Any man with his wits about him would think Jaris a fool for making in haste a decision with such grave consequences. Indeed, he was deserving of the appellation, but do not think that he proceeded without awareness of all that would follow, for his actions thence were neither rash nor ill-considered. Even so, his resolve would be put to the test not once, not twice, but thrice before the shadows grew long that day.

Knowing full-well what would happen were another of his party, with less aberrant compassion and resolve than himself, to spy the Hob child, he bade her conceal herself among the sun-colored wheat-stalks in a field and eat a piece of his salt-bread for a while. In her innocent trust she did exactly this.

Upon leaving the wheat-field, Jaris met upon the road noble Pinion, and greeted the Knight in friendly manner.

“Encountered you any Hob in the fields, good friend?” asked Pinion.

“Nay, no more remain. I go now to bring my report to the Signet-Bearer. Come, let us boast to him together.”

“I shall remain here awhile, and drink in our fine work, and keep watch that no more remain hidden.”

Jaris entreated his friend to join him, but the man would not be convinced, and at last Jaris was left no choice save continuing alone, trusting that Pinion would not spy the child.

His first trial surmounted at the cost of the trust between one man and another he calls friend, Jaris went then to the Knight bearing the King’s Signet and asked of him leave to ride north and seek out any messenger that might have escaped the village.

He asked this that he might use the absence to locate a Hob to take the orphan in, and in payment for which he had violated the life-oath of a Knight to serve his Liege faithfully, for a falsehood to the Signet-Bearer is no different from a falsehood at the foot of the throne.

Leave being granted without hesitation, Jaris returned then to where the child was hidden. The Fates wasted no time in testing his resolve and compassion a third and greatest time, for as he pushed through the wheat-stalks he spied ahead of him Pinion, standing over the orphan child with sword brandished.

“Ho! Stay your blade!” called Jaris, which Pinion acknowledged with a glance across his shoulder. Pinion, perhaps taking the command to mean something Jaris had not intended, raised his blade high to slay the child.

Jaris acted then with an instinct borne of fatherhood and honed by war, drawing his parry-dagger and hurling it into the un-guarded back of his compatriot. Struck thus, Pinion’s blade missed its mark. The injured man cast his gaze at Jaris with the shock of deepest betrayal, pulled the dagger from its flesh-sheath, and fled to his steed, bleeding grievously.

Jaris thought to make some entreaty to his trusted friend, but knew well how no words could now un-do his hasty act. He thought to give chase, but Pinion’s steed was faster than his own, and his hesitation had opened too wide a breadth between the two.

It was certain now that the deception would be exposed by Pinion’s testimony, even if the wound took the noble man’s life after he spoke it. Jaris resolved then, with warrior’s mettle, a course that would follow him to the end of his days.

“Have you been harmed?” he asked the orphan at his feet.

“No, sire. I thank you for sparing me.” It could not be said that the girl-child’s manners were lacking, even when measured against those common among the children of the Northlanders. “When I saw a man pass by I thought him you, and waved to him, but he was terrible cross and raised up his knife at me.” The child knew not how her simple words had grieved her savior.

Yet Jaris gave no reprimand. In place, he took up the blade left by Pinion as he fled. “This is no knife, but a sword. You must know the proper words for things.”

“Yes, sire,” she replied, showing due obedience.

Jaris retrieved his parry-dagger, and wiped the betrayal-blood from it. “What are you called, child?” he asked.

“Mara, sire,” she replied. It was a common name among the Northlanders, though Jaris thought it exceeding strange for a Hob.

“I am Jaris. Come, we have far to travel.”

Jaris could no longer take the girl-child north, for it was certain that the remainder of the campaigners would seek him there. South, too, would only lead into the midst of the hostile lands of Men. The only place that might be considered safe while Jaris awaited the opportunity to return the child to her kind lay to the east, in the chasm of Hellsfurrow, where none but a fool would venture.

And so, already bearing the fool’s mantle, did Jaris set off, over jagged-toothed mountains and down into the crack said carved by the gods of the underworld themselves to separate the world into the fertile Western Realm and the barren plains of the Eastfields. The path grew so thin even a sure-footed steed could not pass, and so Jaris was forced to set free his trusty charger. It could then truly be said that naught but what he carried upon his back could be counted as his possessions.

On these fools’ paths did the Hob child follow Jaris obediently, never issuing complaint or lamenting aloud.