Felix

Tormson, Cavalier of Suzail

"What do we think, brother?"

"We think we should wait."

"We are not entirely sure."

"No. We are not. Let us rest and refresh and reflect on our duties."



Two men and two wolves took seats on the long wooden boardwalk outside the inn of the Broken Staff. Dusty traveling had dried their lips with thirst, and one of the men called inside to the keeper for drinks and water.



"What do they call this town, brother?"

"Ashaben-ford, brother."



One of the men slid a long silver blade out of the sheath at his hip. One of the wolves yawned and lay its head on its paws. The other man reclined in his rough-made wooden chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The other wolf sat upright, panting.



"Our cousin is being tested not far from here. It seems... wrong that we are not helping him."

"Aye. But the First of Three does not wish it. Further challenges await him."

"And if, lacking our help farther down his road, he fails, we would not have helped him after all."

"That is so, brother."

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<p style="margin-bottom:0in">The silver sword sharpened, drawn slowly across a whetstone. Laced fingers tipped a broad ochre hat down over tired eyes. A wolf dozed as the sun set. Across the way, a tomcat on a roof darted out of sight. Flagons of drink and trays of water were served.

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<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"And yet, the First of Three is our father, and he loves us all."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Truly, brother. His love is ancient and enduring."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Blessed be his fist and his eye."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Blessed be. Would he wish us to sit drinking while our cousin is surrounded by the murderous vermin of the rift? Would he wish us to be draining horns of mead on a night when our cousin might be on his knees in his own blood, his blade broken by infernal beasts? Should we be delirious in our cups while our poor cousin's mind is undone by hellish magics?"

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Hmm."

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<p style="margin-bottom:0in">The silver blade slid home into a sheath the color of wheat, and the man who carried it stood up and walked to lean against a splintery railing. It creaked as it took his weight and the weight of his armor. He wore a bleached leather hooded tabard and matching gloves. When he stood one of the wolves moved to his side.

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<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Then we are decided, brother?"

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Brother, I believe we are."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"No drinking until our cousin returns."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Not another drop."

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<p style="margin-bottom:0in">The man in the ochre hat looked down at the flagon on the board beside his chair. It was full, foamy, and sweating.

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<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"These, though, we must pay for. It would be wasteful not to drink them."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"The First of Three has no patience for waste, Brother. It is true."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Blessed be his fist and his eye."

<p style="margin-bottom:0in">"Blessed be."