“One’s worth is not measured in possessions or abilities; rather, it is measured in friendship and resourcefulness; as you journey through life, never lose yourself in deference to an imagined ideal.”
—RCotD—

After resting through the night, Emanrasu stirred in the light of the dawn, stretched, and glanced around. His eyes lit on the tiny giant, Rezua, who was already up and had built a radiant fire to help warm them from the night’s chill.
Thick billows of smoke drifted from the fire, hanging heavy in the cool forest air. The aroma of the damp, leaf-laden forest floor, subtly masked by the thick smokiness of the fire, left a chill mix of forest and burnt wood.
Producing a small package of rations from his pack, Emanrasu scrutinized it. “Enough for about three or four more days of travel,” he said to Rezua.
“I hope it will get us there,” said the wonderfully eloquent mountain-with-boots.
He divided out the morning meal, and though it was not much, it should sustain them until they were able to gain work in Erzt.
“Hey, have you seen that pouch the bandit was carrying, Rezua?” Emanrasu asked as he dug through his belongings. “Got it.” Emanrasu said upon locating the pouch.
He dumped the pouch out on his bedroll and spread out the contents: twelve copper, six silver, and a gold coin. A pendant was also present, which Emanrasu picked up and inspected.
Its delicate intricacies belied its stout craftsmanship. The heft was more than expected, the dense oak polished and smooth. The upper and lower fields were stained blue and green. Intricate engravings, filled with gold, extended over the colored fields at each corner.
The etchings and metalwork were subtly reminiscent of the Dance. Each corner symbolized the sun, phoenix, tree, or dragon, with these symbols embracing the green and blue tinted fields.
The piece was a marvel to behold. As Emanrasu turned it over, there was a small but simple engraving of a sword and shield in the center of the piece. Around this graven image were arranged ten groupings of symbols.

