“More heat kiddo,” Carl shouted at Orsed while rhythmically hammering the piece of metal placed on the anvil. The Smithy was hot enough to make plenty of people without [heat resistance] faint. The constant sound of metal hitting metal could deaf even the thoughts. But for Orsed, however, the place was his home. A home, he planned to leave soon after getting his class.
He pushed harder the bellow. His arms weren’t as big as the one of a blacksmith, instead, he was thin, and the muscles on his forearms were tight like twisted ropes. It didn’t matter how much he ate; he never managed to gain much weight. How many adventurers don’t have big arms? Or broad back? By the abyss! Even that half-elf sorcerer that came last week was sort of muscular. Perhaps there’s a skill that makes you bigger?
“Kill the heat,” the smith said, taking Orsed out of his daydreaming and in a sudden movement dropped the piece of metal, that started to resemble a sword, in a jar of cold water.
“Want me to the handles?” Orsed replied, “I doubt that an extra session of drills will make a difference at this point”, the handles and pommel were usually his job, as the quality was meagerly different from those made by the expert blacksmith.
“That’s all right, lad. Go to your training now,” he took a piece of metal that would become the guard and added, “come home before the celebration though. I don’t have fine clothes to lend you, but at least you won’t look like a beggar.”
“Got it,” Orsed said while equipping the heavy suit that resided on a corner: gambeson, mail, and a pair of leather trousers. He had resigned himself not to use armored pants yet, as they made any legwork a slog.
“You should buy some, though, you can’t court a lady in those armors.”
“I’ll think about it,” Orsed said dismissively.
“You won’t buy a thing, you cheap bastard. If everybody were like you, we’d be living in poverty.” The smith said, a smirk on his face.
“Need to save for the entrance to the dungeon!” Orsed said while grabbing the spear that rested alongside the door.
“Kid, you already know this, but whatever class you get, you have a place in my smithy,” Carl said trying, without success, not to show emotion in his voice.
“I know, Carl, I appreciate it. See you at night!”
The city was buzzing with activity. Bakeries were working well into the afternoon, and lamp makers were selling their wares at almost twice the price as the month before, not an enchanted lamp was in one’s sight in this part of the town. Many inns were already roasting whole pigs; the smell of rendered fat and herbs seized every street and corner of the capital.
A barkeeper with a keg of cider on each shoulder almost ran over Orsed and continued without missing a beat. Each person walked with determination; Orsed could quickly pinpoint who were the visitors for their unhurried pace.
While only a few thousand would receive a class that day, everybody would participate in the celebrations in one way or another. The day of the red moon, after all, was the day The Goddess returned to Aeros to bless their children with classes and power to survive. Afterward, there were two days of leisure for almost everybody, except the newly classed people who were supposed to spend that time in quiet contemplation, pondering the responsibilities that came with the class. Most ones, however, would drink themselves almost to death as a ritual upon entering adulthood.
The Ritual Of Initiation or The Celebration Of The Red Moon was a rare chance to see The Oracle and perhaps some legendary heroes. The latest part made Orsed almost as excited as receiving his class. Some of them would even recruit the most promising ones, and while it was quite rare, Orsed had buried in his mind and not willing to admit even to himself a sliver of hope that he would be one of the chosen ones.
It took Orsed twice the usual amount of time to reach the drill yard. He had plowed through the vendors and buyers, before getting frustrated and taking the long route through the not so lovely streets. Streets he wouldn’t take without his armor and spear.
The guard’s drill yard was open to everybody, and guards were encouraged to spar with whoever showed up. It was a rather new edict that served to keep the army sharp and hopefully prepared to fight with enemies of unknown capabilities. It served as well to provide the general population basic combat training, enough to hold on their own in case of a goblin upsurge. Some initiatives had existed to force everybody to go sparing at least once a week, but it had proven impossible to enforce.
