Shi'mon took drink. Just one sip of the boorish mens' liquor from before turned to a second, heartier try, until finally a blur of swigs. His muscled loosened, as did his grip on the world. Sitting, the elf already felt himself tiring, but feared looking the fool should he leave too drunk. The glass hit the table harder than he'd willed. At that moment the cloaked one with their hood raised took their leave. Perhaps the incident with the knife roused something, perhaps even now they were creeping to meet the dwarf in the 'shared room'. Many beds. Many possibilities. 

The elf flushed and averted his eyes. Edward, the youth, stood like a cornered mouse beside a pale, brunette woman. Shi'mon smirked as the young man eyed her, blushing at the nearness, yet also shrunk in what the elf presumed to be fear. Then again, it might be the alcohol. For them and him. Mostly him. He felt hot tingling sensation emanating from his stomach. The table, walls, and memorabilia adorning both gently swayed to him. Sneaking in meant fitting among the crowd, but it did require drinking so much. Not this time, anyway. Foolish youth. Shi'mon pinched the bridge of his nose and momentarily shut his eyes. He sank within himself a moment, pushing the embarrassment aside. This would be his party. The young man with the crooked blade, the respectable dwarves, the Watchful and the equally mysterious hothead, and the elf. 

Wait. Shi'mon raised his eye to the last. An elf, tall, well garbed, and well cut -- clearly one of some renown. One who looked familiar. Drunkenness be damned, he focused on the crest, pushing his sluggish mind to find the memory. He followed each stroke until the image came hard and fast. Shi'mon's eyes went wide, he let out a slow breath. 

Someone cleared their throat louder than the dull roar of the room. Shi'mon glanced toward the voice near Edward. "Sir Wolmak wanted me to mention he has free beds available if you'd like to make use of them," the barkeep explained as he looked over the party.

Shi'mon arose and followed the barkeep as straight as he could manage. The kindly man looked back, smiling warmly. He may as well of said 'too much to drink?'. Perhaps he had and the booze obscured that too. Putting it away, the elf sheepishly nodded before looking about. Without need for explanation the barkeep beckoned the young woman from before, eyed Shi'mon, then told her the room number. Evidently he didn't look a threat. Too flimsy, too stick-like, or did he simply look trustworthy? His mind quieted as he followed the young woman and handed her a coin at the door for her kindness. The dwarf paid him little mind, apparently taken with his own business. Shi'mon stumbled toward a bed, tucked his pack beneath it, and removed his cloak and leather pieces. 

Rest would bring answers. The crest felt confusing and frightening, but still obscured. Fear could mean many things and not all of them particularly useful. Shi'mon shut his eyes, imagining the symbol. He struggled a while searching for triggers in his forty-some years of memory. A common practice, he began at his youngest experiences and worked forward. Special attention fell onto those times houses meshed and new kin were born. He, like those of the Elvish people, recognized the subtle signs of age both physical and behavioural. This man held himself in high regard like one of some age. Yet, he was also boastful. Older than Shi'mon then, but by how much? When common practices failed he resorted to the more difficult strategies. The crest appeared in his mind in a fog as a subtle glow. His thoughts followed the lines of the crest, but when his eyes moved with them, he cringed. After a few tries and deep concentration, Shi'mon drew the crest in his mind only. The physical separated, detached, and the subtle sway of the world he'd felt before vanished. He no longer was. The crest shined bright, crisply splayed before a small and subtle glow he knew was now him. He willed himself toward the crest. The darkness surrounding them turned to hot, vibrant reds. Not passionate, nor at all romantic, but aggressive and frightening. His fear lie before him and with it his answers. He dove into the red. He saw finely edged elven blades dash the enemy with such precision that the flesh fell like lace. Hundreds of elves, shoulder to shoulder in sleek golden armour deflecting the rush of brutish enemies. Behind the reapers stood their leaders, the high ranking, and among them stood Mirion. 

Shi'mon awoke to his own shaking. Morning's first light had come and he found himself behind the others. Despite the lateness, he moved slowly. His dream hung in mind along with the memories it'd triggered. What would he do about Mirion?