“I wonder what that means, though it is a marvel of workmanship,” Emanrasu thought.
“I wonder what the inscription means. Have you seen this before?” Emanrasu asked Rezua.
Rezua looked over Emanrasu’s shoulder: “zubava bana zufova pensam, something about writing in the past and knowing in the future, I think…” he mused. “… looks like a better version of the talisman Aiesa had.”
“Aiesa?” Emanrasu questioned. “Who?”
“You know, the village elder, Aiesa. He had one like this, but… do you mind if I look at it?” Rezua asked, reaching out his hand.
Confused, Emanrasu gave the little pendant to Rezua, who inspected it, turning it over and over. “Yes, it is similar, though much more intricate and, I dare say, more expensive. Aiesa said his pendant was a talisman of luck, so I suspect this one is also a talisman of luck. Though I am certainly no expert!”
“Aiesa… Aiesa…. Oh, Aiesa? Aiesa went to the Dance, what… almost fourteen mains ago. Leave it to you to remember a pendant you saw once when you were six or seven mains old—or even only two or three mains! Your memory still astounds me.” Emanrasu said, shaking his head at Rezua’s uncanny memory.
Rezua grinned as he held it out. “Keep it,” Emanrasu told him, “at least until we can determine its worth. I imagine it would fetch at least a couple of gold coins for our pouches—but then again, I’m certainly no expert either!” He chuckled.
They both chuckled at their less-than-expert evaluations and vowed to have someone in Erzt evaluate the pendant. That is, should someone of sufficient skill and knowledge be available.
Emanrasu repacked the pouch as Rezua attempted to hang the pendant around his thick, muscular neck. Rezua struggled for a bit, then finally, after adding an additional length to the string, got it over his head. As a final touch, he reached up with his large, meaty hand and, engulfing the pendant, tucked it into his tunic.
As dawn broke, Emanrasu and Rezua sat and placed the bandit’s pack between them.
The contents provided a storied history of the man’s life, things he felt compelled to carry with him. A history of secrecy abounded within the creases and crevices of the worn pack. Pockets within pockets hinted at a mind devious and untrusting.
“A pack this complex made for storing items would suggest that there are hidden treasures within as well,” Emanrasu thought as they started to sift through the pockets.
“Look for hidden compartments, Rezua. I have a feeling this man had more to hide than he was willing to tuck into obvious spots,” Emanrasu suggested to his small-dragon-sized friend.
Rezua nodded in agreement, his fingers playing on the pendant. “If I were writing the story for him, I would check for a false bottom,” Rezua divulged.
“Pockets are pockets, but the unsuspecting would not be looking for anything other than the myriad of pockets,” Emanrasu said as he glanced sidelong at his childhood friend with new respect.
“Your storytelling and descriptive mind have finally found a practical use in the world! Not to mention that it shows how devious you are,” Emanrasu exclaimed with a confused grin.
“I would have never guessed,” he reflected. “I guess even between us, surprise is still a possibility.”
Emanrasu started digging through the pack, each pocket a trove of storied treasures, as Rezua would say, “the veritable life’s work in a single complex compartmented bag.” Emanrasu smiled at the thought but said nothing to his friend.
First out were the various food items, easily found and retrieved, indicating that the man was more than just a common brigand, but one with the need to move fast and travel light. The amount of nuts, grains, and dried meat they pulled out of the pack was astonishing.
“A week’s worth of rations—enough for three days, maybe four if we stretched it,” he said, looking up at Rezua, who stopped mid-chew and quickly hid his hand. Rezua winked at his pretend deception, then grinned and resumed munching on the rations.
“I guess that makes it three days then.”
Emanrasu grinned and began digging into the pack.
“What is this… a hook?”
Emanrasu splayed the hook open and latched it, felt the heft and practicality of it, then unlatched it and folded it back up, setting the hook aside, along with the length of rope attached to it.
Reaching in again, he pulled out a worn leather-bound case with little strips of steel and wire. “Probably lockpicks,” Rezua offered as he happily chewed away.
Emanrasu shot him an impressed glance and continued his quest through the bag. Slowly, they removed several dozen items: herbs and spices of many kinds, of which some might be poisonous, pointed out Rezua, a waterskin and a bladder of wine, six daggers in total, four for throwing and two for fighting.
They dug deeper and found two wigs, one of auburn and the other dark brown. “The man had yellow hair, so maybe these are for disguises? Oh, and here are various jars and bottles of makeup. I guess disguises are the most likely suspect for those,” he grinned.
Rezua took one of the wigs and fitted it upon his head. He stood and curtsied in an imaginary dress. Emanrasu forced the grin from his face.
“Please, never do that again,” he pleaded softly.
They both laughed as Rezua tossed the wig back to Emanrasu.
“Unless, that is, you want to be like the smithy back home, who snuck out on an occasional night to make himself up as a woman, in full dress and makeup, no less.”
The large man cowered and looked on in mock horror.
“Oh, dear! I forgot all about that! And I heard that Aiesa actually took him home one night. Oh, to be a mouse in the corner for that surprise!” Rezua laughed.
He continued, pulling out some parchment, several quills, and a metal bottle with a black substance—presumably ink.
Finally, they removed a flint and steel, along with several candles.
“Is that really a flint and steel?” asked Rezua, his jaw hanging open. “That would be great to have if we run out of ‘chih!”
Emanrasu looked at him. “What is a flint and steel?” He asked.
Rezua reached out and gathered them up and, holding one in each hand, struck the steel with the flint.
Nothing happened.
Rezua tried several times in various ways until finally, he could produce a spark. A couple of tries later, he was getting consistent and usable spark each time.
“Interesting, ‘chih is easier,” Emanrasu commented as he picked up the bag.
Emanrasu took the bag and shook it a bit. “Can you hear that, Rezua?” he asked. And as he shook it again, the distinct clink of “coin on coin” was heard.
Meticulously, the two friends started going through the pack again and found two secret compartments. The first carried loose coins and a cloth that wrapped up various pieces of jewelry. The second was a manuscript or journal of sorts. “It appears to be gibberish,” Emanrasu said, handing it to Rezua.
Rezua flipped through the pages. “Alongside the other items, a book of gibberish would be out of place. Coupled with the fact that it was in a hidden compartment, it might suggest it is not just gibberish but might be written in some code.”
Rezua stuffed the book in his own pack to puzzle over later.
Emanrasu refilled the pack with most of the items, retaining the coins for himself and handing the jewelry to Rezua. “While you are out checking for libraries or schools of learning, see if you can get these appraised and maybe even sold,” Emanrasu said to Rezua. “If any are recognized, just relate the story, without embellishment, mind you, and let them have the items. We do not want to cause a scene that we may not be able to extract ourselves from.”
Emanrasu counted the coins: ten silver and fifteen gold coins. “We shall be able to travel with a little comfort with this,” Emanrasu thought to himself.
He separated out five copper, two silver, and three gold coins and deposited them in his own pouch, at which point he filled the brigand’s coin pouch with the rest of the coins and placed it carefully at the bottom of his pack.
Rezua, having already packed, was scribbling in his own book. Occasionally, he looked up and scanned the camp, then returned to writing as Emanrasu began gathering and stowing gear in his own pack, burying the coin pouch under the rest of his belongings.
As he rolled up the sword in his bedroll, he paused. “We might be safer if I keep the sword handy,” Emanrasu said.
“I think we would be safer if they were not tied down or buried inside my bedroll,” he told Rezua.
“Mmmm… hmmm…” came the absent-minded response.
“I shot a rabbit with my fishing pole and he turned into a bear. Thanks for helping me get away,” Emanrasu said.
“Mmmm… hmmm… uh… What was that?” asked Rezua, not really paying attention.
After filling his pack, Emanrasu struggled to fasten the scabbard around his waist. Several strings were hanging from the scabbard, but he had no idea what they were for.
Ultimately, Emanrasu tied the strings to the back of his belt, though he also thought they might attach to his leg.
Once the scabbard was in place, he fumbled around, trying to get the tip of the sword into the scabbard. Finally, the tip was in the slit, and the sword almost drew itself into the scabbard, easily sliding the rest of the way into it.
Emanrasu straightened his stance a bit, turning this way and that, alternating between quick and slow turns to get a feel for how it hung.
The scabbard flopped around a bit much, so he untied the sheath tether straps from the back of his belt and knotted them around his leg. Turning this way and that, the scabbard felt more secure, though it was still a little loose, but it moved with him as he twisted into various positions.
Satisfied, he tried drawing the blade a couple of times. The scabbard shifted as he tried to pull, and finally, he decided to grab the scabbard and steady it as he drew the sword.
“This will work,” he thought, “… not as simple as I hoped, though. Ugh!”
