Emanresu, having rested, stirred with the light of the dawn. His tiny giant, Resua, was already up and had built a radiant fire to help warm them from the night’s chill.

Emanresu reached into his pack and produced a small package, scrutinizing it. “Enough rations for about three or four days of travel,” he calculated to himself. 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, Resua?” Emanresu asked as he dug through his belongings. “Got it,” Emanresu 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 Emanresu picked up and inspected.

The small pendant’s delicate intricacies were belied by the stout craftsmanship. The heft was heavy, the dense oak polished and smooth. The colored stones of blue and green, catching the light in a way as to almost glow from within, were held in place by intricate engravings at each corner and filled with gold, which extended out over the stones, keeping them set in place. The etchings and metalwork at each corner were reminiscent of the Dance. Each corner was a symbolic representation of the sun, the phoenix, the tree, and the dragon, each in their respective corners; each of the symbols embraced the meticulously cut and inlaid stones. The piece was a marvel to behold. As Emanresu turned it over, there was a small but simple engraving of a sword and shield in the center of the piece. The words “zoobava bana zoofova pensam” were inscribed encircling the shield and sword.

“I wonder what that means, though it is a marvel of workmanship,” Emanresu thought.

“I wonder what the inscription means. Have you seen this before?” Emanresu asked Resua.

“zoobava bana zoofova pensam, something about writing in the past and knowing in the future, I think,” mused Resua, looking over Emanresu’s shoulder. “That looks like a better version of the talisman Aiesa had back home.”

“Aiesa?” Emanresu questioned. “Who?”

“You know, the village elder, Aiesa. He had one like this, but… do you mind if I look at it?” Resua asked, reaching out his hand.

Emanresu gave the little pendant to Resua, 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!”

Resua grinned as he held it back out to Emanresu. “Keep it,” Emanresu told him, “At least until we can determine its worth. I imagine it would fetch at least a couple of gold coins to put in our pouches. But then again, I am certainly no expert either!” he grinned.

They both chuckled at their evaluation as non-experts and vowed to have someone in Erzt evaluate it if someone of sufficient skill and knowledge was available.

Emanresu repacked the pouch as Resua hung the pendant around his thick, muscular neck. Resua struggled for a bit, then finally, with the addition of a new neckstring, hung it from his neck. With a final touch, he reached up his meaty hand, engulfing the pendant, and tucked it into his tunic.

Emanresu and Resua sat and placed the bandit’s pack between them.

The light of dawn broke over the camp as Emanresu and Resua sat with the brigand’s pack between them. The contents, a storied history of the man’s life, at least the things he felt compelled to carry with him, abounded within the creases and crevices of the worn pack. Pockets within pockets hint at a mind devious and untrusting. “To have a pack this complex made for storing items would suggest that there are hidden treasures within as well,” Emanresu thought to himself as they started to sift through the pockets.

“Look for hidden compartments, Resua; I have a feeling this man had more to hide than he was willing to place in obvious spots,” Emanresu directed Resua.

Resua nodded in agreement, his fingers playing on the pendant. “If I was writing the story for him, I would check for a false bottom,” Resua divulged. “Pockets are pockets, but the unsuspecting would not be looking for anything other than the myriad of pockets.” Emanresu stopped and looked at his childhood friend with new respect.

“Your storytelling and descriptive mind have finally found a use in the practical world!” Emanresu exclaimed in somewhat of a puzzled tone. “I would have never guessed that Resua would be able to devise such a devious thought,” he mulled over in his mind. “I guess even between us, surprise is still a possibility.”

Emanresu started digging through the pack, each pocket a trove of storied treasures, as Resua would say, “the veritable life’s work in a single complex compartmented bag.” Emanresu 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, which would last us a full three days, maybe four if we stretched it,” finally looking up at Resua, who stopped in mid-chew and quickly hid his hand behind his back. Resua winked at his pretend deception, grinned, then went back to munching on the newly found rations.

“I guess that makes it three days then,” grinned Emanresu.

