9:28 Dragon
A hulking man with a farmer's tan and graying blond hair entered Denerim's market just before sundown. In one of his dirty hands was an even dirtier sack; the other gripped an axe, the simple tool of a laborer and not a warrior. This fact didn't preclude stares from vendors he passed on his way to a small station near the Chantry. Some of the merchants hastened their evening closing routines, rolling up awnings and locking away goods as soon as he glanced in their directions.
His wrinkled face was marred by two scars: one across his lips and another on his forehead, cutting into his hairline. He wore a threadbare tunic, once white but now a dingy yellow, with sleeves falling loose of their stitching. The stuffing of his fur-lined boots poked through holes in the toes and heels, and his pants had no knees. Not that he seemed to need knees, as he had enough of Ferelden's mud caked to his body to cover any bare skin.
Even if his looks suggested he might take his poverty out on the nobles and merchants who frequented the market, he wasn't there to cause trouble. He wasn't even there to shop, which no one suspected in the first place. There was only one reason he was in Denerim, and that was to seek out the Order.
The Order's office next to the Chantry was always busy during shift changes. Denerim's citizens had a knack for requesting assistance at the same time the templars were briefing the next shift. Perhaps one activity attracted the other, or perhaps people were hesitant to approach the office while it was quiet and mostly empty. You were more likely to be greeted with the Knight-Captain's scowl during the busy times, but there was safety, and anonymity, in a crowd.
The man passed in front of the Chantry and headed toward the cluster of civilians and templars hanging around the station's entrance. They stepped aside; neither soldier nor freeman saw fit to let the filthy man as much as brush against them. He ignored their sneers and entered the building.
In the back of the open room, the Knight-Captain stood behind his desk; a long line of nobles and commoners had formed on the other side. His arms were crossed as he turned down one request after another. The man situated himself at the end of the line, and the person in front of him moved forward as much as she could to avoid being near him. The man was a head taller than most of the others in the room, and it wasn't long before the Knight-Captain took notice of him. The Knight-Captain continued to turn people away, one-by-one, but he threw many curious glances toward the man in the back. No one would get behind him. When it was the man's turn, he stepped forward, stuffed his axe into his worn leather belt and let his bag fall to the ground.
The Knight-Captain snorted. "Well, I should thank you for clearing out that lot; I don't think I could take another suspicion about a neighbor's cousin's daughter's nursemaid being an apostate this evening. But I'm afraid we're not a charity. If you're looking for aid, the Chantry's next door."
The man shook his head. In a thick accent he said, "I do not need charity, only a job. I am here for recruitment, Ser."
The Knight-Captain rubbed his brow and muttered, "And here I thought I'd have a dull night for a change." He looked the man up and down. "What are you, some washed-up Orlesian deserter looking to hide among the Order?"
"Assume what you will, Ser, but I have lived in Amaranthine since I was 18. I was a city guardsman for 22 years-"
"Bloody hell!" the Knight-Captain interrupted. "22 years? Just how old are you?"
The man cast his gaze to the floor. "It is true; I would not be able to serve the Order for long."
The Knight-Captain rounded his desk and stood next to the man. He scratched his chin and looked sidelong at his Orlesian guest. "I'm not in the habit of turning down potential recruits. You look fit enough, and if you've the proper paperwork to prove your employment with the guard, your experience may counter your age. Anyway, the recruitment process never fails to weed out the weak, but I have to wonder what brought you here."
The man paused, swallowing a lump in his throat. "My family was killed by maleficarum. I will honor their memories by dying to protect others from the same fate."
"Just like that, huh?" The Knight-Captain chuckled. "At least you didn't mention anything about revenge."
"Because it is not."
"Look, it's not that I don't sympathize with you, but becoming a templar isn't an answer to your personal problems. It's a way of life, one that takes unwavering devotion to our Maker."
"Good," the man said as he bowed his head, "because faith is all that I have left."
The Knight-Captain sighed, grabbed a logbook from his desk and handed it to the man. "Well, it's not solely my decision. Sign in here and be in front of the Chantry by sunrise tomorrow for inspection and testing."
As the man entered his personal data into the book, the Knight-Captain picked up the man's bag. He stared at the ring of dirt it left behind on the floor. The man exchanged the log for his bag; the Knight-Captain shook his head.
"I would also suggest finding a bar of soap and bucket of water or five before tomorrow. First impressions, you know."
The man nodded, turned around and headed for the front door. He heard the Knight-Captain mumble back the man's information from the log.
"Maximilien, heh. If that were any more Orlesian, it would come with a feather boa."
The man looked over his shoulder and said, "I go by Max. It is much easier for you Fereldans to remember."
He left the building with a smirk on his face and walked toward the Chantry.