After drawing his sword, he realized he would have to unsheathe with a shield on his arm.
Sliding the shield onto his arm and tightening the straps, he practiced sheathing and unsheathing. He even tried to quick draw and was rewarded by a stumbling fall.
“if you stick to fending off old men and women, you might be quick enough,” Rezua said, chuckling as he returned to scribbling in his journal.
Even though he was awkward and a bit inept. He felt more confident while wearing them, which, in turn, seemed to energize him.
“Hey, tiny!” Emanrasu called to Rezua. “Get up and get your pack on; we are ready to travel. Oh, and you get to carry the brigand’s pack as well.”
Emanrasu smiled at slipping that last part in, though he was surprised when there was no resistance. Rezua just shrugged his acceptance and finished getting ready.
Emanrasu set the shield down and deftly slung his burden to his back, quickly tightening and adjusting the pack.
He smiled and thought, “Now, that is the speed I need while donning the shield and sword. I just need to use smooth, measured movements, and understand where each strap goes and how it gets there.”
While practicing, he noticed that, during the battle with the man, both the sword and shield had been nicked. The nicks seemed to chip off the timeless encrustations that had built up.
The sword now had various places where the metal gleamed, and the shield was now showing traces of green and blue.
“The hours of scrubbing and scrapping,” he recalled. “Many hours over many mains father had struggled to clean them.”
“I suppose hacking at them, metal on metal, in the middle of the night, while your son slept…” he said, grinning. “or at least…was supposed to be asleep. Was not the best time to go beating on armor.”
Though he had never seen the sword and the shield up close, he watched his father toil almost nightly to clean them.
“Ugh… the main obsessed about them, who am I kidding?”
“Why did you never tell me?” He wondered. “I would have been happy to help clean them. Why did he pretend it was only an attempt to keep them from getting any worse… I suppose we will never know.
“There were never had any colors showing through that I can recall.”
Seeing the blue and green peeking through brought lightness and joy to his heart.
He was unsure why but having the shield and sword at the ready gave him some modicum of comfort and courage.
He chuckled lightly as he thought, “Knowing we are that much safer gives me a little pep and energy as well.”
Again, the duo set foot on the path and continued the journey, Emanrasu letting himself get lost in the thoughts that made up his dream. The phoenix and the dragon were constants in this part of the land, and it was not until you got close to the seas that the gods of man overtook the more nature-oriented pair.
Most will profess little knowledge of the Dance, though Emanrasu always considered it as more of a partnering than a dance; at least, he was more interested in the Dance than the stuffy old tree and sun revered by many.
His dream had featured the tree and sun along with the phoenix and dragon he recalled as bits and pieces solidified in his mind, though most of it was still hazy.
“It instills a bit of call and comfort,” he said. “Thinking back, it seems each time it comes to mind I feel a calmness. I wish I remembered a bit more of it.”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind. I didn’t realize I was mumbling out loud,” Emanrasu told him.
Thus, they traveled for hands, making good time and without the usual weariness that had accompanied him for days previously. However, the reverse seemed to plague Rezua, as he constantly fell behind and complained of being tired, pleading with Emanrasu to slow down.
Heeding the request, Emanrasu slowed down, but they were still making much better time than he had anticipated, and he still felt ready to continue.
“We are making excellent time, little giant,” he called over his shoulder to the lagging mountain with feet.
“I have never seen you this way; you have almost never been able to outwalk me. Outrun, yes, but I have the stamina of an ox, and still, you seem to be wearing me out today,” Rezua complained. “How about we take a breather and sit for our lunch and relax a bit?”
The eyes pleaded harder than his words, melting Emanrasu’s heart, and he agreed.
Shortly, they came upon a fallen log a little to the side of the road, and it was there they took their lunch. Emanrasu portioned out two helpings of food, but before he could claim his own, Rezua’s hand had scooped up both portions.
“Hungry?” Emanrasu asked the big man.
“Practically starving from the pace you have put us in today,” Rezua said as he snuck the muffled reply around a mouthful of food.
They relaxed and recharged, though Emanrasu took some time to bandy about with the sword. It was heavy, but he seemed to be getting the hang of it, making it lighter or at least worth the effort to bear the burden.
“Hey, listen to this,” Rezua said with a twinge of pride and excitement in his voice. “The faithful scribe entered the clearing, scanning it deliberately. His eyes fell upon Emanrasu, sleeping soundly in his roll. His weapons were close at hand, as always, the steel and tinctures glinting in the gathering dusk. A slight movement beyond the sleeping warrior caught the scribe’s eye, but before he could utter a word, Emanrasu was up and at the ready, shield in defense, sword at the ready.
“Emanrasu deftly dodged the skilled axeman, intent on relieving our hero of his life and limb. Emanrasu smacked the man on the backside with the flat of his blade, showing that his skill was unmatched by any, let alone this lone assassin.
“The assassin was shocked and swung another precisely placed blow that should have cleaved Emanrasu in two. However, Emanrasu Bakerson was faster than the sunlight today and again dodged the deadly blow as if the assassin were a mere child in training.
“It was in this manner that the assassin attempted several times to finish the job, but each showed the superior skill and dexterity of the future king.
“Two more assassins stepped from the shadows, and with a knowing nod, they synchronized their attacks. For an ordinary man, this would have been the death of him. However, our once and future king was no mere man; the Dance itself came when he beckoned, and as the three became five, Emanrasu said a silent prayer to the Dance.
“The glow of his aura and the shining of his weapons were a testament to the answer from the Dance. His blade flicked in and out as his shield became a veritable castle wall against the ineffective attempts from the master assassins sent against him.
“In the span of three heartbeats, the sword quit flicking, and the shield dropped to a resting position. The five assassins lay at his feet, the last of their life’s blood seeping into the soaked earth beneath them.”
“Uh… I… I am not sure,” Emanrasu said, though he was quickly cut off by Rezua’s outstretched sausage of a finger.
“Without a second thought, Emanrasu placed down his sword and shield and called over to his trusty scribe, the lone witness to the destructive power of the king and the Dance. ‘Get some rest, my dear scribe,’ he ordered. ‘We have a journey to finish on the morrow.’ And with that, Emanrasu laid down and rolled over, almost instantly sleeping without worry.
“Well, what do you think, Eman? Pretty good, right? I was going to make it a dozen assassins, but I didn’t want to draw out the narrative,” explained Rezua.
Emanrasu stood and stared at Rezua for a moment, trying to get a handle on what the big man had just done.
“I am not sure we want that version to become known. We both know that is not the way it happened.
“You saw… had I not had luck on my side that night, we might both be lying on the blood-soaked ground,” continued Emanrasu, correcting the towering tree-with-a-quill.
“It’s called poetic privilege, Eman, you know that. Or at least I have told you that. And anyway, I swear I saw an aura about you that night. It wasn’t blinding, but I swear to you it was there,” Rezua insisted.
“Look, Rezua, if you’re going to insist on including me, at least try to make it grounded in reality. A fanciful tale like that comes out, and you and I may not be long for this world. Insisting I have a supernatural or mystical connection in some way would be the death of us.
“People from all over might come to try and test us just to find out how good we are. I would much rather be the simple lucky traveler with a whole lot of luck and determination,” Emanrasu said, setting the expectations appropriately.
“Fine,” replied the gentle giant. The pretend quiver in his lips and his cowering demeanor were not enough to convince Emanrasu to change his mind.
After Rezua rested and his things had been stowed, they once more set foot-to-road and continued on.
They passed the occasional traveler, and everyone seemed to give them a wider berth now. Maybe it was the sword and shield.
As the sun dropped below the treetops, they started to see more traffic, even a cart or two. It seemed their progress was bringing them closer to Erzt than Emanrasu had expected.
“I thought Ertz was farther,” he said.
“Or maybe… maybe… you have driven me on like a dog with a cow. Pushing me continuously forward without care and…” replied the giant ball of complaining.
“Of that, I am sure I would have fallen by the way by now, had it truly been that far,” said Emanrasu.
“Perhaps my distances were wrong or the man gave me the incorrect information,” Emanrasu thought.
He stopped a passerby and found it was indeed Erzt.
As they approached the bustling town, they saw many of the patrol guards step back from them, whispering and prodding one another.
“Not much of one…” he overheard one of the guards say.
