Oct NaNo Prep Entry--Torrian

Torrian sat in his father’s workshop snacking on blackberries and reading a book on the adventures of the Scouts for the hundredth time. He was supposed to be practicing the craft of a blacksmith, but he found it more interesting to use swords than to make them. If only he could become a Scout instead of being stuck in Ever with his sister. He put the book down.

Think of the adventures, the far off exotic locales, and all the tales he’d bring back. Without a standing army in Ever, Scouts were the ones who protected this realm and explored others. His father was one of the greatest sword-craftsmen. These days most weapons were used for decoration and accessories so most of the clients had no idea how to use what they purchased. Sometimes, Scouts were customers. His father had had the second best job in the world.

On the table next to him lay a beautiful sword, the last one his father had ever made. He traced the hilt with his finger. It was was Torrian’s favorite. He had no idea who it’d been made for. His father had not said nor had anyone come by to claim it in the months since his death.

The scabbard was covered with intricate designs including pictures of the Legend of Brogeren the Guardian Warrior. He slid the weapon off the table, it’s tip swung down like a pendulum hitting the floor with a ringing thud. The sword was more than half his size. Torrian wrapped the leather belt it was attached to about his waist. He could be a legend, too.

He’d face off a vast unmerciful enemy just like Brogeren. Charging at the imaginary foes in the small room, he tried to do some footwork to dodge an attack. The sword dragged on a floor behind him and it weighed him down on his left side. He lost his balance. Falling against a workbench, he caught himself. Some tools clattered from the table to the floor. He’d get those later. He straightened and tried it again. He wobbled, but made it through the steps.

He was getting much better at moving around with this sword. It was a very good weapon. At least, as far as he knew it was. His father had allowed him to watch him work ever since he was a young lad. Torrian had even been his apprentice for over a year. He knew more about the craft than most. But his father had had a way with metal--he could mold them, shape them with a caress and a whisper. He had the touch that had made his weapons so magnificent. It was something Torrian had never acquired.

Voices came up through the open window.

“What kind of weapon did you have commissioned?” Trellis, his sister, asked.

“A sword,” came a male voice’s reply. “A very special one.”

Torrian froze. A special sword? There wasn’t one better than what he wore at that moment.

With the passing of his father, the master sword-craftsman Treson, every weapon left was a one of kind, never to be duplicated again. His father had put his last strength, his last breath, his last bit of magic into this sword. Even if it wasn’t made for him, Torrian couldn’t give it up.

Footsteps walked up the stone path to the door of the workshop. Torrian climbed onto a workbench on the opposite side. A breeze from the open window he crouched before tussled his hair.

“My brother’s inside,” Trellis was saying. “He can help you with whatever you need.”

“Excellent.” The male said.

The latch on the door moved. Torrian slipped through the window. With the heavy weight of the sword attached to him, his jump was off balance and he landed flat on his face.

“Torrian?”

Getting to his feet, he held the hilt with both hands to relieve the weight on his left.

“Torrian!”

He ran without stopping or looking back.