It had been with little interest that Audric Bourdette had watched his surroundings while he had traveled.<br/><br/>Though it had been a while since the heir to the Fire House had visited his home, the independent mercenary had come to his homeland with an express purpose, and it had<i>not</i>been to examine or admire the local architecture and countryside. No, it hadn't even been to enjoy the familiar local culture, or even to visit his aging family. He had come for an express purpose, not just for nostalgia. So he had paid little mind to the locals. Even those who recognized the eternally unaging heir were paid little mind, despite their calls for his attention, or secret stares and wonderment at what run-away royalty was doing back in the country which he had supposedly abandoned. However, despite his lack of concern his heightened senses took in all the pieces of his surroundings as he traveled. In the inner city, the smell of pottery freshly crafted and fine wines being crafted drifted lightly in to his nostrils. As he reached to the middle-class areas of town, he smelt the distinct scent of honey on the air coming from the nearest meadery, and as he entered the outskirts of town he had been assailed with the smells of farm-work and manure until he had hit the country-side. There, out in the country, he could smell animals out in the woods hunting, or being hunted, and the smell of fresh-growing plants carrying through the air in the breeze. Sharp green eyes watched his surroundings as he had walked down the side of one country trail or another. Not that he really had much to pay attention to.<br/><br/>He had but one goal.<br/><br/>It wasn't until he laid eyes on it that his rather slow and relaxed pace almost imperceptively quickened. He made his way to the door. It was there where he came to a stop, checking over himself once again. The leather, strapped boots he wore were faded and dusty-looking: ones that had lasted him quite a while. The pants were a dark brown, with a variety of pockets sewn on, and layered knees for durability. His shirt was a leather and cloth variety, nothing that would be the desire of a noble of the court, but more for a mercenary desiring practicality. On a heavy-looking leather belt was one thing of note: a trio of pistols, heavy-looking wood and metal devices, with one at either side, and another tucked in to the small of his back to be hidden from view. Yet from that belt also was a pair of books, bound in leather, and held in satchels: books of complex fire magics learned over the years. In fact, the only excentric thing about him was his hat: a wide-brimmed black leather deal, with a trio of brass rings through it that gave it a slope to the front and right, and a white feather tucked in the dark brown leather band about the hat. The only thing that really stood out, though it was a case of personal choice.<br/><br/>He felt little concern for his appearance. His record would speak volumes more for these sorts than what he looked like, he felt.<br/><br/>Reaching up with one hand clad in a black leather glove, he gave three solid raps on the door, and waited. Unmoving on the doorstep, his ears listened, and he observed his surroundings without moving. After all, he didn't want any surprises should they try to "test" him as some groups had done in the past when he had sought membership with them.