[center][h3]Two years in the future, Charlin[/h3][/center]
 
 
	[i]What a long journey that has brought us here,[/i] Benoroux carelessly thought. The aging man leaned against one of the cold wooden pillars of his home. Winter was starting to break autumn’s glow with sprinkles of white, and inside his own humble manor, the chill had managed to leak through the weakening walls and crawl up his bare arms. 
 
	The room he stood in was lit with a central fire that fought bravely against the coming night shivers, and its orange glow splashed across the rest of the room. Bits and bobbles from  Otnemarcas adorned the shelves just as Xerella liked it, and newly added paintings native to the Dominion covered cracks in the walls. Stephan himself requested the paintings some months into his stay, a pit of home-sickness twisting his stomach, but thankfully the help of the paintings and seeing Ricken blossom into a tough little boy calmed the storms in his gut.
 
	The smell of Xerella’s Charlin styled sausages slithered into the room from the kitchen, and a slight drool was visible on Stephan’s face as he sat comfy in a plushy chair fit for a king. Benoroux smirked when he noticed his friends eager hunger.
 
	“It’s been a long two years, my friend,” Benoroux stated, his voice haven gathered a more gravelly tone between stress, age, and clear charlinite liquors. 
 
	“Somedays it feels like just yesterday I was sitting white faced in the chairs of the dock prisons with some strange old man to judge me and my life,” Stephan looked over to the Boyar. 
 
	“Seems like yesterday-” Benoroux agreed, “as you creep towards my age, you’ll find that term to be your opener for most conversations. Perhaps too much.” He looked towards the door to the kitchen, and shivered.
 
	“Cold?” Stephan pointed to one of the many hanging fur cloaks that adorned the back of the entrance. 
 
	“Oh no.. just thinking,” Benoroux nodded politely. 
 
	“About your wife again, eh?” Stephan chuckled.
 
	Benoroux smiled, stifling a laugh as Xerella’s cooking lullabies began to pierce the air with their own voice. 
 
	Suddenly a swirl of wind entered the room, battling the flames as a young Ricken came stomping in, snow coloring his dark fur cloak a spotted white. In very clear Charlinite, the young boy screamed with excitement, “Uncle Stephan, Uncle Ben! I saw a bear-rabbit!”
 
	Not sharing their nephew’s excitement, the two men quickly leapt to their feet, “WHAT!?”
 
	“OH! Is Auntie cooking sausages!?” Ricken ignored their reactions and clumsily ran off towards the kitchen, a snowy wind following him. 
 
	“By the sword of King Roland,” Benoroux swore, “that better be one of his mighty tales.”
 
 
TO BE CONTINUED… (eventually)