Unbidden and Obnoxious (Solo)

[Fez_The_Kid]

Winds wailed over the shack, ever so madly. Blizzards obscured the sky, thus visibility did not extend beyond feet. Frost, an airborne and malicious element of nature, had caused more casualties than war ever did in Salvar. It pummeled into the timber walls, then dropped to rejoin it’s fallen compeers. The roof was coated by verglas. Pine trees crawled the landscape, with snow instead of leaf, it had been that way that it turned objectionable.

Those who inhabited Salvar, however, interpreted nature like no other. They savvied the truth, seized it and exploited it. One would ask how could harsh winter be exploited? Simply, by learning to survive when others are nipped to their death. They studied the essence of mother nature, and learned one lesson: never turn a back on mother nature.

Lest it will swallow its wrongdoers whole, like the jaws of a serpent enveloping its unlucky prey.

Inside the cabin, fire grew and illuminated the room. Gloom and tapers fused to succor composure and mitigation. Next to the hearth was a davenport, with ornaments spruced neatly, that it may have outclassed even a chemist’s laboratory. On the surface lay a book, unsealed as a male hand leafed through its pages.

Notes spread out next to the book, and an ink vial, a quill anchored in its contents.

The hand paused, then flatly slid over a page and rested on the desktop.

“Poisons and Shadows,” a masculine voice read. “Interesting..”

Despite the reader’s obvious interest, he turned the book’s cover and sealed it shut, before returning it to its former position. This was not his only book, he had dozen others occupying the shelves, and some were even more absorbing.

The man pushed back against the chair, and it creaked, protesting against it’s new position. He surveyed his house attentively, then sighed once his eyes met the frigid outdoors. The book had kept him diligent, he had forgotten about his country’s disheartening condition. The man withdrew his glasses and ran his hand through his hair restlessly.

“What now, you shambling mutton-head?” he called to himself, plainly disappointed in his tone.

Yet before he could converse with himself further, a knock on the door captured his attention, and he leveled the door a brief, dubious look. He rose to his feet and went for the knob, but his hand paused reluctantly. Guests at his home were rare, very rare, indeed. Who would have been out during such a wild weather?

A messenger, no other.

He twisted the knob and tugged it.

Nothing.

It was merely the biting frost that stood at his door, and was not polite enough to ask for its harsh entrance. Yet once he was about to close the door shut, his eye caught a glimpse of something through the small fissure between the door and its frame. He pulled back the door immediately, and stared down.

“Well… shite.”

[Fez_The_Kid]

His jaw dangled in stupefaction. A lot of events occurred in his mind, and they collided in helter-skelter. The man was addled, it felt like a shield had finally bashed his head and put him into a state of eternal mentality disorder, or perhaps hullabaloo. Somehow anxiety, dither and elation admixed and his mental state was born.

A myriad of emotions. It was a disaster.

The chief, and perhaps sole reason he refrained from having a partner: children. Children would try your patience, then pluck the grandest trouble from the heavenly skies, and eventually it befalls you. Their guardian. Though he had longed to raise his own once, but his plans never molded into existence. Someway or another, he had hoped they stayed that way. And now here he was, cradling in his arms an infant hardly beyond his fifth month.

“He is adorable,” said a female voice.

“Adorable? Don’t you have your own son to raise?” scoffed the man.

“I have, and he’s faring well these days,” she said, regarding the weather.

“Good," he paused. "I’ll have to deal with this then; with, or without you,”

“What do you plan on doing?” she asked.

“Either I send him to where he came from, which eludes me very deeply,” he announced, anxious.

“Or?”

“Or, I get rid of him,” he said blatantly.

The female gasped, “Richwulf! How could you?”

“There’s nothing I can do about him,” there was a pause. "Oh, and read this.” Richwulf landed a paper on his davenport. She read it watchfully.

“Where is he from?” her hirsute tail flicked as she shifted her bod.

“From situ?” he cleared his throat, “I haven’t an idea.”

“Hmm…” the animal brainstormed lustily.

“What are you thinking, Ech’ila?” The feminine squirrel leaped from the davenport to the child in one, effortless bound, intentions conspicuous in her gaze.

“If I help you with raising this child, you will refrain from killing him?” Richwulf opened his mouth, then closed it shut. Even animals, Richwulf, can make a point. His instincts ordered him to raise an orphan. His student. His disciple… His nephew.

Ronrid Gardla.

[Fez_The_Kid]

A lumberer had granted him the broadsword. Simply because he requested it timbered, which clarified why the granter was not a blacksmith. Inspite of taking the weapon in exchange of a handful of specie, the lumberer was extremely kind. He had removed the edge of the weapon, then again sculpted the model, to suit the younger hand. Whatever he paid for, Richwulf foresaw that it was worth every coin.

