"Are you m'ae da?" A child with mousey brown hair looked curiously at the tall grim man. He had not spoken since their departure from the trial. They had rode in an awakard silence ever since.

The child was confused, one moment his ma was arguing with several stiffly dressed men. The next, crying and pleading with them. Suddenly she pointed, and all eyes were on him. An old woman in glittering white robes came by with the shinest bowl he'd ever seen. The crazy hag pulled a knife, and forced him to watch the blood ooze from his hand, into the bowl.

Then the witch started chanting and added some more blood from a vial she had in her robes. He bore witness to but could not comprehend what happened next:

The blood began to boil.

Several men in the room immediately paled, except for three. One seemed to be doing his damnest not to laugh. He had jet-black hair and sky blue eyes, clear-cut and teeming with intuition. The other, the child guessed he was some official, stayed composed in his ceremonial garb. The third man whom the witch nodded at, bore a resemblance to the child, remained stone faced.

"No. You are my child, but I am not your father."

Cendric woke up early morning in a bad mood, touchy but well rested. After lacing his boots and going about his morning routine. He buckled his belt and strapped the dagger (now sheathed) back on.

[I'm losing my touch.] Cendric thought, as he closed window left open over night. The tiny bronze bell swung forth jingling, an omnious reminder of what might come should he remain careless. He snatched the arming sword on his way out, tightly gripping it.

Few things in life besides money or women, comforted Cendric. Carefully made plans and watching them unfold, was one of them. So far nothing had gone accordingly.

Truely a credit to his race, the stubborn dwarf refused to sell Cendric anything after their first transaction. Incredibly, he was the only blacksmith in town, Cendric was going to have to buy armor from someplace else. A horse was also apparently out of the question too. The dealer flat out declined all his offers of buying the cheapest horse they had, even if it was lame. The man informed Cendric that the money would not cover the costs a saddle and stirrup or fodder.

"Good —" The receptionist, a new face, started until he saw the storm lingering over the moody guest. Cendric walked right past him, heading over the now fast filling taproom around the corner. He took an empty table in the back, dragging the bench under him. His mind was in a flurry of thoughts, and the buildup was causing a headache.

[It's time to make a proper course action.] For the most part, Cendric had been coming up with plans on the spot. Now he had the luxury to reflect back on what transpired since he left.

For several years Cendric had been requesting permission to set out as knight-errant. The Knight's of Seeker had no shortage of young men idling about, bored out of their minds, patrolling roads. To circumvent this problem the Grandmaster used the old Ruman adage, "Quod nocet, saepe docet."

What harms, often teaches.

Once a knight-errant started his quest, all the honors, rank, and benefits that came with being a a knight seeker were temporarily stripped. You were practicality disavowed in the eyes of the Order.

What better way to show those brats how good they have it, than sending them off a year or two on their own. Cendrics "gift" was deemed to great an asset to waste on patrolling roads. More often he found himself with the most gruesome tasks and odd jobs that would make most normal men pale.

But he was never alone.

There was always someone accompanying him. Watching. An eye forever seeking him out so the leash would never slip.

When the Order finally granted his request, it came as no surprise when Captain Odell informed Cendric he was to meet with a patrol in Gwaldon. Who were to "escort" him on his journey. He could only savor the thought of his superiors faces, when they realize the mongrel has broken loose. But petty fantasies could wait later, he was getting off track.

The first plan of action was a finding way to gain money while on the road. It had to be a job or at least a cover that didn't require him to stay in one place for to long.

[A merchant? Peddler? Maybe a traveling troubadour?]

The first choice was out of the question, unless you were a foreigner, some type of official documentation or seal from a guild was required. A peddler was more feasible but money became the issue once again. Buying a wagon or cart would leave little else for purchasing goods, it was the same reversed in having no way to haul them. Cendric discarded the last option, sure he could sweet talk, but that didn't make him a bloody poet.

[I could join a mercenary company or offer my services as a bodyguard.] He didn't mind becoming a sellsword, having worked with them in the past before. They ranged from professionals to cutt throats for hire. Being a bodyguard was also plausible, he just had to imagine how he'd go about killing the client, and prevent it from happening.

Nearby, something shiny reflected off the corner of Cendrics eye. A lanky young man in a worn-out tunic padded with leather, ran out in tears; it seems Desk Girl was working at taproom today. Dangling at his neck was a newly polished bronze plate.

A devilish grin touched upon the corners of Cendrics lip.

[Adventurers Guild.]

There was one to be found almost everywhere. Hell, unlike the merchant guilds where membership was regional. Becoming an registered adventurer meant your credentials were accepted countrywide. And the thought of being able to pick and choose what jobs he wanted was extremely appealing.

[It's decided then. I'll head on over to register with the guild after I get my arm checked. There was a a temple dedicated to Mithra, on my way to the inn.]

Now came the second course of action, arguably the hard part; deciding how he would go about becoming a noble. His options were limited to three paths: Sponsorship. Legitimization. Or the Crown.

Finding a group of nobles to petition the King for Cendric joining their ranks would take time, money, and connections he did not have. He only had two years to complete his 'quest', until then the Knight Seekers virtually could not touch him. Not by conventional means anyway.

[There has to be another way than serving another master.]

A sponsorship wouldn't be out of charity, they'd want something in exchange. His support in their politics or agenda. Most likely allegiance, by marrying him off to some third or second cousin. They'd have Cendric pumping out offspring until one was born with a blessing.

[The Old Man will never recognize me as a son, that would make me the eldest; first in line to the earldom. No shit, his wife and son would murder me before that happened.] But there was a work-around. A family head could acknowledge Cendric officially as a member of House Marras, a figure like Duke Alden or Marquis Saloma.

[Not like I could just walk in to their offices.] Saloma lived as a recluse while Alden was a rising star within the Kingdom.

Cendric wearily massaged his head. Maybe some food and a drink would help— his stomach certainly agreed so. Twisting around, his eyes swept across the room searching for Desk Girl. They landed squarely on the face of a new arrival she was seating.

A memory dreamt and almost forgotten, stirred from the depths of Cendrics mind.

'Several men in the room immediately paled, except for three. One seemed to be doing his damnest not to laugh. He had jet-black hair and sky blue eyes, clear-cut and teeming with intuition.'

"...take a seat here sir."

"I, um. Thank you, but this really is not—"

"Dashing, shy, and well mannered. Sorry, aren't you just cute." Desk Girl interrupted, before the sixteen year-old could protest.

[Bodhem's bleeding cock! It can't be.] Cendric swore up and down this newcomer in the red cloak, and the man in the dream he was a spitting image of, were not one and the same.

The latter should have been past his prime after 17 years, not beginning to reach adulthood. They may have shared jet-black hair but the newcomer's was curlier and unkempt, their eyes were different too. One reminiscent of the ocean; deep, guiless, and untested. The other like sapphires, a crystal intelligence hardened by experience.

Meanwhile Desk Girl seemed to have taken special interest in teasing the young man.

"Can I call you Prince Charming?"

"What? No! I can't imperson a prince, the academy would have my knighthood right after my head."

"You do look like an academy type, with that uniform and all. But most of the knightly lot I've seen are a bit older than you." She said, dubiously.

"I swear it on my honor and family name." Leondre spoke, his tone most serious.

"May I call on you then, to protect my chasity and virtue?" She replied, keeping a straight face.

"I beg thee, stop..." Leondres cheeks, by now, were almost the same color as the folds of the cloak he hid beneath.

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