Childish laughter breaks the morning silence, followed by scurrying footsteps, and another set of far heavier boots chasing behind. A shrill shriek pierces the air before dissolving into giggles. “Robert!” the girlish voice cries out in between giggles, “Stop it at once!” Liria flies out the front door of the inn only to be caught around the waist by Robert and swung effortlessly up into the air.

Pages of notes are neatly arranged along the immaculate stretch of Ayliss'ay'ndria's arcane workbench. A collection of pristine glassware, crucibles, mortar and pestles, and other alchemical equipment lie in precisely organized arrangement, awaiting their application. She studiously ignores the haphazard mess of the workbench behind hers. Over the years, the elven wizard had long forsaken any hope of determining which organizing principle Fignar employed.

The hat is unstylish, dreadful, unfashionable, cumbersome, and will flatten her curls if worn for any length of time. “You would think if arch mages are noted for their superior intellect and prodigious mental capacity, they would have found a more pleasing outward mark of their scholarship,” the words though nearly a shout in her brain, remain unspoken, as Fignar symbolically mage hands the offending chapeau upon her head.

The lingering twilight of a midsummer evening bathes the sylvan valley in warm hues of rosy gold. Diffuse light filters through the canopy of leaves, softening the harsh planes of the craggy mountains in the distance. Ayliss'ay'ndria sits in the bay window of her room, her back resting against the frame, and her sketchbook open on her knees. The heady scent of honeysuckle wafts in on a breeze that lazily stirs the gossamer curtains. The golden haired wizard absently pushes the curtains out of her way as she watches out the window.