1 Where It All Began

The sun hung lazily overhead, in the clear noon sky of Birkstead. The rays of summer bore down on the weathered necks of the villagers that buzzed within it. A boy stared absentmindedly into the air. His unfocused eyes were glossy, ignorant of the world before them. Sweat rolled ticklishly down his back, his mind filled with the epitome of nothingness.

Why was he standing there? One might think.

The truth is, even he lacked an answer, for he was a boy. Trivial things like reason and logic were inadvertently tossed out the window sometimes. Not everything he did had to have a reason, or plausible explanation. For now, he merely basked in the rays that warmed his skin

But that was not his goal.

His goal was forgotten, frankly. Distant tweets and buzzing cicadas drowned out his fleeting memory.

There were other sounds as well.

Steady, rhythmic hammering of metal on metal made him turn to his father's forge. Clanks leaked from its slightly ajar door. Behind it, lay where the fruits of his labour were meticulously crafted. His father's rhythmic devotion was audible in the resonance of every stroke of the hammer, the next one as guaranteed as the chimes of a belltower.

Opposite the forge, stood a bakery the boy took in fondly. Owned by the only bakers in the village, he heard the bustling bakery's good business almost everyday. The grown-up ramblings of George, husband of Martha, and the customers of their bakery floated his way.

The boy understood little from the fragments of their discussion. He vaguely remembered his father mentioning that 'discount' was a good word. George noticed him.

"G'day William, old chap!" he waved.

The boy, William, waved back with a grin.

Turning, he started to walk before gremlins raced by, blocking his path. A pack of children half his age babbling their gibberish. Mounted on stumpy legs, they ran mindlessly, inconveniencing all they crossed. This included the older, frowning William, who was an evolutionary step behind them and simply stood there mindlessly.

A holler interrupted his thoughts.

"Oi, outta tha' way!"

A stern warning shook William out of his stupor, whirling in the direction of the voice, the creaking charge of a horse-drawn wagon accompanying it. A flash of panic raced up his spine, sending him stumbling off the beaten path. The aged man piloting the transport vessel grumbled as the wagon passed through.

"If I don't deliver this 'ere shipment by the 'morrow's sundown, I'll hafta' mark meself down as late...again."

The man shuddered at the thought.

William's gaze traced the wagon, lumbering mountains of flesh interrupting his line of sight. Clad in plate and chainmail, men far larger than the boy he was, escorted the wagon on its journey. The plate they wore repelled the sun, leaving lingering splotches of purple and gold across his vision.

Soft hands desperately shielded tender eyes, the clinking of chainmail filling his ears to the brim. Blinking furiously once the escorts were far enough away, he rubbed his eyes with guilty glee.

The wagon vanished behind the closing village gates, leaving a listless William who strove to recall his original goal for the day.

Suddenly, hurried footfalls approached him from behind.

Smack!

A small hand whose size matched his, slapped him on the back. Adjusting his white linen shirt and bearing the fresh burn with a grimace, William recognized his assailant. A familiar face greeted his own, a smile blossoming across both.

"Clayton, what 'as you in such a rush?" greeted William with a nod.

"William!" panted Clayton, wrung dry from his frenzied dash, "O'er by the field, Sumthin' mon-, monu-"

"Monumental?"

"Yeah, dat one!"

"What 'appened?"

"One of our lads, Rodney yeah?" continued Clayton excitedly, "He found a stick!"

"A special stick?"

"Aye, a mighty fearsome stick, at that!"

"How's that?"

Clayton's face turned solemn.

"Tha' stick, it survived eight rounds of our Gauntlet!"

William's countenance was grave, as a fresh sprinkle of sweat dotted his brow and back.

He faltered, staggering back a step, "Ei-... eight rounds, issat really true?"

A painfully slow, overwhelmingly heavy nod from Clayton was the response he received.

Without context, one would have thought that Clayton had just confirmed the death of a loved one, rather than the ventures of a stick.

A gulp, nearly halted by his paralyzing shock, dived down the length of his throat.

"I's not lying, follow me, you can see for yourself!" beckoned Clayton, jogging off.

Hot on Clayton's heels, they ventured across the village. They carried on as such, until the tapping of their feet on the cobbled pathways turned to grassy thumps. The scent of earthy moisture filled the air, and their nostrils.

As reported by Clayton, a lively peanut gallery had formed. A lone figure stood tall and triumphant amidst them, armed with a stick that kept them at bay with merely its presence.

"William!" called out a voice from behind.

A face came into view, one that he knew like the back of his hand. To see the face that lay below a bush of curly brown hair, William had to crane his neck back somewhat.

"Magnar, ain't thissa pleasant coincidence!" beamed William.

A warm, brotherly embrace led to the exchange of intel. The information shared made William want to punch the air.

"Clayton, there's a trading fair afoot!"

"What?!"

"I've gotsta' head home, we meetin' back 'ere?"

"Yeah, in ten ticks!"

