faint foreign accent in her words. The Paravellan wondered where she was from. What kind of elf was she?

A question he mulled over as she stood before him with two objects in her hands. When the elf held up the items towards him, Marschal arched a brow at the offering. He glanced down at the square slab of metal and the silver quill being placed into his hands. Then he noticed the list of names etched onto the slab.

He gazed up at the elf to see her gesture down at the tablet, expectantly. After he looked back down at the names written on the smooth iron surface, the Paravellan understood what he needed to do. An interesting form of security, he thought.

Marschal dragged the quill across the cold grey slab to write his own name. However, while the other names were etched deeply into the metal, the Paravellan found himself producing nothing more than messy white scratch marks in the partial shape of his name. He frowned up at the elf only to be met with a nod and an encouraging smile. Marschal hesitated a bit before looking back down to finish writing the rest of his name.

The Paravellan had opted to use Piosian script as a courtesy to the region. He would have used elven script if his lessons in the language weren't too far buried in his past for it to be of any use. Ever since his meeting with the hooded elf, Marschal had been striving to revive those lessons in his head.

It was only then he noticed how the other names had been written. While most of them had been written in Piosian much like his, there were also several other names which were written in different languages, some he recognized, others he had never witnessed before. The Paravellan frowned at the diversity of the list. How far and wide did this hooded elf wander to recruit these people? Who were they? Were they here for the same reason as him?

After he wrote his name, he glanced down to see his scratchy writing oddly misplaced against the deeply carved text. Obviously, there had to be more to this step...

Sure enough, Marschal noticed several lines of smoke rising from his written name. The words then caught fire as it began to melt into the cold metal. At the same time, the Paravellan glanced up at the elf to see her eyes and dark hair glowing bright with fiery embers. With the elf's hair catching fire, that was when the realization suddenly clicked in Marschal's head.

She was a forge elf. He couldn't recall their Aethelin name but he distinctly remembered the types of magic they wielded. As a child, their vaunted artefacts had always been the centre of his playful imaginings. Now to see a forge elf using her fiery powers to sear his name into a metal tablet had awoken a childish nostalgia within him.

When the fire dissipated from the metal tablet, the elf's fiery hair also dimmed until it returned to its original raven colour. With the smell of smoke still lingering in the air, Marschal glanced down to see his name now melted into the tablet where his scratchy writing had once been. His fingers moved to trace the sizzling metal but quickly retracted it from the heat.

He then he heard his horse moving behind him. Marschal turned to see another elf guiding Penelope away from him. Before he could object the first elf addressed him directly.

"No need for worry. She will be taken care of. Yes?"

"O-okay," stuttered the Paravellan.

"Thank you. I hope you enjoy your stay."

The elf then bowed before briskly walking away.

"W-wait!"

All he could do was stand there as the elf returned to the reception building that he only now just noticed against the metal landscape. He also noticed his horse being led away to a distant iron building that was almost shaped like a stable. Perhaps that was what it was.

When he saw the elf addressing a pair of newcomers, Marschal took it as his cue to make his way towards the iron gates.