It was a day for change.
Sunbird sat alone in the tavern, a half filled tankard of hard ale warming slowly on the table, the cool lacquered pebbles at the bottom doing it little good. A brass gauntlet lay next to the tankard, the dark, calloused hand wrapped around the pewter vessel.
He was dressed in his signature brass armor, the slitted helmet laying next to the gauntlet on the table, his weapons dropped on the floor, but just in reach. He was given a wide berth by the other patrons, the heavily wrapped tensung and humans around him recognizing, if not the armor, then at least his sigil, engraved on the front of the breastplate. A phoenix, wrapped in its own flame, hatching its clutch by its own death.
“Are you Quasan Jev?” A female voice asked him.
“Rates are subject to change, dependant on the difficulty of the job. Transportation must be provided, but not food. Also, I am not to be adressed by my former name. Sunbird will suffice.” His eyes focused on a slender, pretty face, attached to a similarly describable body.
“Oh no, sir, I don’t wish to hire you.”
“Well, I don’t want to hire you either.”
“I am not here to seduce you. I have a message for Quasan Jev.” She was looking at him earnestly, with a serious, frank gaze. Human, height between five two and five five. Considered pretty, between eighty eight and one hundred pounds, not more. Skin suggestive of northern upbringing.
“Spit it out.” Sunbird slurred, and then took a drink.
“In private.” She said firmly.
“No matter how pretty you think you are, you can’t kill me.” Sunbird snapped, suddenly alert. She wouldn’t be the first female to try to avenge her husband.
“I don’t wish to kill you, I only need to speak with you.” Sunbird stared at her a moment, his grey eyes searching her blue ones.
“Fine.” He said, rather loudly. He slammed the tankard on the polished wooden table, dropped two pecks on the table, the coins ringing, and gathered his things. As he walked out the door he replaced his helmet. She followed him as he ignored the icy blast of air that struck his fire-warmed armor, steaming as snow hit it. He gathered his ice-white cloak about him, and strode into an alley. The wind was blocked, and the cold lessened, but Sunbird watched as the blonde messenger trotted into the alley after him.
Areo awoke from a stream of consciousness, of icy blue pain and crippling orange ache, of fiery red anger and violet rivers of sorrow, green fogs of relief. He was in a kaleidoscope of senses, and when he opened his eyes he was nearly blinded by the assault. Light, thoughts and energy pulsed around him. His head instantly began to ache, and he closed his eyes again.
“Careful now,” He heard a voice say. “Being dead is something to be taken with care.” Areo’s pain strangled thoughts filed this under “suspicious” before he opened his eyes again. The world seemed to stagger, and then rotated around him in a sickening whirl. 
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