(minutes)

Magnar waved them off, turning to approach the enamoured crowd. Hopping over puddles and skipping past muddy patches, he neared the commotion. A high-pitched voice blared out across the field, echoing off even the whispering trees, its volume matching its demand for attention. Magnar knew not why, but it grated on his nerves.

"Come on, come on, any challengers?" taunted a pompous mouth.

The mouth was set in a face that was unfortunately swarmed with freckles and craned into a gloating, pouty smile. A scruffy, curly crown of auburn hair adorned his smug face, while beady emerald eyes shifted from side-to-side.

"This 'ere stick o' mine is a right treasure, you'd hafta' be blind to say otherwise!"

Silence overwhelmed the crowd of children, as they voiced their unspoken agreement. They had just witnessed two hours of domination, the likes of which was unimaginable to them before. This stick was by far, the most formidable they had ever laid eyes upon, and seen in action!

"Anyone who can beat me in a battle, Tourney rules, can 'ave it!"

The crowd struggled to swallow back their saliva, and their greed. The prospect of owning such a glorious artefact tugged their hearts to the skies. However, the weight of reality sent them crashing back down to earth.

Could they even find a stick worthy of being crossed with his?

"Now, s'there anyone who wants ta' feel this 'ere stick fer' themselves?" challenged the owner, leisurely twirling his divine gift.

Responding to that challenge, a determined soul stepped forward with a stick of his own. A round of appreciative 'Oooh's and 'Aaaah's emanated from the crowd, as the challenger hefted his stick before him.

With his bravery and valour radiating from him in intangible waves, the majority of the crowd recognized Aaron, the son of a farmer.

The wooden instrument in his right hand was remarkable, save for a few locations where the remnants of broken-off twigs protruded. It featured a handy cross-guard in the form of a broad, veined leaf and extended just over a metre in length. A slight curve graced the length of it, making it resemble a scimitar in its form.

All in all, a fine example of nature's craftsmanship.

Furthermore, the arm that wielded it was slightly muscled, and lean with nearly no excess fat. The challenger's build was nothing to scoff at, even if his stick was inferior.

"Come on, Rodney, I reckon I can dance wit' cha'"

Rodney, the challenged, failed to restrain his excitement.

"Oi oi, Aaron eh?" he jeered, "Tha' wheat planter 'imself, you sure you can 'andle this?"

A chuckle from the crowd, as Rodney continued.

"Last time you were here, y'ended up on tha' ground, cryin' for yer mom!"

Aaron's jaw tightened, the crowd's titter swelling into roaring laughter.

"Things'll be different now Rodney, I'm not the whiner I used ta' be!" he swore.

Stepping forth with fire in his eyes, Aaron approached Rodney.

"Oh?" growled Rodney, "So you're approaching me?"

"I can't beat ya to tha' ground without gettin' closer," replied Aaron solemnly.

"Ho ho, a wise guy, eh?"

Rodney's tone shifted into one of dead seriousness.

"Then… come as close as ye like."

The two shrunk the distance between them, one measured step at a time. The crowd gave them a wide berth, forming a circular arena of bodies.

They stopped, barely a few meters from each other. The tips of their sticks mere centimetres apart. At this distance, Rodney's esteemed stick was in full view of Aaron.

Just the sight of it made him gulp.

Its thickness surpassed a broom, just shy of a wrist. Its straightness matched one, save for its tip. It ended in a 'V', with two despicably pointy edges. The brown stains of dried blood tainted said points, the ominous weapon pulling sweat out of Aaron's forehead.

Boasting a length that surpassed his own by a palm, he couldn't help but marvel.

What a treasure, that stick.

Interrupting Aaron's pondering daze, Rodney moved first.

"If y'ain't comin' to me, I'll come to ya'!"

With that battlecry, a savage swing crashed into Aaron's stick. Numbness and vibrations travelled down the stick, and into his arm. Gritting his teeth and muscles against the dull ache that came with it, the pit in Aaron's gut grew.

With a shove, Rodney was sent stumbling back. Excitement bubbled up from the depths of his soul. He possessed the superior stick, and from that shove, Rodney knew that Aaron had levelled up some time before this fight.

"So, ya' levelled up, eh?" leered Rodney, "No wonder you's got the courage to come back 'ere!"

Aaron's thumping feet closed the distance between them, his curved stick swooshing towards the grassy earth in a massive, overhead swing. Rodney barely had time to side-step it, as a dent was made in the soil where he stood. Slashing in retaliation, Rodney fended off Aaron with a high, sideways slash to the left.

Leaning back, Aaron dodged it closely enough to feel its aftermath trace a windy finger across his nose. A follow-up slash to the right, however, allowed one of its despicably sharp points to nick him on his right cheek. Blood was drawn, as a crimson trickle forged its path down Aaron's tender flesh.

Taking advantage of his opponent's flinch, Rodney used his height advantage of a forehead and some change, to swing his stick downwards at Aaron. The latter's eyes widened, as he employed a two-handed block with his stick. Gritting his teeth, Aaron pushed back up against Rodney with all the youthful fire and boyish rage within him. The two were at a standstill for a time, arms shaking like the legs of a fawn, feet digging ruts in the soft ground.

