From between the many moss-covered boughs a warm light flickered and the crackle of kindling sounded out sharply against the softer forest sounds. The Warrior shouldered his armored form through the thick foliage and called out a greeting to the maker of the fire. A thin voice came back in reply inviting the Warrior to share the warmth of the fire. Emerging from the forest and into a small clearing lit by firelight the Warrior beheld a slender young man in the dark robes of a scholar standing in front of a stout grey pack mule.

“Please sit and rest with us” The Scholar said by way of a greeting while motioning to a place beside the fire."

“You have my thanks. It is a weary night.” The Warrior replied as he sat himself down.

The two men sat and talked and as the flames dimmed the young scholar would rise now and then and add more kindling to the fire. After some time the Warrior’s eyes strayed to the Scholar’s pack mule who was methodically ripping up clumps of grass to chew slowly as it stood on the edge of the firelight. Strapped to the mule’s side was what appeared to be a large sword, the hilt protruding from the wrappings was of a deep polished gold and fresh leather tightly bound the blades grip.

The Warrior’s gaze passed from the lengthy blade to the Scholar and then back to the blade again.

“Can you wield that blade?”

“Oh indeed not! I am simply charged with bearing this relic to our monastery in the East for further research.”

The Warrior’s puzzled expression impelled the Scholar to continue.

“You see, our sect is dedicated to the custodianship and study of the elder blades. Weaponry of the older ages whose forging methods are now lost to us. Upon my return I will have the honor of writing a sizeable treatise on this blade’s history and provenance.”

“Hah! So you sit in your halls and write pretty stories about these weapons and their deeds? There is a saying of my people “The blade finds the hand”. Swords must find use, they must drink, otherwise their edge, their keenness, and their very soul will dull.”

With a quick movement the Warrior drew his sword from its sheath and held it towards the fire. The blade glimmered softly in the firelight revealing a landscape of dents and notches along its length.

“Perhaps you should write a history on this blade, Scholar. It has seen the inside of many a fell creature”

The Scholar stared incomprehensibly for a moment at the Warrior and his tarnished sword before launching into a further, much more comprehensive account of his order’s history and responsibility to the ancient relics they held. With a quiet grunt, the Warrior re-sheathed his weapon and sat silently as both the stars and the weighty words of the Scholar spun above his head.

The Warrior awoke in the morning to the chuffing and snorting of the pack mule as the Scholar laid out its oats in a rough wooden bowl. A last trail of thin smoke was rising from the dark coals of the campfire as the Scholar made ready to depart.

“Our path lies east through the dell. You are welcome to join us if the direction suits you?”

“It does for now. I will travel with you part of the way”

As they followed the forested paths the day wore on with the Scholar at no loss for explaining in great detail the various specimens of tree and birdlife they encountered. Every now and then the Warrior would tear a tuft of grass and offer it to the mule as they walked, sharing what seemed to him a look of quiet exasperation. The sun was slowly dipping amongst the treetops as they approached a small bend in the tree wrapped path. As they rounded the bend the warrior grasped the Scholar by the shoulder and shoved him back against the mule’s flank.

“Be on your guard, Scholar!”

Just as the words had left his mouth a number of small goblin-like creatures crashed through the upper branches ahead of them and reaching the path began to advance, snickering and drawing their small curved blades. The Warrior strode forth drawing his sword and beckoning to the snarling creatures. The fray was a chaotic blur as the Warrior spun and swept at the many creatures that leapt and dived towards him, his sword rang out against their wicked knives and twice it bit deeply into the pallid flesh of his attackers. Upon hearing a guttural scream the Warrior spun to see three of the creatures upon the mule's back, hacking with their blades as the beast fell upon its side, lifeless. Of the Scholar the Warrior could see no trace.

Three of the goblin kin lay dead at the Warrior’s feet as he stood breathing heavily in the deepening dusk. The remaining creatures seemed to give back a few paces and the Warrior eyed them each, in turn, awaiting their assault, when at that moment a thundering howl filled the small clearing and a huge grey-skinned beast broke through the tree line and lumbered toward the Warrior brandishing a towering stone club. Raising his sword to meet the beast's vicious swing the Warrior was hurled backward as his sword shattered under the might of the blow. A chorus of mocking howls rung out as the beast stamped its heavy feet and snorted with contempt.

Rolling over the Warrior found himself atop the maimed corpse of the pack mule, hearing the jeers and snorts of the creatures behind him he began to rise shakily, grabbing at the pack mules strappings to steady himself his hand came to rest upon the glimmering hilt of the great sword that lay, still strapped to the pack mules side. With a grunt the Warrior pulled the mighty sword free of its bindings and regaining his feet turned slowly to face the snarling creatures arrayed before him.

The Scholar lay just off the edge of the path, his hand grasping at a deep gash across his chest from which he felt a liquid warmth pooling and spilling away. A terrible roar had roused him and with a last effort rolled to his side to gain a vantage of the clearing. In his quickly dimming vision, he beheld a radiant brand that swept through the encroaching darkness and danced to the harried beast-like cries that fled further and further from hearing to a silence deep and final.

**

The great sword stood upright in the soft earth, its blade slaked in dark blood and softly steaming in the crisp morning air. Standing above the freshly turned earth the Warrior, with a slight sigh of pity, placed a final stone atop the small cairn he had erected there to mark the Scholar’s grave. He then slung the large blade across his back and walked from the clearing and out onto the further forested paths. Turning back only once to look upon that site of battle and death, he addressed the young Scholar a final time.

‘It found my hand”.

Entered by: 0x9D04…0922 and preserved on chain (see transaction)