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This was a story done by Gen while we were brainstorming how Hector would find out about Pioytr. (if you'd like to know more about Piotyr's story go here: http://bit.ly/138Y4oo, proceeds go to  Gen
Gen originally was going to make a comic of this scene to which I suppose she still may but in the meantime this will serve as a very adequate placeholder.

The story as I have mentioned before was written (and drawn!) by  Gen

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The first thing to hit Hector as he entered the room was the sharp change in temperature. The island was hot and humid. Their facility had air conditioning, but the heat was still always there and pressing down on you. But the moment he crossed the door into the shoppe he was hit with a sharp chill at his back and the smell of snow flurries as the door closed behind him. It was winter outside his new destination, and despite being inside the cold lingered on through the entryway.

Then came the magic backlash that struck him like a blow to the gut. The elf pitched forward and grabbed a countertop before he slammed into it. He held on as his insides churned and reeled while Hector did his best to keep the contents of his stomach down.

A mug of something was pressed into his hand and without even thinking the elf drank it greedily. The cool taste of milk hit his tongue, tinted with the sweetness of honey. He had it down in seconds and it hit his stomach like a soothing balm. The elf murmured his gratitude as the room slowly stopped spinning and his guts settled back into place.

Hector swiveled his eyes forward and found the most curious creature staring down at him over a pair of wireframed reading glasses. He looked like a scholarly man with a neatly trimmed beard on his pointed chin, wizened blue eyes, and a conservative looking blue waistcoat. Of course the fact that he had ears almost as pointed as Hector's jarred the image a bit, as did the two thick horns sprouting from his temples.

“Are you settled, Mister Fen?” the faun asked. His tone was courteous but professional. One of those questions that someone asks to be polite but doesn't care one way or another about the answer. He looked to have been writing in a logbook with a garish ostrich feather pen. The faun idly laid a strip of red cloth across the page to mark his place and closed it with the care of a man who treats books with more affection than he does most people.

Hector licked his teeth and swallowed a few times. He still felt a bit dizzy, but the drink helped ease the worst of it. “Yes, thank you.” He stood and cleared his throat. “You're Timothy?”

“Correct. We spoke over the telephone when Assistant arrived at your facility.” He gestured to a ancient looking rotary phone on the counter. “I presume this meeting is regarding her.”

The faun's precognition always disturbed Hector. How much did he really know? How much was guessing and how much was his supposed 'gift'. There was a reason why Hector hated magic beyond the fact that it caused him physical pain whenever it touched him. “Um... yes. I recently rescued her from our enemy's facility, and she was badly hurt when I carried her back. She kept confusing me for someone else. And when I mentioned the name when she was a bit more lucid she went ice cold towards me. It's the first time she's done so, and I'm concerned.”

Timothy slipped down from his stool and vanished from sight, although his hooves clattered loudly enough against the polished hardwood floor to make his presence known. He was obviously short, perhaps a hair over three feet tall. “And what name would that be, Mister Fen?” He emerged around the side of the counter and motioned for Hector to follow him.

Hector was led down a narrow hallway and into what appeared to be a comfortable looking sitting room. A fire was crackling in the hearth and a bottle of wine had been set out. There was only one glass, and it sat in front of the chair Timothy motioned for Hector to sit in. The elf did so and reflexively began to pour a glass. “Piotyr. She kept calling me Piotyr. Why did she do that?”

“I haven't the foggiest, Mister Fen. You don't resemble her son at all.”

To his benefit, Hector did not drop his glass of wine, although he briefly attempted to drink it through his nose as he tried to parse those words. “Her... wha?” He frowned. “She never mentioned children.”

Timothy settled back in his own chair and steepled his hands across his chest. “She adopts foundlings from time to time. Probably the same urge that makes old ladies adopt stray animals. This boy was an elven child that she raised from infancy after his parents were killed. My guess is that she doesn't wish to discuss it with you because the boy was murdered.”

