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That he walked his trusty steed Rocinante through doors is not by far the strangest thing to happen to Don Quixote, the bravest, most honorable, most stalwart of all knights in the history of Knight Errantry.

Even, that he is suddenly in a new place might not seem so strange to the Knight, who, as those with a penchant for the wonders of the Romance as a genre of literature can attest. After all, magic is a staple of such books. (They are also what drove our brave, honorable stalwart knight from his very wits.) It is a good thing he is clad in his armor (which is rusted, barely holding together and very heavy)!

It is a lovely place, he finds, after all. Bright and warm with lovely flowers and a field of clover that beckons Rocinante closer. The horse, who, in Quixote's mind, is the most valiant of all steeds, is actually a poor, old sway-backed hack who would very much like to only roam through the clover.

The old man and the old horse wander further and the man can be heard exclaiming, "Sancho! I say, Sancho, it seems we have found a new adventure." He does not look behind him to see that his squire has not made the journey to this place with him. "Surely, this will be a place wherein I can honor my fair Dulcinea with deeds worthy of her name!"

[enter one Don Quixote de la Mancha, fighter of windmills and sheep, man bereft of his wits. Please keep him from the flowers and his horse from the clover?]

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He might buy if he can locate the pouch he hides in his boot. If not then they will both have to be charming so that the alewenches do not question them.

Knights might not travel with money, but old aging storytellers do. For the ground is hard and these bones are no longer young.

"My name is...Marlowe, sir. William Marlowe, at your service." Since it doe snot do to tell a Fae creature your true name, lest they bind you by it and leave you subject to their whims. A harmless lie, to be sure.

"Ah, Don Marlowe, I am Don Quixote! Knight of La Mancha, defender of Dulcinea, righter of wrongs, redresser of grievances!" He stands as tall as he can, which, based on the weariness of his bones puts him at nearly a half-moon bend.

"Narrow of purpose and wide of vision as well, Don Quixote?" He's trying to hide the smile behind his hand a little.

"It's good to make your acquaintance, Don. Shall we direct your mount over to the town before he falls prey to the clover there?"

"I say, Rocinante!" the hildago called to his steed, who gave him no nevermind. "Rocinante!" He staggered after his horse, barely grasping his reins. "Tell me, Marlowe - ! Where are we ... ?"

He steps to go and try and assist the knight with corralling the horse. "Don, I know not where this place is. It is not one with which I am familiar."

He had thought it somewhere in the realms of Faerie but now he is not so sure of that after all. The air is different here.

Alas, poor Rocinante is not nearly strong enough to fend off even two medium strength men, and with a sigh, he acquiesces to go along the more beaten path.

"And where is it that you are from, Marlowe?" Don Quixote asks, his rusty metal armor clanking as he walks, masking the creaking of his bones.

'England, Don. That is where I hail from. Specifically the bowels of London." Because he's a step above paupers some days. Even if the Queen likes his plays. He's no knight like Kit is or Murchaud, has no airs to pretend to. He's just a simple wordsmith and playmaker.

"You, sir? Where do you call your home?"

"Why, La Mancha, of course! The most beautiful of all the lands, unless you are a Moor and then you would be a liar anyway and still consider it lovely!"

If that makes little sense, that is of little matter.

"It sounds very grand, this La Mancha of yours." He cannot comment on the Moors, as he's only known a handful and as an inveterate lair and teller of tales himself. he is the last person to comment on the untruthfulness of anyone. "Who governs there, Don? Is it yours?"

"Alas, it is not." And the man is so gone in his wits that he could not tell his new friend Marlowe who the governor is. "Surely, he is a find and upstanding man," he says, though. Which might very well be a lie taking in to account the current state of Spain.

"That is good to hear," the officials in London are not always so, in Will's approximation. "Certainly La Mancha is lucky in that respect."

As they approach the town more, Will frown a little more, it does not appear to look like anything he recognizes. And that is also worrisome.

Truthfully, Don Quixote is used to not recognizing anything; it is one of the benefits of being mad. "Surely," he tells his new friend. "We shall find adventure here."

There are many benefits to madness, Will is beginning to see. And he cannot claim that he is totally in his right mind either, not with the adventures he'd had in Faerie with Will.

"I think you are correct in that, Don. I feel certain that this place will have many wonders for us to explore."

"I say," the Knight suddenly declares, so physically moved by his idea that his armor clatters and he nearly loses his footing. "Would you wish to be my squire? We can adventure together!"

"I do not think I possess the necessary skills to serve you as you deserve to be served, Don. But I am grateful for the honor." Will said with a small bow and a smile. "Though adventuring together does sound like a grand plan."

First, the ale and food. Then the adventuring.

Ale would need to be limited as Quixote is old enough that more than one may well do him in for the night. But food, yes! Then adventure.

"Very well," the hildago replies. "We shall be compatriots, then." And that is good. Who better to tell stories to?

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