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[center] Winton, in the Inn with Denvar[/center] 

	Dareen leaned onto the bar and listened intently. Denvar, she noticed, was a good story teller. Dareen had always loved a good story. They were the only way to learn about things without having to see them herself. Her eyes glazed over a bit as she listened, trying to picture the people and places. Little Faeril? What would that look like? Despite the fact that Faeril looked younger than Dareen, she was actually probably several hundred years older. It was impossible to tell how long. The only thing she knew for sure is that the long-lived witches who actually looked old were impossibly ancient. The life span that boggled her short-lived mind. So this story, though Denvar recounted it like it was yesterday, could be a very old one. Though old was entirely perspective based, she supposed. Still...Dareen would be old and grey before Faeril got her first wrinkle on her perfect face.

	She wasn't surprised to learn that Faeril was a serious child. If she had heard that she was some kind of mischevious, gleeful trouble maker that would have been hard to believe. It also seemed that Faeril had a somewhat complicated relationship with her father, which Dareen could relate with. Honor bound, stoic, aloof, professional. It really did sound like her own dad. Faeril and Dareen couldn't have ended up more different, though. 

	Idly she took a sip. There was a lull in Denvar's story, and so the Pruulish witch took it as her opportunity to speak.

	[color=c4df9b]"You're close, then? You, your brothers, and Faeril. Some people say you can't choose your family, but that's not really true, is it?"[/color] Dareen asked rhetorically. She herself left the only family she ever knew behind. The pack of killers she called brothers. [color=c4df9b]"Or maybe family picks you. I don't know."[/color] She shrugged non-committally. Taking another sip of her alcohol, she sighed softly.