Arden walked through the streets of Stonevale with a fond memory of his youth. In another life, he had been apprenticed to a smith here and learned how to forge weapons and repair armour. Although he had forgotten most of it, a smattering of skill remained and he had used it to forge the blade that hung at his hip and craft reliquaries with which to house the blood of those he held most dear. He had turned an art of war into one of healing, and hoped amongst the bright eyed and bushy tailed next generation to find someone to pass on his knowledge.

The sun struggled to pierce the clouds but Stonevale was warm and tranquil. The sound of hammers on anvils and idle banter filled the streets, peppered with miner’s sons and daughters playing whilst their parent’s forges were prepared for an afternoon’s graft. Arden through the crowds gathering at shop fronts, rifling through the weekend’s production acidly, and stopped outside a shop front lacking in character but exciting all the same. It was new. The swordsman raised an eyebrow.

He pushed against the door and entered, a little bell chiming to mark his arrival. Inside the shelves were sparsely stocked, and the counter still showed signs of previous occupancy. A battered, dusty banner still offered cut price swords and repaired armour to the ‘discerning gentleman’. Arden chuckled, shut the door, and presented himself to the young man behind the counter.

“Morning! Welcome to Stonevale, I’m Arden.”