Ulrich’s horse was moving with a mind of her own. The Grey mare trotted along mudded cobblestones, neighing at the wind. Her rider sat tall, almost regal. Having learned that such was the only real way to ride atop another living creature.

With Pride.

It was probably this pride that drew the woman to him. She emerged out of the crowd of passers by as if from nothing, pleading for him to help a woman made poor by those who took joy in handing out sorrow and death. A grand tale of near death and desired revenge. It was however, to Ulrich’s mind. A dark path.

“You have your life for that you should be grateful. Don’t send others to their doom with nothing but a promise that you can not support. There are temples that may take you in. Help you heal.”

Softly he squeezed his horse forwards a step faster than the now begging woman. And out to the outskirts of town. The woman’s pleas ringing around his head. Loosing weight with each cycle. One phrase ringing out clearly, that the threat was going larger. That the bandits were growing confident and raiding other settlements. Not everywhere had guardians and walls.

Sighing, Ulrich let the worry off his shoulders and stomped down into the mud outside the tavern. Tying his horse outside before pushing his way inside the cursed place. Already regretting what he was drawn into.

The disgusting tavern was filled with unsavory patrons and a smell which punctured straight to his gut. Why there was a child here, he couldn't know. But Morus was eager, he’d give him that. He stepped up behind him. Listening as the boy called out publicly for the rest of the party. For others who were aiming to kill a bunch of bandits. In a room that must have been half filled with bandits.

Ulrich was filled with less gravitas. His own voice dropped to a quiet murmer as his hand brushed the boys shoulder.

“You have found one. But are you certain you …are one?”

The traveller didn’t like to judge anyone for where they were in life. So it pained him visibly to question the boy. His eyes darted around the bar, A couple in an argument, drunks playing with knives. A mercenary with a glass of water infant of him.

That stood out here. So he pointed, to distract the kid from his questions, already moving to the stranger, nodding subtly to advertise his approach.

“I believe that one is a third.”