Digging into the pack, a length of rope and a collapsible grappling hook. Emanresu splayed the hook open and latched it, felt the heft and practicality of it, then unlatched it and folded it back up, setting the rope and the hook aside. A worn leather-bound case with little strips of steel and wire. “Probably lockpicks,” Resua offered as he happily chewed away.

Emanresu 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 Resua, 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 auburn, and one 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,” Emanresu grinned.

Resua took one of the wigs and fitted it upon his head. He stood and curtsied in an imaginary dress. “Emanresu forced the grin from his face, “Please, never do that again!” he pleaded. They both laughed as Resua tossed the wig back to Emanresu. “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.” Resua looked on in shock, “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!” Exclaimed Resua.

Continuing, he pulled out some parchment, several quills, and a metal bottle with a black substance, presumably ink. There was a flint and steel and several candles. This concluded the emptying of the contents.

Emanresu took the bag and shook it a bit. “Can you hear that, Resua?” he asked. And as he shook it again, the distinct clink of coin on coin was heard. The two friends started meticulously going back over the pack 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,” Emanresu said, handing it to Resua.

Resua 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.”

Resua stuffed the book in his own pack to puzzle over later.

Emanresu refilled the pack with most of the items, retaining the coins for himself and handing the jewelry to Resua. “While you are out checking for libraries or schools of learning, see if you can get these appraised and maybe even sold,” Emanresu said to Resua. “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.”

Emanresu counted the coins: ten silver and five gold coins. “We shall be able to travel with a little comfort with this,” Emanresu thought to himself. He separated out five copper and two silver 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.

Resua, having already packed, was scribbling in his own book. Occasionally, he looked up and scanned the camp, then returned to writing as Emanresu 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,” Emanresu said to himself out loud. “I am going to keep the sword and shield out; I think we would be safer if they were not tied down or buried inside my bedroll,” Emanresu told him. “Mmmm… hmmm…” came the absent-minded response.

“What was that?” asked Resua, not really paying attention.

Now finished filling his pack, Emanresu 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, Emanresu 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, sliding easily the rest of the way into it.

Emanresu 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 seemed to flop around a bit much, so he adjusted the tether straps from the back of his belt to a loose attachment to his leg. Turning this way and that, the scabbard felt more secure and moved with him as he twisted.

Satisfied with the way the scabbard was hanging, he tried drawing the blade a couple of times. The scabbard shifted as he tried to pull, and finally, he decided that in order to remove it efficiently, he would have to grab the scabbard and steady it as he drew the sword. He tried it a couple of times, feeling rather pleased with himself, then realized he would have to unsheathe the sword with a shield on his arm.

Sliding the shield onto his arm and tightening the straps, he practiced sheathing and unsheathing. He even tried a quick draw, stumbling and falling for his efforts. “Ha ha, I suppose we will not be drawing very fast then,” he thought to himself as he stood and dusted himself off. The sword and the shield strapped and sheathed gave him a bit of confidence, and he felt energized by it.

“Hey, tiny!” Emanresu called to Resua. “Get up and get your pack on; we are ready to travel. Oh, and you get to carry the brigand’s pack as well.” Emanresu smiled at having slipped that last part in, though he was surprised when there was no resistance. He shrugged in acceptance and proceeded to finish getting ready.

Emanresu set the shield down and deftly slung his burden to his back, quickly tightening and adjusting the pack within heartbeats. He smiled, thinking to himself, “Now, that is how quickly I need to be able to don the shield and sword, smooth, measured movements, and understand where each strap goes and how it gets there.”

While he practiced drawing and sheathing, he noticed that the battle had nicked the sword in a couple of places, and the shield, too, had bits of blue and green now struggling to peek out from within the many manes worth of dust and neglect. He mused to himself over the many hours that his father had spent attempting to clean off the encrustation and abuse. Many were the late nights Emanresu would awake to see his father almost secretly toiling on cleaning them. Perhaps obsessively, but each morning, his father would never mention this, and when asked, he pretended it was only an attempt to keep them from getting any worse. Never had any colors shown through that he could recall, so seeing the blue and green brought a bit of 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, and he chuckled lightly to himself as he thought, “Maybe it gave him a little pep and energy as well.”