Rodney's bared teeth of exertion morphed into a cocky grin.

"Even wit' yer stats, Aaron, I only hafta break yer stick to win!"

The challenger in question furrowed his brows in response. After all, he knew he was at a disadvantage.

All his opponent had to do was break his stick to win. On the opposite end of the spectrum of difficulty, he had to disarm his opponent.

Be it via wrestling it out of the opponent's grasp, or whacking their hands until they're unable to hold their stick, this was the troublesome price challengers had to pay to win the champion's weapon. The only other method of winning, entailed breaking the opponent's stick with your own.

After which, yours would receive public renown as being the superior stick. In the event that one challenges the champion, however, it becomes a matter of rags and riches. If you have a stick that's inferior to the champion's, breaking theirs would be a nigh impossible goal, and a damn foolish one at that.

It would be a shame unlike any other in this world, to let such a mighty instrument of combat be wasted.

One of the most significant goals of fighting a champion with a stick worthy of his title, is the opportunity to obtain their stick from them without destroying it!

If one challenges the champion with a stick of equal quality, and wins it over without breaking either one, they would have now achieved one of the few peaks in life for Birkstead's children. They would be the proud owner of not one, but TWO champion-class, seasoned sticks of combat.

Out of the blue, an epiphany akin to a lightning bolt struck Aaron's mind. The agonized creaking of his stick pulled him back to reality, as he relaxed, twisting his body leftwards. Rodney's forceful stick slipped off of his, as Aaron gave way to a strike that hit nothing but air.

Re-tensing his body and swinging from overhead with all the strength in his arms, Aaron roared in triumph.

"Haaaaaaah!"

THWAP!

His stick whipped Rodney straight on his right pinkie and ring finger, the former of the two now spasming, and curled up in fear. Rodney's one-handed, nay, four-fingered grip on his stick trembled ever so briefly.

Both fingers bloomed a bright red, a sonorous cheer erupting from the prepubescent crowd!

"Hey hey, that was all luck, ya hear?!" winced Rodney.

A grin split Aaron's sweat-smeared face, the tide of confidence within him rising.

"Come on Rodney, I only hit ya' once," he taunted, puffing his chest like a proud pigeon, "Y'can't go cryin' for yer mom, even if I beat you blue and purple!"

Aaron advanced a step.

Rodney retreated the same.

Aaron leaned forward, his whispering laced with mockery, "Ain't that right... champion?"

Both eyes twitched, as a fresh flush came over Rodney. Anger propelled his thumping feet across their grassy arena, as he shouted his lungs out.

"I AIN'T CHICKEN SKIN!"

(a coward)

Their sticks collided, as they pushed against each other like spring bucks laying their pride on the line for a mate.

In their case, however, they were fighting over a stick.

Elsewhere, William arrived breathlessly at the doorstep of his home. A quaint, two-storeyed cottage with a roof of wood and hay. He rapped the door harshly, with a pace to match the frenzied tapping of his feet.

The door squeaked open, a thunderous countenance revealing itself.

William gulped.

"William, how many times must I tell you to be quiet when Abberline is having her midday nappie!" boomed a stern woman.

"M-ma, I jus' wanted ta' enter.."

William's scowling mother, Catherine, crossed her arms. She had what William felt was a scary face, with features cut from stone and a cold demeanour to match. A few loose locks of chestnut brown hair protruded from her all-encompassing bonnet.

"Really, you ought to have learned a thing or two by now," she scolded, stepping aside, "Come-come, get yer grubby self in."

Sheepishly, William mumbled and shambled his way up the stairs, to his room. Upon the ashamed closing of his room's door, his boyish senses reawakened. His chest of spoils had to be found, and swiftly!

Diving towards his bed, he stabbed his hand into the space beneath it, venturing till he heard a resounding wooden 'thunk'.

Pulling the object across the creaking floor and out from the dangerous depths of under his bed, a relieved sigh escaped his lips. Sweeping his hand over the object and the layer of dust upon it, he revealed a small chest. His breathing hastened. Undoing the latch, he tossed the metal up and pushed the chest open.

An assortment of treasures, spoils of war, and precious objects of the like threatened to overflow. Unmatched focus swallowed his expression, a moment of silence ensuing.

Stabbing his right hand in, William fished through his valuables. His left hand snatched a nearby carrying pouch in advance, ready for a speedy deposit. Frantic fingers slithered in and out of the chest, myriad objects being meticulously laid out beside him. After a sufficient number of tradeworthy articles had been selected, William resolutely removed one last object from his box of treasures.

A rock.

He held it up towards the window, against the rays of noon that invaded his second-floor sanctuary. A crystalline sparkle matched the glint in his grinning eyes. The rock he held was the size of his fist. Nay, it exceeded it!

The rock had jagged, beautiful crystals that lined its surface, their dazzling transparency inciting his childish greed to no end.

There it was, in all its glory. His secret weapon, his prized possession.

The coolest rock he had ever found!