“Right, or his gear would be better kept,” another replied.
Though it made Emanrasu a bit uncomfortable, he did not change the way he presented himself, as protection was his paramount concern.
“Just ignore them, Rezua,” Emanrasu said to Rezua in an attempt to cheer him up.
“Ignore who?” came Rezua’s query.
“The guards…” Emanrasu started to explain but let it trail off as Rezua was again standing motionless in the middle of the street, his quill flying like a hawk on the hunt.
Emanrasu reached out and grabbed a handful of the man’s tunic and gently coaxed him into a steady shuffle. Rezua’s scribbles never stopped even as they progressed down the street, though it was painfully slow.
As he walked, Emanrasu queried as to an inn; they were steered by almost all they asked the Bucket and Nail. It was the most reliable, though one passerby had informed them that the Whorestep was a much better place if we were looking to only spend a hand or two.
They finally reached the Bucket and Nail, a quaint little inn and tavern, well-kept from what Emanrasu could tell and without the usual rank beer and vomit smells he would expect.
They entered, and Emanrasu approached the bar, behind which appeared to be the barkeep or maybe innkeeper. He queried the innkeep as to the availability of a room and two beds and, perchance, a hot bath. Upon spying on the gold coin Emanrasu had laid down, the keep indicated they were more than willing to provide the needed items.
Thus, marveling at his choices and their good time, the two stepped to the back of the inn and up the stairs to what might be their room for the week.
“We might as well see the town sights while we are here, and you will need to find a jeweler to get those trinkets appraised,” Emanrasu commented.
Rezua mumbled something unintelligible and caught himself; understanding came across his face as the entire conversation started to sink in. “Yes,” he replied, “and I need to see if there are any libraries or scholarly establishments. I would like to see what books they may have.” And yes, I will take my precious time and spend it on getting your trinkets appraised.”
The short hall at the top of the stairs led to five rooms, two on each side and one at the end of the hall. The air was musky and thick, an obvious sign that many a wench had secreted up to entertain in various manners. The floor was well-worn, smooth with the many and varied feet that had traveled its short course. Their room was the one at the end, and the door had been swung wide as a maid hurried to put final cleaning on the room for what had been deemed “considered” guests—those who may well be of means but do not appear to want to publicize it.
As Emanrasu approached with Rezua trailing behind furiously jotting, she glanced at Emanrasu, smiled a tad, and went back to her duties as he entered. The newly made bunks could have been military ones, from the taut pull on the covers that had been provided, as well as, to his surprise, pillowed sacks for their heads. The room was utilitarian but not sparse. A desk and chair were provided, as was a table and two chairs. The room also included a chest at the foot of each bed and matching equipment stands for various weaponry or tools. Everything was well-worn, but none were in disrepair, and the upkeep was well taken.
Rezua commandeered the desk at the outset, and Emanrasu did not contest since it was much more Rezua’s domain in any case.
The chair for the desk, however, was woefully inadequate for the massive frame of Rezua, so he queried the maid for something more substantial to sit on. Emanrasu watched as she looked at him and nodded in agreement.
The maid slipped out of the room briefly and had a short discussion with someone on the first floor, then returned to the room, informing Rezua that a chair of suitable construction would be provided shortly. She returned to the task of touching up the room. A moment or two later, Emanrasu noticed the maid sneaking glances in his direction, and he stared at her until he caught her eye, at which point she blushed crimson, quickly looked down, and continued her task.
Emanrasu slung his pack onto the chest; the brigand’s pack, having been retrieved from Rezua, was set on the floor next to his chest. He carefully disarmed himself, hanging both the shield and the sword on the rack. He was suddenly overcome with the weariness of the long trek and could feel the throbbing of the muscles in his legs and the tightness in his back. He reached down and vigorously kneaded his thighs, then sat in one of the chairs and proceeded to do the same to his calves and feet.
He noticed the sly glances of the maid again but pretended not to. Her glances lingered a bit long as if she were passing judgment. Upon this thought crossing his mind, he sat and thought about the picture he and Rezua presented roaming the roads and streets together.
Emanrasu was lanky, his long, thick black hair invariably pulled into a tight tail, and with a bit of self-centeredness, he flared it so that it draped over his shoulders on occasion, though at the moment, it was lying limp upon his back.
Lanky, though he was, he was not weak. Toting grain and flour and the trudging walk of the grinding wheel kept him in a modicum of physical fitness. His skin was rough though unmarred, belying the weapons that he had hefted and carried all this way.
In contrast, Rezua was tall enough that he must duck to get through most doorways. His towering, muscular frame has the strength to literally knock a man across the street.
Emanrasu glanced toward the equipment rack and mused over the previous night’s events. He felt a slight twinge of pride in the fact he was still amongst the living. His pride colored his perception of the sword and shield, which now seemed to glow a bit as the sun streamed in, striking the sword and shield from the lone window. As he sat and marveled at the protection those marvelous devices had offered him, glints of metal and tinctures shone through the time-encrusted muck, mire, dust, and grime that had lain upon them for ages. He chuckled lightly at the thought of his father laboriously trying to clean them. Why not beat the filth off of them, as the battle started the process of flaking it off nicely.
An enormous chair was brought up from the setting area downstairs, and the inadequate chair was removed. Almost immediately, Rezua shifted from the bed where he had been sitting to the desk. Snatching up the lantern sitting there, he lit it and adjusted the lighting, allowing him to continue. Ignoring the outside world, Rezua delved deeply back into furiously chronicling.
Emanrasu looked up briefly and caught the eye of the maid again; this time, she was unable to pretend she had not been studying him, and the crimson quickly flushed her face. She looked away and promptly finished the task at hand, scurried to the door, turned toward him briefly, and curtsied before turning to make a hasty retreat. Before she could go, Emanrasu called to her, “Wench. Come hither.”
Rezua stopped scribbling and perked up at this, turning to watch the scene over his shoulder. His eyebrows raised and eyes wide to take in the scene, the crooked smile expecting a humorous conclusion, his eyes darted from the girl to Emanrasu and back.
As she stopped hesitantly, turning toward him, he reached into his pouch and produced a silver coin from the change he had received when paying for the room. He reached out, offering the girl the coin. A look of puzzlement spread across her face; then, as it turned a deep ruby red in anger or embarrassment, he knew not, he realized that she thought he was propositioning her.
Rezua, already seeing and surmising what was transpiring, turned the chair so that he might take in the entire scene as it unfolded. The chair scraped on the wooden floor as he twisted it around without rising. The maid looked over to him, after which his meaty finger pointed at her, then motioned to the coin Emanrasu was holding. “Go on!” he urged, his eyes alight with laughter were the only indication that he was not completely serious.
The girl turned again to leave but paused as Emanrasu spoke.
“No, no…” he grinned. “This is just appreciation for the job well done and the hope that you will take good care of the room going forward.”
She cautiously returned and reached out her hand, ready to withdraw it at a moment’s notice if need be. “Thank you, kind sir. You are most gracious!” she said, almost as a whisper but clear and decisive, belying the shyness that she seemed to bear.
She snatched the coin and quickly exited. “To forestall any further advances,” Emanrasu mused. She immediately pulled the door close behind her, but the soft footsteps did not continue down the hall.
Rezua held a finger up to his lips, looking over at Emanrasu, and stood. Rezua took two steps toward the door, and the flurry of footsteps outside padded quickly down the hall, fading as the girl fled. Rezua laughed a deep guttural laugh, thundering through the room. “You practically frightened the girl to death,” he said to Emanrasu. “I am so proud of you!” he exclaimed, wiping the pretend tear from one eye and then the other.
Emanrasu stood and quickly stepped to the bed. Grabbing the pillow, he slung it in Rezua’s direction as he sat and swung his body to lie down. The bed, most assuredly, was the most comfortable he had ever had the pleasure of lying in, though it said little as he had only slept in one other, and it was merely slats between two boards.
Ignoring the snickers of his meaty, oversized friend, he turned over and finally relaxed, the weariness slowly ebbing from his body.
He drifted off to sleep as the dusk crept into the room. The scribbling of Rezua as he returned to his writing was soft and soothing.
Sleeping the sleep of the dead, he had naught for dreams.

