To Marry a Dragon

1. Paladin's Chore

The Dame, the Dame, the Dame... one must always seek out the Dame. Find the right one, and a marvelous adventure shall follow. 

Sir Ferrante Rastelli, the Paladin of the Order of Verity, didn't resent the Dames. Rather, he resented the inevitability of being put onto the collision course with them.

Take today as an example. He sighed, then bent his head low to dive inside a roadside inn. He had been to dozens of establishments like that, so he braced for the smell of fried onions, sour ale and wet wool... The Crooked Rooster didn't disappoint. The unsavory yet comforting combo of food and shelter triggered a rumble in his gut and fatigue in his every joint. 

By the Light, he wished this day was done, so he could eat, then stretch out on a cot, and slip into oblivion! But he had to greet the Dame first. 

Dame, then food. Then...well, that depended entirely on what the Dame had to say.

Squinting from the delicious cooking smoke, Ferrante surveyed the cavernous interior for his charge.

There. Two brown braids hang down her back, pink blush on her cheeks even in this dim light... that had to be his Dame. Young, she was far too young to be on the road, helping those in need, but youth passes. 

Other than age, there was no flaw he could find.

The Dame faced the door, her back to the wall, so she spotted him right away--not a big accomplishment given his height--but didn't cry out, or (Light forbid!) rushed him with salutations. 

Her cloak was strung over the back of her chair, allowing him a good look at her boiled leather armor with metal bands, all in excellent condition, but not brand new. Humble, when an astounding number of the green knights were full of piss and bluster. 

She hadn't started a brawl to prove she was a wild harridan, a sign of an even temperament.

Hmm...Ferrante rubbed his closely cropped beard. No flaws. 

But Dames were dicey, so he should still stay on guard, despite the favorable first impressions.

Yet, he wasn't helping anything by standing in the doors like a boulder. After taking a deep breath in, Ferrante crossed the rush-strewn floor in three giant strides, and plopped into the chair next to her. It screeched under the combined weight of his bulk and armor, but didn't wobble.

The Dame held her ground too. Her eyes travelled to the badge with the red gladiolus pinned to his cloak, then to his forehead. "Fair Light, Sir Ferrante."

He extended his hand, feeling strangely unsettled by her excellent manners. "Well met, Dame Elvira. My apologies for being delayed. I trust your accommodations have been adequate?"

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "After the forest floor, a sack of hay is a luxury, Sir."

"Ain't that Light's whole truth!" he roared up, delighted with a firm handshake she offered. There were Dame who expected a genuflection!

"I trust your delay served to right a wrong." Elvira's voice was a study in politeness, but it had an edge that put Ferrante on the defensive.

"A missing boy," he said, indicating the height just above the tabletop with his hand. "But do not let the tender age fool you."

"Oh?" Her mouth and her eyes rounded at the promise of a tale.

The fatigue of a few moments ago evaporated. Appreciative audience was a lure he could never pass up. He launched into his tale with relish. "After the tearful mother begged me to search for whatever monsters had him, the village mayor begged me no less tearfully to leave the hellion to his fate, for after his father's death he'd become the terror of the community."