But first he had something else to do. An honor to make. Then he would leave the past behind.
He walked the streets, stopping at every tavern and eatery he could find, asking if they had what he sought. None did. Finally, he found himself at the corner where the Black Stag tavern had stood until a shadow adept had burned it to the ground in an effort to kill Cale and Riven. That was when everything had begun.
A new tavern had been built on the site-The Charred Ruin.
Riven would have grinned at the name had he been in the mood for grins. Instead, he donned his professional sneer and pushed open the door to the Ruin. The moment he did, the smell of the night's soup hit his nostrils and he knew he had found what he wanted. Strange, that he would have found it there, of all places.
Scanning the dark-eyed patrons, none of whom held his gaze, he found a table along the wall and sat. The middle-aged bar wench plodded over to his table and took his order.
"Soup," Riven said.
"That's it?" she asked
"And a tankard of something decent," Riven said. He flipped her a fivestar and she hurried away to fill his order.
Sitting in the Ruin, Riven waited and brooded. His life had changed and he wondered where it all would lead. Riven saw now that he and Cale were linked, Mask's First and Mask's Second, neither able to exist without the other, the right and left hands of their god.
After a short time, the bar wench returned with a tin tankard of ale and a steaming wooden bowl of soup-potato soup. She set it down and said, "There you are."
Riven said nothing, did not even look up. She harrumphed and stalked off.
Riven stared at the thick soup, thought of the time he had shared with his comrades another bowl of potato soup on the Plane of Shadow. He was not entirely certain how he felt about Fleet. Had he been a friend? Riven did not know. He did know, however, that he would miss him.
He raised his tankard in a toast and turned his attention to the soup. He ate it all without a pause and set down the spoon. Overcome for a moment, he stared down at the empty bowl.
Finally he said softly, "No doubt it's a poor imitation of your mother's.. little man."
With that, he pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out of the tavern. He wanted to see his girls.