“A journey of discovery and legacy, fraught with danger, is always mitigated by the camaraderie of friendship.”

—RCotD—

Peering intently down the street, sun well overhead at apex, Emanrasu smiled. His overly large friend, Rezua, squatted behind Morthen’s cart in what appeared to be a poor attempt to hide. His childhood friend’s tall stature and massive girth made him stick out; even were it the cover of night, he would be hard to miss. The two of them were the only ones on the street as most were still attending the funerary.

Walking toward the cart, Emanrasu shaded his eyes against the sun as he called out, “Hiding works better at night, my large, humongous, concealment challenged friend.”

The cart creaked and groaned amidst the aroma of dry grain and yeast that spilled from the open door of the empty bakery as the enormous young man strained to tip it by lifting one side.

Their eyes met, Rezua’s eyes sparkling with laughter that Emanrasu recognized all too well in its reflection of his own unspoken need for mischievous revenge on the landlord, Morthen. The massive man hoisted the cart higher, the creak of wood groaning under his strength. The amusement in his imposing friend’s grin contrasted sharply with his half-hearted attempt to stop the towering scribe. “What are you doing?!” He asked in a low, hissing whisper.

He could hear the shifting of items in the cart as they slid against its rough wooden bottom.

Coaxed and encouraged by the large young man, the cart finally reached the apex of its path. It teetered as Emanrasu tugged and pulled on his best friend’s tent-sized tunic.

Rezua let go of the cart and shrugged off Emanrasu’s hand. With a quick nod in the direction of the road, Rezua snatched up the pack at his feet and made his way toward the edge of the village. His lumbering gait was much faster than one would expect.

Emanrasu watched the cart as it teetered for a moment on two wheels. He reached out and gave it a gentle shove. As the cart gathered speed, Emanrasu spun and followed his large lumbering friend.

The crash of Morthen’s cart, echoing with the clatter of scattered wares, brought a widening smirk to Emanrasu’s face—justice, as only his best friend could deliver.

After attending his father’s funerary rites, Emanrasu found the remnants of his father’s belongings tossed carelessly into the street by the callous, uncaring landlord. His father’s possessions had been piled and left for any and all to rummage through.

The howl from Morthen signified his return to his cart and had found its contents tipped and strewn in the street.

Much as his father’s had been.

After the funerary rites were over, Emanrasu had planned to gather what few items he could and depart this depressing little village, but having found his legacy already out in the muck-and-mire solidified his intent. The parting offer of solace from his lumbering mountain of a friend added direly needed levity to a day that had not offered much to smile about.

They ran for some time before Emanrasu had to call out to the tree-trunk-legged man.

“Enough…” he huffed as he slowed to a walk. “…enough of this running… I doubt…” Emanrasu knelt down and leaned over to catch his breath. Taking a deep breath, he stood.

“I doubt he is following…” Emanrasu’s grin brightened his face, “…though he just MIGHT have a clue as to the culprits!”

Turning, Rezua walked backward for a bit, then halted. Reaching into his pack, he rummaged about and finally extracted a loosely bound collection of parchment. A second rummaging produced a quill and ink skin.

“Ink skin…ink well, ink bottle, but…ink skin?” Emanrasu shook his head as he mused silently, “Rezua is the only person I’ve ever known to write so much that he needed an ink SKIN with him.”

Thus began Emanrasu’s long journey across the lands to meet a grandfather never met and to understand his own true destiny. The days and nights passed in relative quiet, each much the same as the last, trudging along, frequently in silence, with only the scratching of Rezua’s quill on parchment. The two occasionally found themselves debating this or that, then settling back into a comfortable silence.

Once, they even had broken into a wrestling match, though Emanrasu’s comparatively diminutive size put him at a distinct disadvantage.

As Emanrasu, weary from days of travel, trudged along next to Rezua, he shifted the bulky, heavily laden pack from one shoulder to the other, then watched as Rezua followed suit, readjusting his own comparatively tiny pack.

The heft of his grandfather’s legacy weighed heavily on Emanrasu as they continued on the impromptu planned journey to his ancestral homeland, Rinewood Gulf. From what his father had told him, it was a small village near where his family originated.

As they walked, Emanrasu let his thoughts wander among the memories he and his steadfast friend had gathered since childhood.

Emanrasu let a slight, almost imperceptible smile sneak into his normally stoic and serious demeanor. “When we were small children…” His thoughts screeched to an abrupt halt before continuing.

“Well, when I myself was a small child…” Emanrasu grinned at the thought of anyone calling Rezua small. Ever!

When time allowed, the two could always be found together. “I wonder if we would still be friends had it not been that we were the only two our age in the village,” Emanrasu mused to himself.

It was a thought he dared not say aloud, as Rezua was a sensitive sort, belying his towering stature and stout girth.

Though Rezua stood head-and-shoulders above Emanrasu, and he, himself, was half a head taller than most, the large man was timid and preferred not to get into altercations. As children in Rintha, the village in which they grew up, Emanrasu had seen Rezua hit a man in the chest. As they were only eleven and ten mains old, respectively, the feat was devastatingly effective.

The man had flown across the dusty wind-blown street and lay on the other side in the weed-filled ditch. Helplessly, he watched his friend as the large boy alternated between a slack frowning visage and a tight-jawed scowl, his teeth ground as his hands clenched and unclenched in concert with his face. He paced back and forth retreating as he frowned and advancing as he scowled.

The dank aroma of the road, heavy in the air, and Rezua, alternately cringing in guilt and fuming in anger, he could only say, “He shouldn’t have said that about Mother; she was a good woman! May the Dance keep her!”.

The impertinent man lived but took two full moons to recover from the devastating blow from the ten-main old Rezua.

They entered the dense growth of Rosewood Forest and steadily advanced into the deepening shadows. They followed the dirt road to Erzt, which would provide their first actual experience of a larger community. As they traveled the winding dirt road to the Gulf, this stop would be their first of several.

The sunlight streamed through the canopy, casting patches of dancing light on the forest floor. The damp undergrowth exuded a moldy aroma of decaying plants as they walked.

As they continued deeper into the forest, Emanrasu could hear the scratching of Rezua’s quill on his… journal… map… or whatever he wanted to call the homemade leather-bound pages he was constantly scribbling on. The natural quietness of the woods, a calm to soothe the soul, was only disturbed by the occasional animal that peeped or squeaked as it scurried away.

After a time, having fallen behind, Rezua hurried to Emanrasu’s side. He reached out and took hold of Emanrasu’s shoulder, bringing them to a halt. The two stood along the side of the dirt path.

“Listen to this,” Rezua grinned. He held his journal before him as he read the words he had scribbled there. “The sky, a bright blue that faded into purples, reds, and yellows, peeked through only in patches amidst the foliage while sunlight struggled to stream through the leaves of the canopy created by the forest. The unending glow of patchwork sunlight fell to the ground and lay there illuminating…

“Wait.” he said and scribbled quickly in his journal, then continued, “…lay there silently illuminating the road, sparsely it lay, here and there, the bulk of the road hidden in a ragged cloak of blackest shade. The forlorn trees murmured quietly in the whispering wind as they stretched their boughs eagerly across the furrowed road. The dirt rutted and gouged unevenly, filled with gashes from the wheels of many a cart and wagon. The stark and stoic road, soft as freshly kneaded dough from the recent soft sprinkling of rain, had the musty smells of life that permeated the stillness of the wild wooded area. The wisps of wind, struggling to pass, were held at bay by the staunch blockade of trees guarding the passage of man.”

“What do you think, Eman? Pretty awesome, right?” he questioned.

“Well,” Emanrasu replied, “I suppose if that is how you see it, then you should write what you feel. I admire your ability to put things in a flowery manner but try as I might, I can’t. I enjoy your way of describing things; it’s just not the way I see things.”

A deer snapped a twig somewhere off the road. The two paused and scanned the trees but saw nothing. They looked at each other, and Emanrasu shrugged.

“I am pretty sure it was a deer,” Emanrasu thought, glancing off to the sides. After a while, having heard nothing more, he soon let his mind focus on other things.

As the two continued, Emanrasu noticed Rezua veering closer to the middle of the road. He reached out and gently guided him back to the side of the road. “The ruts could easily catch a boot and twist an ankle,” Emanrasu told him. “Best to stick to the side of the road.”