Again, the duo set foot to path and continued the journey, Emanresu 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 enlightenment in the Dance, though Emanresu always thought it was 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 now. Most of it was hazy and defied recall, but it always seemed to instill calm and a bit of comfort each time he let his thoughts go back to it.

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 Resua, as he was constantly falling behind and complaining of being tired, pleading with Emanresu to slow down. Emanresu heeded the request and slowed down, but they were still making much better time than he had anticipated.

“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,” Resua complained. “How about we take a breather and sit for our lunch and relax a bit?” Resua’s eyes pleading harder than his lips, melting Emanresu’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. Emanresu portioned out two helpings from the food provided by the brigand, and before he could claim his own, Resua’s hand had swooped in and snatched up both portions.

“Hungry?” Emanresu asked the big man. “Practically starving from the pace you have put us at today,” came the reply as it snuck around the mouthful of food Resua had packed in.

They relaxed for a while, resting and recharging.

“Hey, listen to this,” Resua said with a twinge of pride and excitement in his voice. “The faithful scribe entered the clearing, scanning it deliberately. His eyes fell upon Emanresu, 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, Emanresu was up and at the ready, shield in defense, sword at the ready.

Emanresu deftly dodged the skilled axeman, intent on relieving our hero of his life and limb. Emanresu 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 Emanresu in two. However, Emanresu 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 called when he beckoned, and as the three became five, Emanresu 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.

Without a second thought, Emanresu 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, Emanresu 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 Resua.

Emanresu stood and stared at Resua for a few moments, trying to get a handle on what the big man had just done. “That is not the way it happened. You saw what happened, and had I not had luck on my side that night, we might both be lying on the blood-soaked ground, slowly getting devoured by the creatures of the forest,” Emanresu corrected.

“It’s called poetic privilege, Eman, 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,” Resua insisted.

“Look, Res, if you’re going to include me, try to make it more real or at least ground it in reality. Insisting I have a supernatural or mystical connection in some way will be the death of us as crazy people come to try and test us just to know or see. I would much rather be the simple lucky traveler with a whole lot of luck and determination,” Emanresu said, setting the expectations appropriately.

They had passed the occasional traveler, and everyone seemed to give them a wider berth now. Maybe it was the sword and shield, though there was little reason for it, as anyone could see that they had fallen into disuse, even from a distance.

As the sun dropped below the treetops, they started to see more and more traffic, now and again a cart or two, and these were becoming more and more common. It seemed they were getting close to Erzt, which was the next city in line on their travels, though they should not be reaching it until mid-day on the morrow.

“Perhaps his distances were wrong, or he was informed incorrectly,” Emanresu thought, but as he clarified with a passerby, it was indeed Erzt.

As they approached the bustling town, they saw many a guard patrol step back and chuckle at the sight of him to their partners. Though it made Emanresu a bit uncomfortable, he did not change the way he presented himself, as protection was paramount in these strange environs.

“Just ignore them, Res,” Emanresu said to Resua.

“Ignore who?” came Resua’s query. “The guards…” Emanresu started to explain but let it trail off as Resua was again standing motionless in the middle of the street, his pen flying like a hawk on the hunt. Emanresu reached out and grabbed a handful of the man’s tunic and gently coaxed him into a steady shuffle. Resua’s scribbles never stopped even as they progressed down the street, though it was painfully slow.

As he walked, Emanresu queried various people here and there as to an inn or a stable in which they could leave their gear in safety while they toured the little town, seeing the sights. Almost to a man, they indicated the Bucket and Nail was the most reliable, though one said the Whorestep was a much better place to spend a hand or two.

They finally reached the Bucket and Nail, a quaint little inn and tavern, well-kept from what Emanresu could tell and without the usual rank beer and vomit smells he would expect. They entered, and Emanresu approached the bar, behind which appeared to be the barkeep or maybe innkeeper. He queried as to a room and two beds and, perchance, a hot bath. The keep indicated they were very willing to provide upon spying the gold coin he plopped down.

