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[Arlin]

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He stumbled through the bushes, falling to one knee. He caugh himself with one calloused hand, and slowly brought himself back up, muttering a string of curses. He hefted his bag back onto his back, he proceeded forward again.

He rounded a monument of stones, and stood standing for a second, before unleshing another string of obscenities. Where his house should have stood, now stood...not his house. He sighed heavily, turn around, and made for the nearest moongate. No point in dwelling on it.

A few hours later, he found himself in the Hostel. At least his old stomping grounds still remained. However, he did not see any familier faces, save that of Ditto, a woman he vaguely remembered. He sat down and found out she too had recently returned from a long journey. They shared an ale, and Ditto introduced him to some of her friends.

As the night wore on, Arlin's head began to fill with grand schemes again. He had no desire to bring the Black Dogs back. His swordarm was not what it used to be. But he still had some fight left in him.

By the time Arlin dragged himself into a miniscule bed at the Hostel, all he could think and dream about was grand plans, beautiful women, and the tequila shot that didn't go down quite right.
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As the fire fades to night, remember always the ember that started it all.