Again, Hector had difficulty finding where his mouth was located as he tried to drink. “So does this mean she's adopted me?”

The faun smirked. “Perhaps, although it appears you've done likewise, Mister Fen.” He crossed his hooves idly as they rested on a plush velvet footstool.

Hector chuckled and acquiesced. “I suppose I have.” He finally got a mouthful of the wine down. It was rich and spicy, the way wine used to be made with herbs and fruit for great celebrations. Now wine was a somber affair that people judged with swishing glasses and scorecards. “I've gathered that Artemis is older than she looks. How old is she, exactly?”

“Bah, people keep changing how they measure time. Calendars change, units of distance and time change. It's difficult to keep track.” He stroked his beard. “Roughly somewhere between Upper to Middle Paleolithic, I believe. She doesn't know the exact number herself, so I don't recall it either.”

The elf squinted. They had found a few artifacts on the island, and he had learned about earth ages through his study and research. If the faun was correct, that would put her in the tens of thousands of years old. It explained a lot, such as her unending reserves of patience and calm. It would seem that whatever miracle her blood held maintained her first and foremost. “So... back to her son.”

Timothy adjusted his glasses, a motion to show that he was still listening, but had no answer because he hadn't been asked a question.

“You said he was murdered?” Hector couldn't help but swirl the wine around in his mouth as he drank it. It reminded him of a bitter and earthy sangria. A taste so interesting and deep that gulping it down quickly felt like committing a sin.

The faun nodded. “I was not privy to all of the details, but the boy had joined a sort of religious militia that protected small villages incapable of defending themselves. Someone decided that they were a threat, and wiped out his sect in the middle of the night. When Assistant received word, she dealt with the parties involved.” He waved his hand lazily. “You have no doubt observed how she deals with dangerous individuals, particularly ones with blood on their hands.”

Hector remembered watching her snatch Pyrite from the air as the creature was leaping for Silver with a poisoned spike, an instant earlier and the thing had buried a similar one in his own flesh. One moment Silver had been a second from his own death, and the next Hector had heard that sickening wet cracking noise as Artemis had snapped the beast's neck. She'd been frighteningly efficient as a second after that she had yanked out the spike in Hector's gut and shoved a teabag against the wound to try and slow the poison or draw some of it out. His midsection twinged at the memory. “Is that why you hired her?” he finally asked.

“I hired Assistant because she does not dabble in the coffers, so to speak.” He stroked his beard lazily. “To be specific, she does not use magic. You have no doubt observed that she will not even make use of what could be an easy transport back here. It is an inconvenience to a certain extent, but Assistant does the work I require when I require it.” His tone made it clear that if there was any more to the arrangement, he was not going to discuss it. As always, fauns said more by what they did not say rather than what they did.

“I see,” Hector murmured dryly. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Timothy closed his eyes, he was either growing bored, checking his memory, or perhaps using that divining power of his. “She is fond of peppermint tea, and is going to have nightmares about her recent captivity for the next two weeks, although she will not indicate this to you or show any signs of it. As you have no doubt observed, Assistant is excellent at keeping her thoughts and mysteries to herself when she wishes to.” He cracked open one eye and studied Hector critically. “Is there anything else, or are you thoroughly finished with your prying, Mister Fen?”

Only a faun could be rude in such a polite tone. “I... I think I'm finished. Thank you, Timothy.”

“Mmm,” Tim mumbled, closing his eyes again and settling back into his seat. He looked for all the world like he was going to take a nap. “Finish your glass and feel free to take the bottle with you. You may leave the way you came.”

Hector sipped the rest of the wine and gingerly picked up the bottle. It bore no label or any hints to its origin. Still, it was a fine drink and one he would probably put away and finish on a special occasion. Timothy appeared to have completely forgotten about him and was already starting to doze in his seat.

Bracing himself for the shock of magic that the doorway would no doubt cause a second time, Hector made his way back to the front of the store and the return trip home.