Thus, marveling at his choices and the good time they had made, 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,” Emanresu commented.

Resua mumbled something unintelligible and caught himself; understanding came across his face as the entire conversation started to sink in. “Yeah,” 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 Emanresu approached with Resua trailing behind furiously jotting, she glanced at Emanresu, 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.

Resua commandeered the desk at the outset, and Emanresu did not contest since it was much more Resua’s domain in any case. The chair for the desk, however, was woefully inadequate for the massive frame of Resua, so he queried the maid for something more substantial to sit on. Emanresu 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 Resua 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, Emanresu 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.

Emanresu slung his pack onto the chest; the brigand’s pack, having been retrieved from Resua, 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 appeared to linger a bit longer as if she were sizing him up. Upon this thought crossing his mind, he sat and thought about the picture he and Resua presented roaming the roads and streets together.

Emanresu 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, along with 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, Resua was tall enough even that he must duck to get through most doorways. He had a large muscular frame and the strength to literally knock a man across the street.

Emanresu 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, Resua shifted from the bed where he had been sitting to the desk. Snatching up the lantern that had been sitting there, he lit it and adjusted the lighting, which allowed him to continue writing. Ignoring the outside world, Resua delved deeply back into furiously chronicling.

Emanresu 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, Eman called to her, “Wench. Come hither.”

Resua 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 Emanresu 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.

Resua, 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 Emanresu 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 Emanresu 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,” Emanresu mused. She immediately pulled the door close behind her, but the soft footsteps did not continue down the hall.

Resua held a finger up to his lips, looking over at Emanresu, and stood. Resua took two steps toward the door, and the flurry of footsteps outside padded quickly down the hall, fading as the girl fled. Resua laughed a deep guttural laugh, thundering through the room. “You practically frightened the girl to death,” he said to Emanresu. “I am so proud of you!” he exclaimed, wiping the pretend tear from one eye and then the other.

Emanresu stood and quickly stepped to the bed. Grabbing the pillow, he slung it in Resua’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 Resua as he returned to his writing was soft and soothing.

Sleeping the sleep of the dead, he had naught for dreams.

As they trudged along, weary from days of travel, Emanresu and Resua each adjusted their burdens. Emanresu shifted the bulky leaden pack from one shoulder to the other, then watched as Resua readjusted his higher on his back, redistributing the weight a bit. The heft of his grandfather’s legacy weighed heavily on Emanresu as they continued on the impromptu journey to his ancestral homeland, Rinewood Gulf, a small village near where Emanresu had been told his family was originated.

As they walked, Emanresu reminisced about his long and storied history with Resua. They had been inseparable friends since they were small children, “Well, when I, myself, was a small child,” Emanresu grinned at the thought of anyone calling Resua 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,” Emanresu mused to himself. He dared not say it out loud, as Resua was a sensitive sort, belying his towering stature and stout girth.

Though Resua literally stood head and shoulders above Emanresu and Emanresu was half a head taller than most, the large man was timid and preferred not to get into altercations. Back in Rintha, the village they grew up in, when they were children of no more than 10 or 11 mains, Emanresu had seen Resua hit a man in the chest. The man flew across the dusty, wind-blown street and lay on the other side in the weed-filled ditch. Distraught with his impulsive deed, Emanresu watched as Resua, furious at the man, his anger tempered by the realization of what he had done. 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 Resua.

They entered the dense growth of Rosewood Forest and were steadily advancing into the deepening shadows, following the dirt road on the way to Erzt and then on to the Gulf. The sunlight was streaming purposefully through the foliage, attempting to illuminate the ground in patches of random luminance.

As they continued deeper into the forest, Emanresu could hear the scratching of Resua’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 hurriedly scurried away.

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

“Listen to this,” Resua 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 glowing patchwork of sunlight fell to the ground and lay there illuminating…” Wait, he 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,” Emanresu 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.”

