Torm left the pavillion with a disenchantment to his outlook. Everytime he felt things would get simpler, they became more complicated. He believed saving a princess, being granted the vassalage of a lord, and winning his first arena melee at Yattar would be a dream come true just a week ago. Now? He wondered if he should have simply asked for a monetary reward after saving Theophanna and then riding off to ply his prowess to a fat old lord who would pay much for little work. It was not a thought he took lightly, but even if he regretted it, he had sworn an oath. A knight's word was his bond, and though he was no knight yet, he needed to act as one if he wished to become one. He also knew it would be unjust to ask for a release after two days. He would wait a year, do his due diligence, and then request to the Lord if he could be relieved from his service. Perhaps his "luck" would continue, and after a year, he would be considered a valuable man-at-arms, potentially even a knight. He simply needed to work, without prejudice or emotion. 

Usually food took his mind off of things, yet he had eaten but an hour ago. He set off, keeping to the stones on the road to keep the mud and manure off of his boots. He hardly noticed the wooden rails and banners flapping in the wind, or the makeshift living areas the merchants used to ply their lesser wares when they weren't serving themselves. However, he did notice a table under a flagless tarp, where a motley assortment of serfs, stableboys, men-at-arms, and freemen played an intense game of knucklebones. 

Despite himself, he lingered in the crowd to watch. Torm had played knucklebones often as a boy, with his friend Leifter, and the older men. It made him feel mature and dangerous, and he had grown to be quite good at the game. He watched as a thin fellow with long blonde hair rolled his bones. He sported a rich but unassuming tunic, likely a merchant, and with a smirk he removed the bones of the harlot on the left. She cursed under her breathe and slid her dice off the column. 

"Good move, Louis," a taller man whispered to the winner. Even spoken quietly, the Terriché accent was easy to hear.

A large, burly man-at-arms rolled his own bones, and slid his up the column to add to his score. 

"Berta, move your fat arse or roll again." A voice from the crowd said. The woman sniffed and spat on the ground, grabbing what was left of her coinpurse and hustled away. There was a call for a new player, and Torm waited to see someone take the seat. After five heartbeats, there was a general murmur of smug looks, until Torm found his body moving on its own. He saw the closest in the crowd give him a curious look as he pushed through him, before the other five players acknowledged his existence with bemused looks. 

"Had a rough mornin' sir?" The man with a smith's apron said, placing an elbow on the table. "Ye're looking like ye've survived the arena."

"My luck's likely run out, then." Torm replied with a blasé attitude, and he kept his grin to a a more composed, smaller smile. 

The game was rough, Torm felt the players had the lay of the land well enough, but by the end it was just he and the thin, golden haired man. Before long, he too, had been devoured by Torm's dice. Torm was relieved he had won, and he expected the string of insults in the haughty Terriché accent, but when the fellow demanded Torm return his winnings, the squire refused. 

"If you had simply asked, I might have shown mercy, but Il favors the just as well as the brave." Torm replied, finally feeling in control of a situation. This time, he did give a wolfish grin.  "Now be off." 

In an instant, the thin man drew a dagger. He had the breadth of the table to get to Torm, but he made the leap all the same. Instinct kicked in. Torm could not grab his own dagger, or his other weapons in time, but the long hours of wrestling had given him fine reflexes. He caught the man's wrist with his left while simultaneously grabbing his golden head of hair with a quick jerk, and used it to slam his face into the wooden tabletop. The fellow's nose struck the wood and shattered, blood splattering, while the dagger fell from his nerveless fingers. 

Gasps erupted from the crowd. They must be more squeamish than he would have given them credit for. It was not like violence such as this was rare in these situations? The man's companion, taller and broader, watched with a slack jawed bewilderment to what happened. Torm met his eyes, and after a moment he licked his lips. 

"This is cousin to the Duke D'Montfort, monsieur." 

The statement was so simple, and it took a few moments for Torm to feel the weight, before numbness took him. "Then I would have expected he acted more nobly." Torm replied distantly, and cast his gaze around the table, ice blue eyes daring any to come at him. If he were a wolf, he would have felt his hackles risen and his teeth bared. They did not know his name, only his face, and even then it was no guarantee they would even seek reprisal, at least officially. He let go of the noble's scalp, calmly took his earnings, and backed away as men rushed to help the stunned popinjay. Torm retreated, now going to find some place to lay low for the day, unless commanded otherwise. 

Everything gets more complicated.