The world of Althanas was barbarous. Children were raised wielding a sword, and were taught to swing it at their foes. Richwulf was no warrior, he may lift a sword, but surely he did not know how to use it. It was irrelevant to his life, he was already growing a white beard, why would he try now? But hope awaited young Ronrid, many years ahead were in favor of the child.

He will master the skill of swordsmanship.

The man patted off excess strips, then blew into the blade. Richwulf watched amusingly, this was one fine craftsman indeed. “Excellent work,” Richwulf praised, “how’d you it?” The man gestured at his head with a tutoring smile.

“Took me a week to finish,” the man gestured with his hands, “I drew the plans, refined them, made the thing then resized it.” Richwulf roughly understood what the man was trying for, but he nodded approvingly, nonetheless.

The man cleared his throat, and glanced at the bag fastened to Richwulf’s trousers. Richwulf recognized the glance, he was craving his money. However, his work wasn’t complete yet.

“Isn’t done? Sir, what are you saying?” the man questioned.

“I’m saying I need you to remove the edge.”

“You’re meaning you want it flat?” he enquired surprisingly.

“Aye.”

The man concurred and re-positioned his chair against the worktable, and soon enough the saw met the blade. Richwulf grinned, his nephew would absolutely love this.

…

“Richwulf, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ech’ila forewarned.

“I do.” Richwulf approached his nephew, broadsword in hand. Ronrid stared at the weapon curiously, then looked up to meet the fatherly, glinting eyes of his uncle. Richwulf squatted and met his nephew delightfully, before publishing his hands and offering the wood-crafted weapon. “Take it, lad.”

“What..?” Ronrid questioned. His eyes simply remained on the toy.

“C’mon, take it.” Richwulf encouraged, sounding slightly impatient. Ronrid was five years at the time, he usually was not this reticent. However, he did not react as all had anticipated, and it disheartened Richwulf. “I said, take it!” Ronrid flinched from the snap, his uncle emphatically took his hand and slid the hilt into the small grasp. Soon the child began bawling and swinging the broadsword about.

“Enough, Richwulf.”

[Fez_The_Kid]

……

South of the Gardla homestead, within the heart of Salvar’s pine forest, two figures stood. Overhead lay the sky, densely overcast and flinging hours of heavy, delicious and beautiful rain. One appeared youthful, blooming and slightly puerile. The other was an elderly man, with withering bones and a humorless comportment. They faced a line of waxwork mannequins, and wielded small, wooden scalpels. The reason they used wood was chiefly due to the overpriced costs of iron-crafted or steel-crafted weapons.

The youth span one deftly through his fingers, then caught it by the blade before hurling it at the mannequin. As he regained his footing, he found the blade embed in the dummy’s head. And looked at the older man for approval.

“Did you see that!?” the youth said, his voice faintly reaching the man’s ears under the dominant pattering of the rain. The older man nodded with a prideful smile, then approached his disciple.

“Exquisitely done, lad.” Richwulf commended, then ruffled his hand across the soaked hair of his nephew’s.

Ronrid drew his sword, and leveled his uncle a grin of defiance. Richwulf shook his head, tittering.

“Don’t you understand? My old bones won’t do, you fool!” though he blithely bobbed Ronrid on the head, and closed his forearm around his neck. “Dare me, lad!” afterwards his free arm snatched the sword from his nephew and leveled it by his throat. He could hear his nephew swallow, “DARE ME!”

Ronrid drew his feet and swung it back at his uncle's shin. Richwulf staggered and his grasp depleted. The sword dropped from his hand. Ronrid instantly cocked his head down, then rose grimaced. The old man surrendered his grip and tumbled on his bottom.

Ronrid turned, and chuckled at his uncle, who was on his rear, stroking his forehead, “You lose.” Ronrid claimed, before offering a hand. Richwulf accepted the offer, but quickly delivered a kick over Ronrid’s hamstrings, who embraced earth like his uncle not moments ago. The youth lay prone on the ground as the soaked grass brushed his face.

Onto him was Richwulf, a hand twisting one of Ronrid's arm and a knee of triumph planted on his back. “You were saying?” Richwulf laughed, but his voice tuned dour as quickly as the reverse that occurred. “Never expose yourself to your foes, lest you will fall when your adversary has seemingly fallen. And you won’t even know how it happened...”

Finally Ronrid was on his feet again, but Richwulf began mocking. “I’m not even a fighter, yet I’ve kicked your arse,”

“You did not do such a thing!” the youth disapproved, his shoulders rolling as he whiffed for air.

“I did,” he pursued, “with my aged bones.”

“I-I-I was just playing around!" Ronrid defended, speaking with hacks of breath in between, "You know what, whatever!”

Richwulf laughed, then smacked his nephew on the back. “Let's go home, we don’t want the landlords to know we "borrowed" their dummies.”