Prelude: To Adventure!
Trager dunked the hot blade into the barrel of water, holding it there with his tongs as the water bubbled. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked out at the market street. The shadows were lengthening; it was time to close up shop. He'd have no further visitors today. Lord Kirstane's lackey was enough for today, he thought, face darkening.
He pulled the blade out, shaking it once, and held it toward the shopfront opening, inspecting it closely. He traced it with a finger, nodding. The blood channel, misnamed though it was, was smooth and well shaped. The tip was centered, the tang was solid and centered, the unsharpened blade was ready to take an edge. You will make me proud in your bearer's hands, Iona. He could never give up naming each weapon, even if he never told those names to the new owner, a habit from his first master.
He wrapped the blade in canvas then unlocked a chest at the back of the shop, which was bolted to the building frame. The blade was placed inside, then locked, to protect the blade from scavengers. He hadn't been robbed in the five years he'd had this shop, but that didn't mean it was time to slack off.
He lit a lamp, then closed the shop front, dropping the wooden awnings and latching them from the inside. He covered the doorway with a piece of sheetmetal, which he held in place with wooden bars at the top, middle, and bottom. He double checked the latches on the two small front windows and, satisfied they would hold, began the last closing ritual.
He took down the round shield from the back wall, laying it on the workshop table, then the crossed hammer and sword. He laid the two weapons on another sheet of canvas, then slowly rolled it up, and inserted the roll into the shield's arm straps. He hefted the shield, then exited through the back door - and into his residence.
The quarters were small: 20 by 20, a single bed, a fireplace with small cook pot, a wash basin, and chamber pot. A small desk sat along one wall with another oil lamp on it. There were shelves lining each wall, covered with books. He dropped the shield with bundled weapons on the bed, placing the oil lamp from the smithy on a standalone shelf. He lit the lamp on the desk, which was much brighter, then put out the other. He splashed water on his face from the basin, the cooling sensation making him more alert and rinsing away the day's sweat.
He stripped off his work shirt, and threw on a clean one in case he went out for anything - something that was unlikely, but he was always prepared for. What book today? he pondered, eyes sweeping the shelves, not needing to see titles as he knew the layout by heart. His eyes settled on a dark blue canvas-bound tome. The Van Diven Treatise will be good, he thought, pulling it down. He set it on the desk and paused, tilting his head.
What was that? He heard it again, a tinkling sound, followed by a soft pop. Then he smelled smoke. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the handle of the door but paused, feeling the heat beyond the door. He sighed, letting go. Shouldn't have grabbed his throat, Trager.
He wrapped a belt about his waist then grabbed a bag from beneath his bed and strapped it to his back. He pulled out the roll of weapons from the shield, attaching the shield to his bag, and the sword in a sheath on the belt. The hammer he hefted in both hands and approached the right wall near the rear. Should have put in a window, he thought, before slamming the hammer into the wall. One board cracked. He lifted it again and aimed for the crack, the hammer exiting this time.
As he pulled the hammer back through, he looked through the hole, and saw a metallic face staring back at him, a bowler hat atop its head.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:18, Sun 20 Sept 2020.