As he entered the yard, Orsed greeted the guards he was familiar with. If the Smithy was his home, then the yard was his garden. He’d been there, training, every day without exception since he arrived in the city. Replacing missed swords and fixing dents on the armors had granted him status between the guards that treated him as one of their own.
“Orsed my man, Can you talk to Carl and tell him I need seventeen standardized arrows for inspections. Tell him not to make them fancy, the last time the General suspected something” Suren, the gigantic quartermaster, said after intercepting him.
“For sure. Lost a bunch playing target at the tower?” Orsed replied.
“Something like that, just good old fashion’ unauthorized hunting. And my balls tell me those bastards will do a surprise inspection a couple of days into the celebrations, tryin’ to take us with our pants down, you know?”
“No problem, they’ll be ready for after tomorrow. Do you know where Dak is?”
“Probably trying to seduce some lady in that crowd over there. Good luck tonight! And if you get a lover class come and pay me a visit,” The quartermaster said with a thunderous laugh.
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On most days in the yard, there were some people sparing, as well as a few curious onlookers, leaving disappointed as the fights weren’t as exciting or fast-paced as the ones on the tournaments. That day, however, it was positively crowded from soldiers to merchants, almost at the city’s tone. Most of them, however, were concentrated on one of the corners. Curiousness won over Orsed and decided to see what the commotion was about.
He approached the crowd and recognized Dak, a close friend of Carl, and by extension of himself. The half-elf had his attention divided between the fight, his actual job as a rogue-guard, and the women in the crowd.
“Hey, Dak, did people multiply here or something?” Orsed said.
“Orsed, my brother. There’s a Noble fighting” Dak replied and he gave a broad smile to a woman that passed between them “guy’s a beast, but most importantly, he attracted quite a bit of ladies and not the fighting junkies that usually hang around here. Good women that don’t invoke demonic fire on your sensible areas when you gift your love to others.”
“I still can’t believe you cheated on Fenicia,” Orsed said with a deadpan voice.
“Once you get older, you’ll realize that you can’t fight your nature. Me, for example, my nature is being a gracious fighter and a voracious lover.” The half-elf said.
Orsed chose not to reply to his banter and asked, “Who’s the noble anyway?” Watching the fight, he didn’t feel particularly impressed by it. While fighting two guards at the same time was indeed commendable, he saw they were fresh recruits. They didn’t fight as one; they stumbled upon each other, and didn’t hit at the same time; instead, they seemed to take turns to strike. On the other hand, the noble used their unintelligence in his favor, attacking whenever they made a mistake.
“That’s Calin, from the Barrokia State,” Dak said.
An exquisite long Dao in his right hand that he doubted even Carl could make and a white glove in his left that he used to throw short bursts of electricity. The long ash hair harmonically combined with his every movement.
“He’s good, but even one of the tournament openers would defeat him,” Orsed said. He had seen some low-level warriors move much faster and hit harder than this guy. “What level is he?”
“Orsed, he didn’t get his class yet. I think he’s getting it tonight.”
“What? He’s classless?” A classless person shouldn’t even be in the same league as someone with a class, let alone fight against two at the same time. Orsed after training for years could, at best, fight to a standstill with a recruit. It didn’t matter how good you were or how hard you train the stats and skills made an overwhelming difference. “He can even use elemental magic without a class?!” it wasn’t unheard of but rare enough for most people to have never seen it. Looking in detail, Orsed noticed that the magic had a raw form, unlike the delicate and controlled patterns that classed mages wielded.
“Yep, pretty crazy, right?. There are rumors than even The Basilisk Slayer himself is interested in training him”
Orsed eyes lit up at the mention of the hero “He’s in town?!"
“Maybe. It’s not like he would be hanging out in the guard post. Anyway ready for some sparring?” the half-elf said, already walking away from the crowd.
“Sure you don’t want to spar with the noble? If you let him beat you, he may invite you to one of their fancy parties. You may even help a Duke take a piss or whatnot,” Orsed said with a mocking voice.