As the two continued, Emanresu noticed Resua veering closer to the middle of the road. He reached out and grabbed the flowing side of Resua’s tunic and pulled on him lightly, steering him back to the side of the road. “The ruts could easily catch a boot and twist an ankle,” Emanresu told him. “Best to stick to the side of the road.”

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

Resua stopped walking and jotted down a couple more thoughts before his feet moved his large bulk again. Looking over at Emanresu, Resua 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.

Emanresu smiled at Resua. “I cannot recall when you were not speaking in long, grandiose terms or staring at this or that, coming up with some decidedly descriptive story. Even as a child, when we played fox and hound. I had to be the fox, for 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.”

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

“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,” Resua 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,” Resua 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 Resua.

“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.”

Emanresu 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 with each passing main, I fear more and more I will grow old without adventure or excitement like my father,” Emanresu thought as he kicked at the leaves and dust on the edge of the road. “One thing is certain: I don’t want to be a baker; they lead such dull and unimportant lives. I am eager for more, something, anything more… even a traveling delivery man would be better than the monotonous life my father led.”

His father had always told stories of the shield and sword which Emanresu now carried. They were passed down from generation to generation, father to son. The stories were also handed down, told repeatedly, each generation adding more life and history to the storied pair. Until his father passed on, and all of the possessions that had belonged to him were tossed out into the street. The entirety of one man’s life and history, tossed outside of the mud and brick hovel his father had rented. Until then, he had never seen these storied items up close.

Emanresu’s thoughts drifted as they walked, and he recalled seeing them for the first time up close as he gathered the tattered remains of his father’s life from the muck and mire. He came across the time-encrusted shield and sword, and both appeared to be in deplorable condition, which, he imagined, was due to his father’s disregard for his past and ancestry. His father shunned his ancestry for the sweet smell and warm comfort of baked goods. His father was a fair baker, not great, mind you, but he had delved into the anxiety-less baking profession mostly to spite his father and the carnage of his lineage. Thus, as his father passed, the belongings became Emanresu’s burden.

Resua immediately gave them legendary status, coming up with dozens of reasons for their poor state and half a dozen reasons that my father had acquired them. All the stories were fantastical and bigger than life, of which my father was neither.

His introspection was broken by Resua, stomping his feet heavily as he played at being the giant. He had done so for mains and had gotten quite good at mimicking the aggressive behavior attributed to most huge men. “So, son, if you have never met them, why would you want to make the long, tedious trek across Alaeon to the Gulf? Just to introduce yourself?” Resua bellowed the question in the rumbling voice he reserved for his 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.”

Emanresu did not answer; he just stopped and looked at Resua until they both cracked a smile and returned to the road.

“Curiosity, I guess,” Emanresu 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 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, Emanresu 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 Resua.

Resua 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.

“And if I had melons for fists, we would judge the time with either of ours; however, one of us is a little bigger than most, and your time skills have never aligned with the general village. 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.

They began searching for an appropriate resting place. Emanresu’s feet throbbed, and the fire in his legs was a testament to their long journey. This thought made Emanresu realize how lengthy this journey would be. Though his shoulders drooped and his back knotted in the pain of unaccustomed work, they sought a likely spot a fair distance away from the road. Resua seemed unaffected by the travels, seeming as spry as ever. “Well,” Emanresu thought, “as spry as a man his size could be.” He smiled to himself.

Resua spied a small clearing and pointed it out; it was flat and open, with a large rock outcropping off to one side. The top of the rock was barely a head shorter than he was but twice his height from one side to the other. The wildlife was sparse, and they had seen naught a living soul as they journeyed. Searching, they found a suitable spot near the rock and began making camp for the night.

Wearily, Emanresu let the pack slide from his back to the ground with an audible thump. The searing pain in his back as he did so forced a grunt from him as he stifled the need to cry out. Slowly, he knelt down, enduring the fiery pain in his legs. He surveyed the area and noticed that Resua was not within view. “Ho!” Emanresu 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,” Resua let the words flow from his mouth. “He should take up a musical instrument,” Emanresu thought, grinning, “a way with words as good as any bard or minstrel I have ever seen. Though he is practically the only one I have ever seen.”

