Wilbur stopped in front of one particular art weaver. There was no audience in front of her, so Wilbur and Sir Florent filled that place. Wilbur noticed the art weaver was still quite young of age, about eighteen if his assumption stood accurate. She welcomed them with a smile while rolling a little stone from one side of the platform to another. Wilbur saw the collection behind her, it did not consist of deities or known figures, rather, some were seemingly inconsequential objects like a simple torch or a door. Some were entirely different shapes and patterns which were could not be considered objects. Wilbur somehow found these shapes surrealistic. One particular piece made left Wilbur's jaw hanging in amazement, such powerful emotion it evoked. It was the face of a man with completely hollow eyes but a pure toothless smile that radiated warmth.

A man with nothing and everything? A design of wonders. Such expression.

The art weaver said, "I am sorry good Sirs, I mostly don't make statues on requests like most art alchemists here. In fact I don't even make statues of known personalities."

Wilbur said, "Well, then that should be good, we are not here to request anything. I just wish to see you work."

She giggled, "I just make what I feel, what comes to me."

"Isn't that the definition of art? I see some of your pieces have an ability to evoke an emotion Miss," said Wilbur.

"Okay Sir," saying so she closed her eyes and placed the stone on the platform. The stone rumbled before a little wave started flowing through it. It reminded Wilbur of the time The White God had stepped on land and the cobblestone street had a wave pattern through it felt throughout the town. Only this was on a minor scale. The waves finally stopped and a shape emerged that Wilbur had never seen before. He took the liberty to pick it up. Sometimes the pattern looked that of flowing hair, sometimes waves on a river. He couldn't find where the waves emerged either.

"I just had this little outburst, I didn't channel my alchemy into anything particular, I let it flow where it willed," she said with another smile.

The more Wilbur looked at it the more he wanted to.

What is it about this piece that is so unique?

He found the stone to be beautiful, his expressions changed as he looked at the statue from various angles.

"What does this signify Miss?" asked Wilbur, still lost in the piece.

"That is not for me to say, Sir."

"Indeed. I wish to buy this,"

"I cannot put a price on it Sir," she gave a disarming smile.

It was lost on Wilbur, "I understand, nor can I."

"You can keep it."

Wilbur looked at the smiling art weaver.

"Yeah you can keep it. I can't put a price on it."

"You will find me in your debt."

"That is a debt you cannot repay, for it does not exist," she giggled.

Wilbur smiled and put the artefact in his pocket.

****

Come night, the diner found itself to be a haven for refreshment and mirth. Wilbur, Sir Florent and Carte Hill had assembled at the bar while the younger members of the Order found the diner tables a favorable place for their general boasting and teasing. The prior exiles gambled, laughed and quarrelled like another day was naught to come; drank like it another barrel might never be found. The townsfolk and the Priests were in another part of the inn away from all the commotion the diner had to offer, discussing various aspects and making their entry into The White Capes official.

This had become their routine in the inn and Wilbur did not mind it at all. In fact he took in all the laughter and mirth, wished to preserve it. Looking at the merry environment, he realised it had been an eternity before he had borne witness to such. He extracted the stone from his pocket and ran his fingers around the wave like pattern.

Maybe this is a flow of mirth? A river that fills and dries without rain or sunlight.

He saw a shadow fall across the stone. He looked up to see Gibson the inn keeper's son, looking at him with that intense expression he never seemed to lose. Ray, the axe woodcutter's son had come to Sir Florent and Violet, the archer girl to Carter Hill.

Wilbur nodded urging him to spill out whatever reason he had come.

The fat innkeeper's boy unsheathed his sword, bowed his head and bent on a knee. He positioned the blade parallel to the ground above.

"I want to be your squire," said the boy in bland terms.

Wilbur chuckled inwardly. That was the most he spoke in an entire day. He could not be blamed; he had never visited a court.

"Son, it's 'Grant me the honour of being your squire,'" Wilbur corrected. Gibson just nodded, less likely he was going to repeat. Wilbur noticed the diner had gone more silent.

"I declare, Thralin, son of Thrall, to be my squire from this day forth," Wilbur proclaimed accepting the sword and breathing the names of the Old Gods and the New to protect the wielder of the blade. A lump formed in his throat as he recalled his last squire who had sacrificed his life in the Skirmish of Andlenore.

Then Ray managed the same, "Grant me the honour of being your squire Sir Florent. My blade is at your service."

Sir Florent chuckled, "Learn fast don't they? Brats y'all are." He accepted the blade and repeated the procedure.

In turn, Violet bent on a knee in front of Sir Carter and repeated the words.

Carter managed a grave expression on his face to mask his laugh, "Dear Violet, it's not your arrow, it's your bow upon which you must swear your oaths."

The whole inn burst out laughing. Violet wasn't ashamed rather she was angry. With a frown on her face she got up and threw the arrow at Ken, who stood grinning long after all the laughter had died.

"You buffo head, goblin's mut, useless son of a Troll, you told me it should be an arrow!" She sprouted.

"Also brainless blister on a grovelling worm," someone suggested in the crowd.

Violet said, "Yeah that too." Another ripple of laughter passed through the inn. Violet still seemed angry, "Now pass me my bow you smelly fart of an ogre!"

That's quite a talent you have.

Her bow was passed on and the ritual was completed, Sir Carter doing a bad job at masking his laughter. Violet got up and frowned at Sir Carter, hands on her hips, "Stop laughing Sir, I am now your squire, the responsibility of all my mistakes falls on you."

The inn came alive again. Wilbur agreed, "She got you there Carter. You have never been a good teacher." He laughed inwardly at his own jape.

"Fine, I will make you maggots the best goddamn archers in the Empire," boasted Sir Carter his mind half dazed with alcohol.

"Teach them well, Carter."