“I’m good. Also, he won’t be getting me a Rare sword from Carl. Unlike you,” the guard teased.
“Yeah, right, some green dragon scale armor as well?”
“Sure, combine it with the ones of a black one so that they form a pattern of me fighting an orc.”
“Got it” Getting in position Orsed started with a series of thrusts that the guard easily deflected while correcting him. The rogue slashed at his head and Orsed crunched to avoid it and quickly responded with a hard lung to the rogue's belly. His opponent just jumped back to avoid it.
“Commit to the thrust only as a finisher. Opponents will get you with your arse naked otherwise.”
“Yeah, but you are stronger. The longer the fight lasts, the least my chances are”
“Truth. But once you get your class, you’ll rarely have fights where you are so outmatched. If you can get only one lesson from me is never to fight unless you are sure you can win. Saving you are one of those battle junkies,” Dak said, throwing the sword in the air and catching it behind his back, fruitlessly trying to gain the attention of any lady around.
“Or dwarfs invade us..”
“Don’t joke with that. Every time Ol’george tells a story about those fuckers I can’t shit for a week.” He pondered for a while and added, “even with Fenicia’s stew.”
“Isn’t George the one that always tells how he fucked a minotaur?” Osred said, going low on the thrust and high again, hoping to catch him off guard.
“Yeah, but that’s something he tells for fun to the drunk patrons. When he talks about dwarfs, his face goes somber. Scary stuff,” Dak, deflected Orsed’s thrust and delivered a low kick on his supporting leg sending him to the floor. “Also, I don’t think he screwed a minotaur; the consensus is that it was the other way around. Not that anybody is going to say that in his presence,” helping Orsed stand up. If it was one thing he enjoyed from fighting Dak, it was how he upped the level whenever he improved. He didn’t just ruthlessly defeat him. He was always a tad faster and stronger than he was. Enough to push him but not enough to be a lesson in futilely.
They spared for a while, Orsed couldn’t always train with him as sometimes he would be out for weeks patrolling the surrounding lands. Orsed suspected that Dak wasn’t much higher than level forty or perhaps fifty, not much compared to the many monsters the army had, but he was one of the most technical fighters he knew and wasn’t hesitant to call every mistake he made.
“I start my patrol in a few moments. Extra shifts with the festival and whatnot. Practice a few drills pay particular attention to your leg positioning.”
“Thanks, Dak”
“It’s nothing. Good luck tonight.”
“Hey, you think I’ll get a fighter class?”
“Only the goddess knows, for what’s worth, I wasn’t half as good as you were previous to the initiation, and I still got it.”
“And if you get a fighter class, you better fetch me a rare sword… or at least a dagger.”
Orsed kept at himself doing drills, practicing each of the three basic movements in the Spear Manual, the first two variants of the thrust and a faint that finished in a low sweep. Each exercise eventually would become a skill itself that made the foundation stone of the [spearman] class. Or at least that was what Orsed was told.
The spear had fallen in favor the last few years among warriors; hybrids had become the norm mostly due to the tournaments where combatants that fought with both magic and weapons won quite often against pure fighters. However, for Orsed, the spear was his favorite weapon and the one he felt most comfortable with, swords too technical and maces too brute moreover his intention wasn’t to fight against humans but to hunt monsters. If the spear is good enough for Salaman “The Vanquisher” it’s good enough for me.
He practiced like he was taught, not mindlessly doing each movement but following it with intention. Trying to defeat an imaginary opponent in front of him. As often happened, he lost track of time, focusing on the movement of each thrust, slash, and block of the spear. Two hundred repetitions were the least he did each day, before finishing it with laps and bodyweight training with his full armor. The guards, familiar with his routine, yelled both words of encouragement and friendly teasing.
Orsed was vaguely aware that the crowd around the noble had decreased quite a bit, many of the folk going to his homes and families to prepare for the ceremony. His focus was interrupted by a shout.
“Hey spearman, what about a spar?” Calin, the ash haired noble, said with a shit-eating grin.