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The Lord of Entrana sat alone in the room.
He had no need for companionship; his life experiences taught him to rely upon
nothing but his own well-refined judgment of situations. He held a glass of
Asgarnian ale in his right hand and thought deeply about the day ahead.

As he raised it to his lips, he held it up against the torch light, and watched with the
eye of a connoisseur the tiny scales of potassium bitartrate which floated in its rich
ember depths. The fire, as it spurted up, threw fitful lights upon his bearded face,
its thick and yet firm lips, and the deep, Saradominist eyes, which had something
Asgarnian in their strength and their animalism.

He smiled from time to time as he nestled back in his hand-carved chair.
Indeed, he had a right to feel pleased, for, against the advice of seven
colleagues, he would be returning to Falador soon. He merely wished to
enjoy an Asgarnian ale at The Rising Sun Inn - a feat that was considered
dangerous for any man of his age and stature.

He looked out the window and set his gaze upon the north-western
ends of Rimmington. He thought of his friend Sander Stoneman.
Sander was a good man. He lived his life in a pious manner
that did not accommodate things such as tyranny and evil.
Sander spent a lot of time his time defending Dion against
criticism from the ever-growing horde of anti-Dion extremists.
These days, many people would wait for an opportunity to
publicly share their negative opinions about Dion at any
given chance they were presented with and Sander did
not take kindly to this because none of it was true.

It was through Dion's teachings that Sander was brought up in
the manner of a Saradominist. He was raised to be a fine warrior
and would not disappoint Dion, albeit the arrogance that he
displayed during Dion's early teachings. Sander was 34 and
was second-in-command of the monastic order, and Dion's
best friend.

These days Dion often found himself acting as a lightning rod for the various
vendettas held against The Church of Saradomin. As Lord of Entrana, Dion
was rarely seen without a squad of monk warriors protecting him, but he
was still humble in nature and held nothing but good intentions in his
heart.

Dion knew that his devoted companions would be gathering to meet him soon.
He raised the glass of ale to his lips and sipped it. The chair creaked loudly as
he leaned forward to place his ale down upon the small table in front of him.

Dion reached within his robes, finding the pipe he received from a
Keldagrim dwarf many years ago. He unloosened a leather bag
and produced a premature leaf of dwarf weed from within the
bag. He placed the leaf of dwarf weed within his pipe and
began smoking.

As he smoked, Dion thought about the situation.
He had been avoiding Falador since Lord Vile's reign began.
He did not fear The White City; he knew every street like
the back of his hand. He simply dreaded the hecklers.

Yes, the hecklers. Those charming people who would disconcert
others with questions, challenges, or gibes for their own personal
amusement without any thought as to the damage they may actually
be doing to the person's pride.

But Dion was different from them. And he knew it.
Regardless of what anybody wanted to believe about him.

He stood up and tucked the pipe away, within his robes.
The meeting was soon, and Dion could not afford to be late.
He always was though; punctuality was NOT one of Dion's strengths.
He stood and exited the house, putting his gloves and boots on, and
slid his hood over his head as he closed the door behind him.

THE END