The air was cold and George shivered, absently readjusting his long gray jacket around himself. The jacket was the most expensive piece of clothing he owned. If it was clean and new, it might fetch a price of $45, as it was, dirty, thread worn and stained, it was almost worthless.

He wore plastic flip-flops and jeans that were stiff with filth. Anyone seeing his unshaven face and grimy exterior would assume he was a vagabond or street person, and in a very real sense, he was. Such were the traditions of his order.

George walked slowly as he thought. He often found the older members of the order, even Antonius, his mentor, fatalistic to a disturbing degree. What was the point of their training, of their skill, if they could not right wrongs that were committed? Especially the wrongs that he himself, had done? He hadn’t committed a crime, but he had broken a little boys heart and betrayed his friends.

George grunted without thinking as he continued to make it towards the encampment of vagabonds by the river.