An elf in black robes with silver runes stitched in the sleeves and hood sits in an inn. He looks around, almost impatiently, occasionally lifting his glass of wine, sipping from it. His pale skin makes his dark eyes stand out, eyes that seem to peer right through whatever they look at. His dark black hair is tucked back in his hood, showing a little out of the front. He sits alone, in a dark corner, everyone else preferring to sit as far from him as possible.

The door opens and a man in brown robes walks in quickly, looking around the room. He looks at the elven mage and rushes over quickly, obviously sensing his impatience. He bows humbly before the mage, low and reverently.

“It is about time. Do you keep all those you choose to interview waiting so long?” The elf glared at the human in the robes, his anger flaring around him like a visible aura.

“I am truly sorry Master Darkleaf, forgive me please.”

“Sit down and ask your questions before I lose more patience”

The human sits quickly, “I am Scribe Arcan, Master Darkleaf. I thank you for your patience.”

The mage glared slightly, the human hurried on, “What caused you to take the black robes?”

Sighing the mage sat back, “Let me tell my story so we can get past all this. If you still have questions afterwards ask, but this will be faster. I am Rishandal Darkleaf, Arch-Magi of the Conclave and at the time of this interview, Head of the Black Robes. I took the black robes for power. Which is why most do it. I did it willingly, I was NOT trapped as some like to say. I knew I would be cast out if I was found and I was found and cast out. I miss my homeland but love my power. I am one of the most powerful mages the Conclave has ever known. My teachers were all competent and able to cast mighty spells. Many complain their teachers are not good enough simply because they lack the patience and intelligence to gain the knowledge from words without having it pointed out to them. The rise to power is always slow. However, being an elf, I had the patience for it. I reveled in my growing strength, but when my strength reached it’s peak, I still felt something missing. I went along years, thinking that I had missed something, that there was more to magic that I missed. I gave up searching, figuring it was just me. One day, I met this lady. Her name is Mira. I knew then what I was missing. Mira and I fell in love and became married. She is my wife at the time of this interview. She is an extremely beautiful woman.” Smiling, Rishandal sat back in his chair.

“Would you give up your magic for her?”

A dark cloud settled over the elf as he looked up at the scribe. “Most likely. It depends on the circumstances. If she was doing it out of malice no, but I do not think she is capable of malice as such.”

“Most say you chose the black robes because of a troubling childhood in Silvanost.”

“Bah. Story tellers and bards. My childhood was fine. I wanted power. Nothing more, nothing less.”

A smile flickered across the mage’s lips as he watched a female elf enter the bar with silver hair and pale eyes. “My wife is here, I must be off. If you have any further questions, please feel free to send a message.”

The mage stood up, taking the small elf woman in his hands and kissed her gently, spoke words of magic, and they both disappeared. The scribe watched thoughtfully, shaking his head, “Love strikes even the darkest of hearts it would seem. I would not want to be one to cross that man.” With that last statement, he stood, paid the bartender, and left, heading back to Palanthas.