“Ah,” said Rezua, and he paused slightly and scribbled something in his papers. “Hmm… wheel-plowed ruts scraped from the road and deposited…”

Rezua stopped walking and jotted down a couple more thoughts before his feet moved his large bulk again. Looking over at Emanrasu, Rezua smiled and focused on the road, and the way seemed lighter and faster because of his renewed focus on the journey rather than his journal.

Emanrasu gazed at Rezua. “Was there ever a time when you did not turn tales to legends? Even as a child, when we played fox and hound…”

“I had to be the fox, since, when I played the hound, I would just walk up behind you and tag you as you stood or sat engrossed in some insect or plant.”

Rezua’s giant face stared back at him—slack, unblinking, and devoid of emotion.

“You remember when I knocked you on the head while you were engrossed with the berry plant? You fell headlong into the briars,” Emanrasu smiled and chuckled slightly. “I must have apologized a score of times before you stopped being mad at me,” said Emanrasu.

“The berry patch silently laid in wait, whispering to the wind and swaying gently back and forth in anticipation. Eagerly, they scratched and clawed at the boy as he fell headlong into their naked talons, pulling him further in the more he struggled,” Rezua grinned, “Yes, I recall it vividly!”

“That was a few days before I plowed that insolent ruffian mid of his chest, drove the wind out of him, and broke four of his ribs,” Rezua frowned as he recalled. “I still have chills when I think about that! I thought I had killed him! I was so mad, but he had no right to say that about my mother; she was a kind and compassionate soul. May the Dance keep her safe and entertained.”

“That was, what, nine mains ago?” inquired Rezua.

“Ten mains, almost eleven,” came the reply, “I recall it well, as that was the year the Festival of the Dance was held up the road in Tothis.”

Emanrasu mulled over the plans for his life, “Or rather, the lack of them,” he mumbled to himself.

“Twenty harvestmains and still unwed, no real direction for my life, and…” Emanrasu thought as he kicked at the leaves and dust on the edge of the road. “…with each passing main, I fear more and more I’ll grow old without adventure or excitement like my father,”

“One thing is certain: I don’t want to be a baker; they lead such dull and unimportant lives,” he scrunched his nose, “and I am eager for more, something, anything more… even a traveling delivery man would be better than the monotonous life my father led.”

The sword and shield, relics in the stories handed down to him by his father, had the weight of generations. This weight was now seated firmly on his shoulders as they continued their journey.

Until his father had gone to the Dance, he had never thought much of the storied relics—that is, until he had found them discarded atop the pile of his father’s belongings.

“Uh…” he thought as he trudged beside his towering friend. “The entirety of one man’s life and history, tossed outside of the dirt hovel his father had gotten from Morthen. Until then, I had never seen these storied items up close.”

Emanrasu’s thoughts drifted as they walked, and he recalled his sadness seeing them on top of the tattered remnants of his father’s life. The time-encrusted shield and sword appeared to be in deplorable condition, which he imagined was due to his father’s disregard for his past and ancestry.

Though his father told the stories of the sword and shield, he seemingly had shunned his ancestry and family for the sweet smell and warm comfort of baked goods.

“A fair baker,” he thought, drawing a deep breath as they walked. “Not great, but fair… Safer than his former life, he’d said.”

“His father had become a baker because it was less perilous and to avoid the carnage of our lineage. Though, I suspect, mostly to spite my grandfather” Thus, the burden of his father and Emanrasu’s family lineage fell to him.

Rezua had immediately given them legendary status and came up with dozens of reasons for their poor state and half a dozen on how my father had acquired them. All the stories were fantastical and bigger than life.

“…fantastical and bigger than life…of which my father was neither,” he mused quietly.

His introspection was broken by Rezua, stomping his feet heavily as his persona shifted suddenly into the giant. Watching him now, Emanrasu realized the large man had perfected the role over the years, an entertaining and somehow imposingly reassuring act.

Rezua stomped his feet as they continued forward, mimicking the aggressive behavior attributed to most huge men.

“So,” roared the giant.

“If you have never met them, why would you want to make the long, tedious trek across Alaeon to the Gulf? All that way to find a family who never visited you? Just to introduce yourself?” Rezua bellowed the questions in the rumbling voice he reserved for his monstrous and heroic alter-ego.

“We could have sold the shield and sword and lived grand lives for a few moons, maybe even a main, well… maybe not a main.”

Suddenly halting, he quickly spun, locking eyes with the slack face of one intent on instant gratification. For long moments, the pair stood unblinking until finally, they broke into a laughter that shook the birds from the trees and chirped into the air.

Once they regained their composure, they returned to the road.

“Curiosity, I guess,” Emanrasu finally replied. “The shield and sword, it seems, MUST have some history. Not the history or stories YOU come up with, but father was always telling tales and, I guess, it would be nice to know if grandfather was as great and as crazy as he said.”

Continuing to walk, their discussion wound deftly around the places and people they might meet.

As the eve slowly descended upon them, Emanrasu reached out to the sun, aligning his fist with the horizon, placing one hand atop the other to judge the time. “Barely a hand and a half until dusk,” he told Rezua.

Rezua did the same, reached out his arm to the sun, aligned his fist with the horizon, and staunchly declared, “Well, sire, I see barely a hand until the dawn is upon us,” he remarked, a smile sneaking onto his serious and otherwise immobile face.

“If I had melons for fists like yours, perhaps I’d judge time differently. But one of us here, my friend, has fists larger than the village average. So, with that in mind, SIRE, you may now cease your jest and start looking for a good place to bed for the night,” he winked at his towering friend.

Stepping in and out of the shadowy, underbrush-laden rows of trees, they searched for a suitable clearing.

“Which has just begun,” Emanrasu realized.

This thought made Emanrasu consider just how lengthy this journey would be.

Though his shoulders drooped, his back knotted in the pain of unaccustomed work. Seeking a spot a fair distance from the road, they continued rummaging through the trees. Rezua appeared unaffected by the travels, seeming as spry as ever.

“Well,” Emanrasu thought, “as spry as a man his size could be.” He smiled to himself.

Rezua spied a small clearing and called out. The area was flat and open, with a large rock outcropping off to one side. The top of the rock was twice Rezua’s height and barely wider than Emanrasu was tall.

The clearing and surrounding area had little wildlife, mirroring the lack of travelers on the road. Searching, they found a suitable spot near the rock and began making camp for the night.

Exhausted, Emanrasu let the pack slide from his back to the ground with an audible thump. The searing pain in his back forced a grunt from him as he muffled his cry of pain. Slowly, he knelt down, enduring the fiery pain in his legs and the stiff pangs in his back

. He surveyed the area and noticed that Rezua was not within view. “Ho!” Emanrasu called out. “Where did you go, my tiny little giant?”

“I be here, on the other side of the rock, engaged in the creation of a magnificent bed. Rearranging the castle and the not-insubstantial and varied items I had carted in. The accommodations are well suited to a knight such as I,” Rezua let the words flow from his mouth.

“You should take up a musical instrument,” Emanrasu yelled back, grinning, “You have a way with words as good as any bard or minstrel I have ever seen. Which, to tell the truth, is only two.”

