Mr. Fletcher could not quite describe what exactly he disliked about the academy, or the dwarf, or the elves.  In their shining armor's gleam, he found an ominous reflection, but only ominous to one prepossessed of Fletcher's guile and propensity.  It was the sense of authority that he found disturbing.  Exacting authority, one without scruples-- for all authority was without scruples to him.  He loathed walking down those choking halls, because each step wedged him closer and closer to capture.  And Fletcher detested being restrained, for he loved his freedom more than anything else in the world.<br/><br/>Upon entering the meeting hall, Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief to be in an open and hospitable area.  He moved quietly to sit, but was still weary of his companions and, more specifically, those who weren't.<br/><br/>"Why do I have the feeling that this isn't going to be a good meeting?" the young binder wondered aloud as he fidgeted terrified glances from one corner of the room to the other.