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The Caverns’ darkness was all-consuming. The miasma bled through your skin, seeped through flesh and bone, and ultimately pooled into your heart. No cure has been found for it, nor had there ever been a man strong enough to have resisted it. But it was evadable. Only light shines through darkness, and only the most powerful light shines through the Caverns. To generate it requires a Wielder – A human in control of the elements around them, a human with magical powers beyond the ordinary. Yet none have existed for two hundred years.
Roran stared at the cupboard. It was empty. He sighed and trudged towards the smithy. As he entered, a burly man that was dressed in worn clothes with patches, confronted him. "Roran, my friend," he laughed heartily and clapped his back, "I expected to see you. The rent has brought you many troubles, I can see."
Roran's mouth twitched nervously, and he replied quite softly, "Can I work in the forge with you?" He knew that Mithgurd preferred working alone. Although Mithgurd seemed to be in a good mood today, Roran didn't want to risk it.
Mithgurd, however, accepted Roran's offer, and responded loudly, "Of course you can. I will even pay you a bit more today, seeing your troubles." Then he added mysteriously, "I hear that the rents are going to rise again, seeing that the monsters are increasingly aggressive, and are attacking masses of the King Anorath's men. I wonder how the war will go out."
Roran, hearing the grim news, sighed inwardly, "I will soon become unable to sustain myself, I shall find another path to walk on, one that will give sufficient coins for an 11-year-old kid."
Mithgurd, seeing his expression, expressed his sympathy, speaking in a caring voice, "Don't worry, I will help you however I can."
Roran knew he couldn't live on Mithgurd's help. So, he replied in a polite manner, "I appreciate your help, Mithgurd. You are like a brother to me. However, it is time to walk my own journey, mold my own destiny, determine my own fate. I will have to leave this town and make a living for myself. Such is the way of life."
"I can't bear to see you go, Roran, but I can still help you one last time," Mithgurd went to Roran the worn counter, and took out a sheathed sword. He slid the blade out of its sheath and showed. It was a blade of pure steel, with a crosspiece embroidered with a small yellow crystal. The hilt was made with what seems like lion hide, wrapped carefully around the wood inside. Roran gasped. The light from the lanterns shone on the blade, making it look more deadly, razor-sharp, enveloped in flames.
Roran knew that this sword was rare, and Mithgurd spent a fortune on this weapon, "This is the sword of my grandfather. I give this to you as an act of good faith, and protection from the deadly Spartoi of the wastelands. The crystal is from Boreal Mountains, in the core of the mountain, and the hide is from the Nemean lion, impenetrable to even the sharpest swords. Here's some money to help you on your way." With these words, Mithgurd outstretched his arms, and offered the blade to Roran, together with a gold coin, round in diameter. Roran, seeing the action, walked carefully up to Mithgurd, grasped the blade, and said, "It is an honor to carry your inheritance. I will take good care of it, and I will remember your generosity today, an act that might save me times and times again."
"You don't need to thank me, Roran, it is my duty to care of you, and here is the best I can achieve."
Roran also looked at the coin. It was truly a lot of money. Probably three months of income for Mithgurd. "I really appreciate the money, but I cannot accept this. This is too much. You can keep the 5 silver coins, and I will take the other half. It is enough for me, a mere child.", Roran said, knowing that he won't need the money as much as Mithgurd, who needs to pay 2 silver coins each month.
Mithgurd, who has taken care of Roran from when he was four, knew exactly what Roran was thinking. He smiled inwardly, knowing that Roran has matured, and accepted the offer. He took the money and slid them into his pockets. Then Roran turned, waved, and left, shouldering the sword.
