MasterViden
Virgin
- Joined
- May 16, 2013
- Posts
- 2
Shadows danced along the walls, as the brilliant hues of oranges and red flickered from the torch above the table he sat. The warm meal that lay infront of him, he knew would be his last for some time and he had every intention of enjoying it. Sliced ham, a loaf of warm bread and a flagon of honey mead. He couldn't think of a better meal as he began to chew and swallow. Every now and then he took a moment to look up at the heavy oaken doors of the inn, to see who was entering or going.
Born into the life of a solider was his trade. Like his father, and his father before him, it was in the blood. Training in his family began at the age of three. Swordmanship, throwing knives and books. Everyday began as the sun made its way over the horizon. Steel on steel filled the morning air with its melody. Bruises from blunted blades was the way of life early on, until he grew older. At the age of sixteen his father sent away for a grandmaster in swords, for he had nothing left to teach and the bruises over bruises began to take a toll on his body.
Afternoon came books. How he hated books. He would have took more bruising over books. His father would always remind him "Wit makes a man more than a sword son. Wit defines a man." Reading came rather easy to him. One of his favorite reads was the story of Joseph of Kantor and his 30 years at sea. Ships were intriguing to him, he loved them ever since his visit to the port town of Dios Bay. The massives colored sails, the craftmanship put into the hulls, everything. Penmanship naturally followed.
Early evening after the days last meal came his favorite, throwing knives. Hitting, precisely whatever his eye saw within thirty yards came natural. Both his and his fathers knives, would more often then not rest side by side on most targets. Into the darkness of night they would throw. It was a game they played, hitting the most targets without missing. Sometimes he felt his fathers way to call it a night, was to miss. "Throat, head or heart. A solider skilled in knives can kill six men before they are ever upon him." He reminded him most nights as they walk to the bath house.
Peace had found the land when he entered adulthood. Picking up bodyguard jobs paid well. Yet, after every job, he found he would have had more gratification running his sword through the nobles gut over taking his coin. Transportation of items was his current employ. It did well to keep him fed, and a little coin in his pocket.
Taking a long draw on the flagon and finishing it, he set it on his empty plate. Slowly standing, he placed two silver pieces on the table and made his way up to his room. Tommorrows sun would soon come he knew, and with it a new package to deliver.
Born into the life of a solider was his trade. Like his father, and his father before him, it was in the blood. Training in his family began at the age of three. Swordmanship, throwing knives and books. Everyday began as the sun made its way over the horizon. Steel on steel filled the morning air with its melody. Bruises from blunted blades was the way of life early on, until he grew older. At the age of sixteen his father sent away for a grandmaster in swords, for he had nothing left to teach and the bruises over bruises began to take a toll on his body.
Afternoon came books. How he hated books. He would have took more bruising over books. His father would always remind him "Wit makes a man more than a sword son. Wit defines a man." Reading came rather easy to him. One of his favorite reads was the story of Joseph of Kantor and his 30 years at sea. Ships were intriguing to him, he loved them ever since his visit to the port town of Dios Bay. The massives colored sails, the craftmanship put into the hulls, everything. Penmanship naturally followed.
Early evening after the days last meal came his favorite, throwing knives. Hitting, precisely whatever his eye saw within thirty yards came natural. Both his and his fathers knives, would more often then not rest side by side on most targets. Into the darkness of night they would throw. It was a game they played, hitting the most targets without missing. Sometimes he felt his fathers way to call it a night, was to miss. "Throat, head or heart. A solider skilled in knives can kill six men before they are ever upon him." He reminded him most nights as they walk to the bath house.
Peace had found the land when he entered adulthood. Picking up bodyguard jobs paid well. Yet, after every job, he found he would have had more gratification running his sword through the nobles gut over taking his coin. Transportation of items was his current employ. It did well to keep him fed, and a little coin in his pocket.
Taking a long draw on the flagon and finishing it, he set it on his empty plate. Slowly standing, he placed two silver pieces on the table and made his way up to his room. Tommorrows sun would soon come he knew, and with it a new package to deliver.
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