We last left our hero months ago in the land of Alerar, where of course he was in leagues with a one Chidori an inventor. But in coming months, the young upstart found himself alone, thrust back into the arms of his teacher into another session of training, and honing of his skills. His hands calloused even more so than when he took on the foes of the Cell, his brow well worn with sweat the sopped down into his eyes from the tangled strands of hair that pressed against his forehead. His face was rough, facial hair starting to break through the skin giving him light stubble. At the present time he was hoisting buckets of water from a near by well, just outside of Ettermire for his teacher. He looked roughly the same, his demeanor changed exuding the aura of a seasoned warrior, and muscles taunt and well worked for combat. His broad shoulders melded into well-sculpted arms attached to an even more defined chiseled torso. Strong legs propelled him forward through the lingering heat towards the lone hut that rest on the countryside that was about a good forty feet away.
His present dress consisted of his sleeveless black work shirt that was ripped and worn tucked into his baggy black pants; they were weighed down by sand per request of his teacher. Apparently the sand was to build up speed, and agility, while creating in Arsenic more limber, strong joints. His bear feet slapped against the hard earth that was dotted with large patches of grass, the soles of his feet growing accustomed to the hard ground developing hardened patches of skin. His hair was worn down letting the length dirty blond locks brush against the back of his neck, and forehead producing some sort of shade for his eyes.
The slow dragging pace he moved at was because of being over worked, his muscles were strained, and no matter how tough you maybe you have your breaking points. The water bogged him down, and spilling any of it would lead to him making another trip to get another full bucket. Damascus was kept away from him, which was another weak spot for him, and looking at the sheathed weapon on top of a book shelf knowing that he wouldn’t be able to touch it until he was finished training made him only more determined and more willing to break himself down further. As result he was in the situation he was in today, his body ached, his head throbbed, and for some odd reason he felt as if he soiled himself. Alas he trudged on, after recounting his aches and pains he found himself standing at the door of the hut, foot kicked at the door lightly until someone opened it. He held out his arms until someone took the buckets, and he stood outside until he was invited in.
Leaned against the doorway he watched his backbreaking, slave driving, blacksmith, and teacher work over the hearth in the center of the room. Which produced heat in the winter, but this wasn’t the winter, actually it might have been but Arsenic just couldn’t remember. His arrival those months ago seemed like a blur, and he soon found his fingers dancing across the kitchen table, striking the wood in time with each of his teachers hammer’s strikes. It was almost melodious and soothing, but even the most melodious tunes can bring about an ill fate. Soon the hut was disrupted, a dark skinned drow male burst into the hut flailing over his head a curved stick that looked like a sword, the very same that Arsenic thought he flung far off into the forest. Well apparently he wasn’t as successful as he thought.
“Why did you throw your training weapon into the forest, and hit me?!”
Came the cry from his father, along with several strikes of the wooden sword though flimsy it hurt like the dickens. It was only parried by his forearms as he attempted to run from the hut, but no sooner did the beating started it stopped by request of his teacher. The banging of the hammer stopped, and the metal was cooled in a pool of water. That was when he realized it, Damascus was gone, and eyes flitted across the shelves for it was always within sight, like a prize that couldn’t be touched.
“Are you looking for this?” His teacher held out a long slender blade, sheathed in an ebony casing that was similar to the size and shape of the wooden sword, or bokken as his father and teacher so eloquently called it. Arsenic was openly upset, because all these years he was trained to be a knight, a warrior of the light, and now they smelt his most trusted weapon into this flimsy piece of metal? How dare they, but as if he were an open wound they applied the salt. His master’s thumb on his free hand jutted backwards to an ensemble of flowing black robes, pants, and a white sash with a sleeveless jacket that ran the length of both the pants and the robe top. He couldn’t stop the twitching of his eye, and soon gave up. Storming over towards his master, he didn’t exchange the choice words that circled about his head; he just snatched the sword from his hand and continued on.
Hands tangled in the mess of robes and cloths, he trudged his way into the nearest room to change. Muttering under breath about how after months and months of his head being smashed with information of where he came from, and how he was the strongest son his father could have hoped for wasn’t enough, they had to outfit him with anew attire? And one that was so loose fitting and large? The upper robe was tucked into the pants, split into two layers one black, the other white, the sleeves of the white robe hung a few inches past the black and covered his hands. The pants brushed against the tops of his feet but never touched the ground, and the over jacket and sash meshed together rather nicely as well.
Though the outfit was a bit flashy and was bound to draw attention, he was forced to wear it out of respect of his master and father’s wishes. Holstering the sword where the original Damascus would have been attached by a sheathe, and cord. This new weapon was slightly different, the sash provided a secure space for the sheathe to be placed, while the sword could have been quickly and easily drawn, the hilt was fashioned from several chords and cloths, while the box hand guard was small it would provide ample protection in combat. The weapon itself was crafted for speed, he found that out in training, and he enjoyed the speed verses the power, because he provided him with a whole new avenue of combat to explore, and deep inside maybe this training was what he needed. Maybe this change was in the fates from the beginning.
So he sauntered out, keeping his white socks and sandals of his trademark old uniform looking to his father and teacher with a look of detachment, browns pushed together in a frown tapping his foot lightly. And they looked at him; smiling proudly his teacher stepped up first.
“I know you are upset about Damascus being smelted, but that to shall pass, worry not for the weapon you have been given will aid you better than Damascus ever would have.”
And with that he placed a calm hand on his student shoulder then departed into the backrooms of the hut. Soon after his father stepped up, placing his hand in the same spot.
“You know what I am going to say, so why say it? I am proud of you son, but I do believe that you may have someone waiting for you at El'inssring. May your steps be blessed, and your travels be exciting.”
And that is where he went, his feet brushing against the ground quickly. High tailing it out of the hut, wind blew through his blond hair and his legs propelled him faster than ever before. Taking leaps ever so often that scaled further than the average man or drow in his case, and soon landed him inside the gates of Ettermire. By passing guards before he found himself within the Great Tavern; El’inssring. The lowly lit, ale stenched tavern that he had only be in one time before, crowded as usual with only places to stand, and gazes that looked at him with distain and regarded him with snickers.
Fin:1:1
Next Time: The meeting of two travelers!
Submit Thread for Judgment