“Sire, we shall need a fire hot and ready, so in all your knighthood, do you think you can deem it not beneath you to start one?”

“If you don’t, then thrice I shall slap you on the belly while you rest!”

“You, sire, by the grunts and groans of recent, have shown you are in resplendently little shape to be making such threats, and should you be of want you can yon bushes and assist me in relieving my bladder and bowels to water and fertilize the lands, but you will need to up and make haste,” Rezua remarked in a humorous tone that reverberated throughout the little clearing.

“Well, go then; I shall attempt to unpack my own little cart to match the great and fanciful abode that you have made,” Emanrasu retorted.

Chuckling, Rezua winked, “You’re getting better, we shall make you a wordsmith, yet. Someday, perhaps, but certainly not today!”

Emanrasu heard the crumpling of leaves and twigs, indicating that Rezua was indeed off to the bush. Emanrasu stretched and succeeded in slightly loosening the muscle in his back.

“My back hurts from the journey almost as much as my brain does from trying to think up words to satisfy the big man’s desire to mold me in his verbal image,” thought Emanrasu.

The memory of the many times Rezua had accosted him with verbal sparring ran through his mind. From a young age, the mountain of a man had spun words like… like… well, like a weaver on a weaver’s loom.

Emanrasu unpacked his bedroll, within which the sword had been wrapped securely, scabbard and all. He was anxious to learn more about this mysterious sword and the enigmatic shield his father had hidden away for so long.

“Had I been a heavy sleeper, I may never even know he had them,”

Seeing as his father only brought them out in the still of the night, there must be something interesting about them! Emanrasu took hold of the hilt and drew the sword from the scabbard; the excitement as he did was fresh and seemed to renew him with the thoughts of family and legacy. The pains and aches subsided as his focus on the ancient artifacts grew the joy of what they might bring, or for that matter, what they might mean.

As he held the sword and examined it, Emanrasu felt a sense of unease. His stomach twisted with foreboding, looking around intently as he stood. The surroundings, muffled in a blanket of silence, held no surprises but did not assuage his feelings.

“Rezua,” he hissed, trying to garner his friend’s attention. He waited, but no response came.

“Rezua!” He called, raising his voice but trying to keep it from carrying too far.

There was still no response. Concerned, Emanrasu started in the last direction he saw his friend go, “Rezua!” He yelled, now uncaring if he was heard.

Rezua’s flowery retort came floating back, “I would, in some far-off future, hope that one could walk into the Dance’s green woods for a modicum of privacy and have that modestly requested privacy respected.”

Emanrasu breathed out, letting his angst go in a long, drawn-out sigh. Shaking his head, he returned to his pack and bedroll.

Shrugging off his previous feelings of unease, he swung the sword to get the feel of it. It felt unwieldy and unbalanced in his hands.

“It seems to take its own direction,” he grinned, “and someday, someday I shall learn to use a sword like this, perhaps a better one, to…”

His furrowed brow, now relaxing, his lips crawled up from the depths of his previous frown, attempting to pull his smile from the pit of concern he had fallen in.

Continuing his thoughts, he muttered, “…a sword like this, to… save the weak, and um… punish the… um… strong?”

He reached down and spun the pack around to access the lashes on the shield. Loosening the shield from the pack to which it had been tied, he slipped his hand through the straps and felt the heft of it. Holding the shield, he swung the sword, attacking an imaginary foe before him.

His poor skill betrayed his imagination, and as he flourished the blade, it meandered wildly, seemingly with a mind of its own.

These antics nearly cost him an ear, though he was able to jerk his head to the side at the last moment. Luckily, his ear remained intact as the blade flew by so close the rush of the air caused his heart to race.

“This poor, tarnished, unappreciated weapon seems awkward and useless,” he thought. He continued swinging, albeit much slower now.

“Mostly useless… at least, useless in my inexperienced hands for sure,” Emanrasu mused to himself. He kept swinging and moving, much as he had seen the performers do at a festival he had attended mains ago.

He slowed, then paused. A cold, icy feeling crept up his back, much like the climb up the face of a treacherous cliff. It climbed steadily until, finally, sitting at the base of his neck, he shuddered as if a frigid wind had swept up his spine, though the motionless air was still warm.

Upon scanning the camp and seeing nothing, he shook off the feeling of unease and focused on the sword and shield.

“Your grandfather, Aeraun, was a towering, unbending, selfish man! He thought only of himself, his little band of men, and whatever random task they were on. He cared not about my rightful…” his father’s tale had trailed off. His subsequent refusals to explain made Emanrasu think there was more to his story.

As he grew older, Emanrasu could sense his father’s unfettered emotions rise to the surface on more than a few occasions, and this description might not hold the whole truth. Emanrasu painted a picture of his own towering and righteous grandfather, which he held onto as he grew.

Emanrasu felt excited, almost renewed, and energized as he held the sword and shield. Feeling as if he could take on the world, he imagined he could become the stoic, towering legend that his father had described his grandfather to be. “The Bleak, or Blek,” Father had called him.

“Hmmm… doesn’t seem like much of a name to strike terror into the hearts of one’s enemies.” He grinned at the absurd thought.

“It is not the words that you use, but the deeds behind them that make a name a legend,” Emanrasu muttered under his breath.

The pain and weariness of the journey had been all but forgotten as he mused and played with his father’s legacy. He slowly and methodically went through imagined motions and stances.

Guard, block, strike, guard, push.

The sword and shield felt wieldy, at least more than when he first picked them up. He continued swinging the sword and shifting the shield into various positions. As he worked with the shield and sword, they seemed less awkward in his hands.

He paused and studied the artifacts his father had left him. When he had retrieved them from the pile outside the bakery, they had looked dull and completely dull and tarnished with some encrustation that defied his meager attempts to remove it.

They seemed a bit brighter; perhaps his appreciation had changed his perspective, but he felt they held promise.

“I should find someone to clean them properly,” he mumbled.

The crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs announced the final return of Rezua as Emanrasu looked up.

A twig snapped behind him just as Emanrasu saw his large friend freeze, and his eyes opened wide.

Quickly swinging around, wildly extending his shield in the process, he confronted the axe as it sped toward him. In its wild trajectory, the shield landed in the path of the axe, causing it to careen off to the side, narrowly missing Emanrasu’s ear in the process.

As he spun, uncontrolled, his wildly swinging shield slammed edge first into the attacker’s wrist, which had followed behind the axe blow. The knife dropped to the ground and clattered across the rocks as the attacker’s hand drooped in response to the shield strike.

Without a moment to contemplate, the shield again landed in the path of the axe, changing its direction, but not enough to save the layer of skin it shaved from Emanrasu’s arm.

He turned quickly to run, but Emanrasu’s body, encumbered with the unfamiliar weight of the sword and shield, felt cumbersome. Twisting a bit too far, he lost his balance and landed on one knee as the backswing of the axe, once again, whistled past.

His body was still turning as he felt the air tug at the trailing bits of hair as the axe sped by. His knee hit the rocky ground, and the sword was flung wide as he spiraled out of control.

