A Momento of Other Times (Open)
Posted: April 1st, 2022, 6:46 am
Ravak t'Sha'hal Darrow
A melodic sound of stone on steel echoed softly of the walls at the back of the Armory. A hand weathered from freezing winters and broiling summers moved rhythmically, running the whetstone along the sword's edge. Below the guard, the sword's leather grip was cracked and dried, well beyond any attempts for maintenance. The weapon was antique, at least by the day's standards, although it wasn't an antique. Just a keepsake; a memento of other times.
Running his index finger along the flat of the blade, Ravak could feel his way through a dozen or more battles from the near invisible notches and scratches along its length. Next to the hilt there were no imperfections, no heron shaped mark. This weapon was a fair weapon, made for a soldier by hammer and tongs. Not that he begrudged having two Power-wrought weapons in his hands whenever a Trolloc or a Fade appeared. The rest of the time, however, he missed the simplicity and normality of a real weapon.
"Old sod," he muttered softly, although even that sound mimicked small pebbles grinding together. Not that he looked old. Wild, perhaps. Even feral on occasion. His hair was longer and shaggier than usual, and his beard was thick enough to obscure any underlying skin, but neither showed any flecks of grey. He could pass elsewhere as someone of thirty-odd years, if he wanted to.
Today though, anyone looking into the Shienaran's eyes would have seen a figure much older staring back. He was in the past, judging himself for the actions taken in haste as well as those never taken. The recollection was seldom boring, although it was also seldom welcoming. The important individuals that marked his progression through life all fit a similar mold. Charming and intoxicating at first; broken and damaged -- if not dead -- at the end. Their names seemed like a litany of unfulfilled promises, although he couldn't always say -- even looking back however many years later -- who it was that had failed to live up to the expectations.
A breeze of cool air followed the sound of the Armory's doors opening. Whether it was another soul looking for a touch of solitude, or just a Drin looking for a training weapon, the reverie was over. After placing the whetstone in a pocket, he carefully returned his old swordbreaker back into its sheath, before looping it onto his belt.
Running his index finger along the flat of the blade, Ravak could feel his way through a dozen or more battles from the near invisible notches and scratches along its length. Next to the hilt there were no imperfections, no heron shaped mark. This weapon was a fair weapon, made for a soldier by hammer and tongs. Not that he begrudged having two Power-wrought weapons in his hands whenever a Trolloc or a Fade appeared. The rest of the time, however, he missed the simplicity and normality of a real weapon.
"Old sod," he muttered softly, although even that sound mimicked small pebbles grinding together. Not that he looked old. Wild, perhaps. Even feral on occasion. His hair was longer and shaggier than usual, and his beard was thick enough to obscure any underlying skin, but neither showed any flecks of grey. He could pass elsewhere as someone of thirty-odd years, if he wanted to.
Today though, anyone looking into the Shienaran's eyes would have seen a figure much older staring back. He was in the past, judging himself for the actions taken in haste as well as those never taken. The recollection was seldom boring, although it was also seldom welcoming. The important individuals that marked his progression through life all fit a similar mold. Charming and intoxicating at first; broken and damaged -- if not dead -- at the end. Their names seemed like a litany of unfulfilled promises, although he couldn't always say -- even looking back however many years later -- who it was that had failed to live up to the expectations.
A breeze of cool air followed the sound of the Armory's doors opening. Whether it was another soul looking for a touch of solitude, or just a Drin looking for a training weapon, the reverie was over. After placing the whetstone in a pocket, he carefully returned his old swordbreaker back into its sheath, before looping it onto his belt.