William, so named because his father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father had been before him, relied on Brion, even when he pretended he didn’t. Brion, so named because, well, he chose it, the Gaelic word meaning strong, as he’d had to demonstrate strength to endure the life he led, was continually saving William from his poor decision making. Both were known to King Arthur, had reputations for feats of courage on the battlefield, but only one of them continually put himself in harm’s way in hopes of someday receiving an invitation to sit at the Round Table.
Take their latest adventure, for instance. Brion had known as soon as the old woman had begun speaking about her young daughter in peril, that William was hooked. He had rolled his eyes and snorted, but the two had ignored him, William leaning in over his tankard to take in the crone’s every word. A daughter kidnapped by an evil prince, blah, blah, blah, beautiful beyond compare, blah, blah, blah, a handsome reward, blah, blah, blah, cruel dragon. Aha! Hooked!
Brion had taken note of the peasants passing the front of the tavern, the sidelong glances at the three of them before hurrying along, a discreet sign for the evil eye thrown their way more than once. No one in this town had enough to put up a reward, and if the girl’s looks were anything like her mother’s, there was no wonder she’d been left alone to fend for herself. To be fair, even if the girl’d been blessed with beauty, the old woman was clearly held in regard as a witch, so there were few prospects for her daughter, even if she were still alive.
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