“Sire, we shall need a fire hot and ready. In all your knighthood, do you think you can deem it not beneath you to start one?” came the backhanded query. “If you don’t, then thrice I shall slap you on the belly while you rest!”

“You, sire, are in resplendently little shape to be making such threats, and if you would like to follow me to yon bushes and assist me in relieving my bladder and bowels to water and fertilize the lands, then up and make haste,” Resua 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,” Emanresu retorted.

Resua’s somber tone came quickly, “You’re getting better, Eman! We shall make a magnificent wordsmith of you, yet. And soon, you will be veritably pounding out remarkably solid and usable sentences. But… alas… that day is not today!” he jokingly responded.

The sound of crumpling leaves and rocks tinkling across the stones came to Emanresu as Resua was indeed off to the bush.

“My brain hurts from trying to think up words to satisfy the big man’s desire to mold me in his verbal image,” thought Emanresu. The memory of the many times Resua 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.

Emanresu unpacked his bedroll, within which the sword had been wrapped securely, scabbard and all. Emanresu was anxious to know more about this mysterious sword and the shield his father had hidden away. Seeing as he only brought it out in the still of the night, there must be something interesting about it! Emanresu 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 the joy of what might be filled his thoughts.

As he held the sword, Emanresu had a flash of distinctly uneasiness, as if an impending doom was upon them. He looked around intently as he stood holding the sword, but nothing seemed out of sorts, and the air was still and quiet. He swung the sword a couple of times to get the feel of it. “It always seems to take its own direction, and someday I shall learn to use one, saving the weak and righteous,” Emanresu grinned to himself.

He reached down and untied the shield from the pack where it had been attached. He slipped his hand through the straps and felt the heft of it. Holding the shield, he swung the sword, attacking the imaginary foe before him. His skills belied his imagination, and as he flourished the blade, he fought for a control he did not yet possess. He swung the sword wildly about, and it got away from him, seemingly with a mind of its own. He nearly lost an ear to his antics as he jerked his head to the side. 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 weapon seems awkward and useless in my inexperienced hands,” Emanresu mused.

A cold and icy feeling crept up his spine, slowly like the climb to the top of a treacherous mountain. It climbed steadily until, finally, the chill sat at the base of his neck. He shuddered briefly as if a chill wind had swept up his spine, though the still air was warm.

Emanresu felt renewed and energized, almost excited, holding the sword and shield, ready to take on the world. He felt as if he could be the magnificent, towering legend his father had always described his grandfather to be. “The Bleak,” 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 deads behind them that make a name a legend,” Emanresu said softly in almost a whisper.

As he stood, the excitement streaming through his veins, he felt the weariness and pain melt into the background of nature surrounding him. He hefted the shield, placed it in what he imagined was a defensive position, and took a couple more swipes with the sword. Effortless and fluid, he felt as if his entire body was renewed.

He stopped and looked at the sorry mess these implements of war were in, though as he stood there examining them, in his renewed and invigorated condition, they seemed a bit brighter, a bit cleaner than when he had packed them up to make the trip.

He heard Resua crunching through the twigs and rocks as he returned from the bush, but there was something else. His ears strained to detect what he imagined he heard, and as Resua came into view, Emanresu saw the surprise on Resua’s face; simultaneously, there was a distinct snap of a small twig behind him. He quickly swung around, his arm extended, just in time to divert the man’s axe from its course. The axe barely missed his skull as it traveled narrowly past.

The direness of his situation instantly became apparent as he turned another swipe of the axe’s blade. The axe shaved a layer of skin from his arm, causing blood to seep to the surface of the wound. The knife blade in the man’s other had insisted he ignore the wound and focus on more pressing matters as it followed the axe, hiding until the last possible moment. His luck held, and he slammed the shield’s edge into the man’s forearm; the blade flew from the man’s hand and clattered across the rocks.