He barely kept from falling by slamming the shield’s edge into the earth to steady himself. Though the long arc of the sword continued unabated past the attacker. The long arc of the sword cut a wide swath and kept traveling as he twisted.

His glance flitted to the face of the axman, whose face melted as he watched, from an angry, snarling grin to a wide-eyed look of disbelief and horror.

Emanrasu realized as the man stopped abruptly and dropped his axe, trying desperately to staunch the flow of organs through the long gash in his midsection.

As the visage in front of him unfolded, Emanrasu was intensely aware of his surroundings, the fading of the sun’s rays as it dipped steadily below the horizon, marching quickly to the inviting dark of night. The forest swirled with musty tints, rich, heavy flavors of moss and peat, and a hooting owl’s deep, echoing tones in the distance.

The crunching of leaves behind him signaled the approach of another, but Emanraeu’s awkward position precluded his attempt to defend himself.

The heavy, almost crushing weight came down on his shoulder and immediately lightened as Rezua steadied him.

All of this he caught in a split-second as he watched the confidence on the man’s face melt into one of disbelief. The axe-wielding attacker looked down at the large furrow traversing his midsection. The man dropped to his knees, his hands struggling to preserve what life he had in defiance against his forgone fate. Emanrasu watched the man as all of his strength flowed out with his vitals, and finally, he slumped into a pile of what could have been.

The gruesome sight dispelled all notions of romanticized images of battle he had held before. “Not the glorious outcome one holds in imagination,” he thought, struggling to hold down his breakfast.

As he looked down at the now lifeless body, his sight blurred, his face flushed, and his head pounded rhythmically with the realization of how close he had come to be at the end of his journey instead of the start. He looked at Rezua and slumped to his knees as the gravity of the attack set in.

Emanrasu took a deep breath and settled himself. Scanning their little camp with renewed vigor and awareness that comes in the aftermath of all heart-pulsing events, he braced himself.

“Be wary,” he whispered softly to Rezua. His large friend produced a rock almost as large as Emanrasu’s head and stood at the ready.

Emanrasu and Rezua slowly crept to the edge of their little glade and followed it around, the darkening sky swallowing any hope they had to see; they paused every few steps and listened intently.

Though they heard nothing to indicate a companion, they found a pack off in the direction from whence the man had come. They brought this back to the rock to investigate further.

As they had made their round in silence, Emanrasu heard the chirps and skittering of small creatures slowly returning; he realized that the silence earlier might have been due to the attacker’s presence.

“We probably should make a fire,” Rezua whispered after they had finished walking the perimeter of the little encampment.

“Make it quick my large friend. A fire will at least keep away some of the beasts. And while you do that, I will drag the man far enough away that the smell of death will not draw unwanted guests.”

With a nod, Rezua went to his pack and rummaged through it.

Sheathing his sword, Emanrasu decided keeping the shield strapped on would be wise. He turned to the task of disposing of the attacker’s body, but as he began, he realized that the man was in no shape to easily be transported alone.

Stripping them off the man, he used the dead man’s gloves and laid out the man’s cloak. He dragged his body onto it, trying to minimize the spillage. He centered the man, then packed the blood-soaked leaves and grass onto him and tightly wrapped and tied the cloak around him. Emanrasu hoped this would hold him together until they could, at least, move him away from the camp.

He found a handful of hidden knives, daggers, and other nasty-looking items. As well as some various coins, unidentifiable in the failing light.

“Eman,” Rezua said, his voice more normal but still a bit soft. “I can’t find my shehchih. I have plenty of girochih, but…”

“Yes, I have some.”

Emanrasu rummaged quickly through his pack and produced two pouches, a mortar and pestle. Handing them to Rezua, the big man returned his partial kit to his pack and poured a small portion of shehchih plant from one pouch and then a matching portion of girochih from the other. As the two plants touched, their oils caused them to lightly sparkle.

Emanrasu helped gather the rest of the wood for the fire as Rezua stripped down bits of bark to use as tinder. Once the fire was laid, Rezua used the pestle to crush the plants together. The small blue flame that resulted burned bright, and the heat from it was only tempered by the unique design and makeup of the small mortars.

“Who, in all the land, would figure out you could make a little bowl that could contain the heat of the little blue flame, Eman. Tell me, who?”

Dumping the burning plants into the tinder, the fire spread quickly.

Within moments, the fire was lighting up the glen, pushing back the shadows all the way to the edge.

“I will need to have your help moving him. The gash is wanting to allow everything to inside to spill out.”

Rezua returned the shih and fire kit to Emanrasu, who then tossed it into his pack.

“Most likely a thief or bandit,” Emanrasu said as he looked down on the lifeless body.

“Yes, he was from south, out of the mountains. The bear tattoo on his neck and the wolf one on his hand are from a large band down that direction. At least that is what I was told by someone coming up from Elund.”

“I just hope he was alone.” Emanrasu said, pointing at the lashing across the man’s torso, “I bound him up a bit and I am hoping it is enough to get him far enough away. You grab his legs, and I will grab him under his arms. This should kind of fold him and help keep things together.”

A quick prayer to the Dragon, the Phoenix, and the Dance settled the two men somewhat.

Together, the pair carried the bandit out of the glade and far enough away that they felt safer from animals that would be interested. On the way out, the bindings on the cape failed, and the man spilled out. While Rezua stepped away to wretch, Emanrasu resecured the body, tying the bindings tighter than before.

 Rezua had to step away once more, claiming, “It’s the utterly repugnant mix of acrid odors and pungency filling the air with a ghostly presence that continues to twist my insides.”

They placed the body on the edge of a ravine, and as a parting gift, Emanrasu placed a boot on the body and shoved him over. Though they could not see it, they heard the body as it rolled and thumped into various things until it was silent.

Retracing their steps, the two men focused on the surroundings. Detecting nothing, they relaxed.

The only thing that broke the natural silence was Rezua’s constant mumbling to himself, “…a swift swing of the blade… slid down…”

He shook his head in the darkness and grinned. “I feel his going to have fun with this one.” Emanrasu thought.

Once back at their little camp, they took one more stroll around the perimeter of the glen.

Seeing nothing was out of sorts, they two returned to their bedrolls.

Emanrasu unstrapped the sword and laid it close by. He kneeled down and was glad he did. He unstrapped the shield and leaned it against the face of the rock, feeling the rush of exhaustion wash over him in the aftermath of the day’s events.

Emanrasu sat for some time, his mind as numb as his weary body, and thought of nothing except “the blind luck bestowed on him this night.”

Rezua moved his little “castle” to the same side he was on and now sat there, scribbling in his book, making notes. As the final usable light extinguished itself, the two reposed for the night, and Emanrasu reached out to reassure himself that the shield and the sword were well at hand as he finally drifted off.

The misty dream of cosmic powers flowed round and round in him as he slept, in a dance of unimaginable proportions, encompassing the beginning and the end of all, engulfing him in the eternity of life. As he woke, his hand still on the shield, he felt invigorated to live another day, especially after the excitement of the previous eve.