Dionysius Beignet

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        The smell of tiny, crispy donuts filled the air. Further, the furniture, the woodwork, even the very earth into which the tiny bustling burrow squatted with it's panalopy of oven chimneys and curiously shaped windows and various round doors positively reeked of the stink of tiny, crispy donuts. In the darkest hours before dawn, Dionysius Poilu Begneit departed his mother's womb to enter into stereotype.
        Dion enjoyed a happy, if somewhat restrictive childhood. Very early, he showed promise academically, remaining in school past the sixth grade. Soon after his graduation, the parish priest, a Horseman of some distinction, recommended Dion for a space in the Gymnasium in Brussels as a scholarship student. Both Roland, his father, and Polyandra, his mother, agreed with some trepidation. Known throughout Demiville for their eponymous donuts, the Begneit's, Rolly and Polly, would sorely miss the help in the kitchen. Destiny insisted, and reluctantly his parents agreed to call off the manhunt mere days after Dion's midnight escape on a moonless night.
        Brussels was, and is, a vibrant European capital. Dion poured himself into his studies, learning much in a short period of time. As soon as he was knee high to the incoming freshmen humans, however, he knew that his fate was not to be a member of the clergy. Waiting again for another moonless night, Dion made good his graduation and set about becoming a hobbit of distinction. Two hungry, desperate days later, he took employment with Hotel d'Anglais, specializing in caring for wealthy English visitors. Many menial years later, while bringing ice to a guest room, Dion made the acquaintance of Sir Reginald Throckmorton, a Master in the guild of Thaumaturgy, wealthy investor, and member of the Diogenes club.
        Sir Reginald was engaged in philosophical debate over his seventh scotch with Calistrio Mysteriousio, impresario of street magic, over the nature of "The Gift."
        "I daresay, I should welcome the challenge you put, sir," the Englishman slurred as the winds billowed his third sail. "I pledge that in two years, I can make a sorcerer of ANY being capable of speech you nominate."
        A small voice by his left knee piped up. "Your ice, Mssr." Sinister Italian eyebrows raised.