COKKA-DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOO!

Lebrante didn't move for a full sixty-seven seconds. Then his right eye started to twitch a fast staccato beat, threatening to crush his monocle into a fine powder. Slowly he set down his Celadon ChopSticks and purposefully strode out into the office section of his house.

" 'sgot no right to distract a busy man." Lebrante grumbled, looking about for anything that could be used to silence the offending fowl. Bed? Too heavy. Celadon Rice Bowl? A priceless antique. Umbrella Stand? No, Lebrante reasoned, he didn't have an umbrella stand. It would have been the perfect tool for the task at hand too. His ruminations would have gone on for several more minutes if it were not for the unexpectedly noisy arrival of someone at the shop door.

"We're not open until twelve -- Noon!" shouted Lebrante turning his attention back to the means of procuring peace for a paragon person such as himself.

"But Sir!" the door-knocker (not the knocker on the door which was a tasteful representation of a celadon-colored cabbage, but the person who had just knocked upon Lebrante's door) replied, "It's concerning the ad you placed at the inn."

"Inn? You mean it's still there?" Lebrante asked.

"The inn?"

"No, the advertisement!" The advertisement was one of Lebrante's earlier, more far-fetched methods of obtaining Celadon Urns; a square of parchment tacked to the wall at the inn with writing on it proclaiming a potch reward for any Celadon Urns. For the most part it was ignored by the inn regulars and unreadable due to the layers of accumulated dirt to the travelers Radat received. To think that someone actually found it, read it, and also happened to have information on a Celadon Urn!

"Well, don't stand out there and waste my time. Come in!" Lebrante unlocked his door and took a step back to look at his caller.

He was a young man, being no more than 15 years of age. The sort that in Lebrante's opinion should be either attending Greenhill Academy and learning how to make the world a better place for urns or working in the fields to provide food for the educated people. The boy definitely wasn't a student, with those squinty eyes, mudstained trousers, and lack of a stylish cap. He most likely wasn't a farmer either. A lad such as this would snap right in half under the heavy load that rice could understandably weigh. If it were not for the titillating promise of a priceless Celadon Urn, Lebrante would have turned him away immediately.

"So," the boy stated. "You're looking for Celadon Urns?" Not waiting for a reply he continued to talk. "Well, I happen to know the location of a good few of them."

Lebrante blinked. A good few Celadon Urns? This could be what he was waiting for. "Well, where are they? Speak quickly, boy!"

The boy grinned. "The name is Carlson, old man. Think you can handle a journey to Rockaxe?"

Strengthened by the prospect of Celadon Urns, Lebrante turned to collect his travel supplies. "Yes, and don't call me old man you slack-jawed knuckle-dragger, or you'll feel my umbrella across your backside before you can say 'Great Celadon!' "

Taking Celadon Urn #345 down from its protective shelf, Lebrante placed it in a traveling case. It's always a good idea to have an urn for the road. That's what Father always said, the crazy old coot. Taking the traveling case and attaching it to a trunk on wheels, Lebrante gathered the rest of his travel essentials. Four suits of the traditional appraiser's garb went in, along with a few meals worth of food in case a town could not be reached for tea. As an afterthought Lebrante picked up his standless umbrella and locked up the shop.

"I'll be back soon, my precious, precious urns." He whispered and turned toward Carlson who was lounging nearby. "Come on, Celadon Urns wait for no one!"