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.