Pathfinder Quay took Tycondrius' offered hand, standing up and dusting himself off. Sandal-print remained on his face, somewhat devaluing his heroic mien.
"Well, he's strong. That's what matters, I suppose," Quay nodded in contentment... "Hey, Tycon. I'm a good dad, right? Right?"
Tycon took a deep breath as he contemplated on how to answer.
When he'd transmigrated into the Realm, the young Pale was nine years old. At the time, no one had thought to teach the boy to defend himself. Gifted with talent and a solid work ethic, Pale's combat skills quickly grew to Iron-Rank in only a few moons. Currently, he was ten or eleven... and the current-Quay had been missing, long before then.
It was highly probable that he was dead.
Tycon providing any of that information was less than ideal. He would not risk adversely affecting the Elven Pathfinder's morale...
