The Power of Myth

Some weeks ago, he defeated the Red Sorcerer in a battle of words and earned a favour.

Tonight, he was collecting it.

He found the sorcerer outside an old smithy right across Xander's mansion. Apparently, the smith was phenomenal at combining metal trinkets with Xander's pottery. The Scottish male sat on a stack of broken crates. The torchlight flickered against his wild red hair, giving him an almost demonic glow. Dressed in a worn kilt and tunic, Alastair looked every bit the warrior-poet, though his lips curled into something between a grin and a sneer when he saw Myth approach.

"Ah, Myth," Alastair drawled, stretching his arms as though preparing for a brawl. "Here I was, hopin' ye came to challenge me again. Or perhaps drink with me? Or…you've come lookin' for yer favor."

"I do," Myth replied smoothly. His voice was a gentle melody, neither urgent nor pleading. "You haven't forgotten, I hope?"