Emanresu turned quickly to run, but his body, encumbered with the sword and shield, felt cumbersome, and he twisted a bit too far. He dropped to a knee as the backswing of the axe, once again, whistled past. He could feel the air tug at the bits of hair as it traveled, but that was insignificant because he had twisted too far and was still turning as his knee hit the rocky ground. His hand, still holding tightly to the sword, was flung wide as he spiraled out of control.   He only kept from falling by steadying himself with the shield; he had slammed the edge of it into the earth, but the long arc of the sword cutting a wide swath kept traveling as he twisted.

To his chagrin, the sword’s arc had continued past the attacker, “well, no,” came his realization as his chagrin turned to an odd mixture of horror and relief, “not past… through…”

As the visage in front of him unfolded, Emanresu 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. He detected nature’s heavy, musty aroma, the reeking of mosses and peats, and a hooting owl’s deep, echoing tones in the distance. There was a crunch of leaves and twigs under Resua’s feet, and the rocks skittered away from the large man as he quickly neared.

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. Emanresu 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.

Emanresu, acutely aware now and with renewed vigor, scanned their meager little camp, fully expecting others to be lying in wait. None but Resua were forthcoming, and as he started to relax just a tad, he realized what had just happened. From the wolf on the man’s hand and the bear on his neck, he knew this man was a robber of sorts and part of a band known to be vicious and unrepentant in their desire to acquire that which was not theirs.

Resua slowly approached, his jaw slightly ajar, and Emanresu was looking down at the tools of the bandit’s demise; he finally laid down the sword and shield, the energy he had felt in the heat of the moment drained, suddenly he was shaking and almost devoid of strength. However, Emanresu knew that if he left this man where he was, he would invite creatures to come and investigate this free meal.

“Resua, I…” he began unsteadily, “there may be more, but we must at the least remove this man from our camp so as not to attract all manner of beasts looking for a free meal.”

Resua looked at his friend, his jaw agape, this time not in unexpected concern but excitement and awe. “Don’t get me wrong, Eman, I am not a supporter of violence, but you still live and… well, that was intensely amazing to watch, and since he attacked you, you only defended yourself,” Resua seemed to be talking more to convince himself than to reassure Emanresu.

They both took in deep breaths and let the excitement drain from them.

Emanresu grabbed a length of cloth and, with Resua’s help, trussed the man together to carry the body to another location away from the camp.

Resua stepped away briefly twice, his body shaking with the attempt to expel anything left in his stomach, of which there was almost none. Twice, he heaved, and once his constitution settled down, he returned and did as Emanresu bade him.

Resua grabbed the man’s upper body under the arms, and with Emanresu at the man’s feet, they lifted and carried him several hundred strides away. A quick prayer to the Dragon and the Phoenix, at which point Emanresu noticed the small leather pouch on the man’s belt and the knife in his boot. He took both, used his foot to push the man to the edge, and, with a shove of his boot, let him fall into the ragged ravine. The two companions, numb with the day’s activities, returned to the welcoming camp. Weary from the excitement and day’s travels, yet unable to relax, they paid close attention to the sounds of the wildlife, and, hearing only the expected activity unbroken by any pauses or silence, they relaxed only a little.

As they strode back to camp, they kept an eye out for any companions of the self-assured bandit. “A self-assurance that was his undoing,” thought Emanresu.

Wrapped up in the search for others and his own thoughts, Emanresu never noticed that Resua was quiet, mumbling to himself, “…a swift swing of the blade… slid down…”

Emanresu surveyed the camp’s perimeter slowly, expecting to hear more men. His imagination placed bandits behind every tree and rock as they crept upon him and his friend, but he was relieved not to.

Returning to his bedroll, Emanresu 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.” Resua had moved his little “castle” to the same side Emanresu was on and now sat there, scribbling in his book, making notes of this and that. As the final usable light extinguished itself, the two reposed for the night, and Emanresu 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.