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“Oh, no way. Zevemar? That’s Zevemar, isn’t it?”

From the direction of “The Drowsy Druid” came a four-bodied group, backlit by the tavern’s bright lantern-lit entrance way. As this group approaches, Zevemar, you recognize two of them as children from your past, children who took pleasure in tormenting you. The head of the group, and the one who had called you out, is lean and fairer skinned; a trait oft shared by those who lived deeper in the countryside of Illio. He wears a sleeveless tunic and flowing capris which reveal his lack of shoes and countless traditional tattoos. Zevemar, you remember his name is Hercules. 

Beside him is Achillis, his tall and imposing right-hand man. He is dressed in all blue, matching his startling eyes, and you notice a new scar that cuts down his right cheek. Behind him was a nameless drunk, leaning on a sheathless and red-cheeked Belen, who is staring at Io with quickly shifting expressions.

It is only you three and this group of four on the streets. Perhaps this is what gives Hercules the courage to chuckle and lean forward immediately, eyes full of that familiar, raging fire of disgust and playful hatred.

“Zevemar, Pelor above.” Hercules approaches quickly and claps a hand onto your shoulder, “It’s been awhile, scummy. I thought you skipped town for good.”

“He wouldn’t leave behind the pixie. You know that.” Achillis says, and then his gaze drifts to Io and HORUS. “Speaking of, looks like he brought more in. Welcome.” He bows his head, hiding a smirk, and Hercules elbows his side and barks out a HORRENDOUS laugh.

“Zevemar, man, are you serious? I’m surprised you didn't bring back any scumskinned friends with ya as well, man. Maaan.” He holds out his hand to Io first, face twisted in a caricature of a friendly smile. “Nice to meet ya, pointy, the name’s Hercules. This is Achillis,” He points to the man on his left, “Belen,” He points to Belen, who has resigned himself to staring at his feet, “and Nyke. Now, who in the Nine Hells are you and your halfa friend?”
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