The Imperial City of Avalad, the splendor of the realm of men, a city which breathes between her walls. This was the home of Syrah 42, the riftsplitter, who had ascended with his adoptive father into the upper echelons of society by their means of wealth. Through trade and exchange did his old man accumulate the coin for their mansion just outside the market district. It was a small sanctuary, tended to by the staff who managed the flow of business partners and venture associates seeking to penetrate the markets beyond their current routes. It was always in the old smoking room did they and the old man conduct business, smelling of liquor and fragrant ash, yet for all the petty talk and exchange of vows, the old man always closed the deal within Syrah's study. There the mage drew up the business contracts, replicating them in dwarven and elven, cordially asking the parties to affirm their business as each signatory reads the terms and condition set forth by his father. But Syrah never cared for all the business and talk of coin exchanging hands, preferring to return to his annotated books and sketched diagrams of folding space as soon as the paperwork was sealed. While his father's business did allow them to live rather quiet, privileged lives, often times Syrah found it necessary to venture outside the walls. The mage would open a portal to enjoy the quiet whisper of a running stream in the forest of the elves, or read his book by the glowing embers of a dwarven forge, perhaps see the tower of Avalad from atop a distant hill or lie back upon the cool waters of the oceans. The possibilities of travel were endless, for all roads lead to Home.

Syrah finally gazed up from his book. He had chosen to walk to the guild hall to allow him more time to pursue his latest interest in architecture and construction. He had arrived surprisingly early, or perhaps even late by the presence of the other mercenaries floating about. A few days prior, some mercenaries had visited the mansion and signed an agreement such that Syrah would work for them on their jobs. If he was out of place in his white, accentuated jacket over his dark runic robes amidst the crowd of men, it hardly concerned him as much as the diagram of a great dome and the process of building the scaffolding needed to support it. It was only after the elf king and a few other mercenaries, a large piece of armor and a probably intoxicated dwarf, spoke did he return to the present setting.

"_I am Syrah, your Majesty._" He spoke in an articulate, but soft elven speech as to not offend the elf by being equally boisterous as the inebriated one. What brings a king here, perhaps he is the patron of the guild seeking their services? Surely he was not here to become a mercenary, surely the royal coffers of the elves of Dumir were not empty. Syrah remembered the last visit to the forests to oversee a transport of silvered bowstring to be delivered, he found their kind quite handsome. The unnatural airs of their fey beauty in the natural forest shade where the sunlight stretches down past the canopy made their graceful forms a delight for the eyes to marvel at. And this king was not at all far from his kin. But ah, what is this? A clever use of geometry to create parallel weight distribution across the beams? Apologies my lord, however your beauty does not surpass those found within the illustration on the next page... Although perhaps under the moonlight...