Chapter 1- The Ronin

As long as anyone can remember, the Eilswhire river had wound its way through the forest, and across the countryside, leaving a gully long after the river had dried up. And as long as the river had flowed, and long after it became a dried riverbed, there had been a sleepy little village along an old crook. In fact, the only evidence of the Eilswhire river having one run next to the village is the small footbridge over the gully on the western edge of the town, and the village taking the name “Eilswhire”. 

Of course, none of that mattered to the Vagabond who wandered his way into town. Very few had any reason to travel to Eilswhire, the sleepy little farming community with nary a commodity to trade to the road. It was far from any highways either, and halfway to nowhere in any direction. A traveler coming to Eilswhire was its own mystery, but this wanderer was even more mysterious than simply his circumstances. 

He wasn’t dressed like any culture anyone in Eilswhire had personally encountered. He wore a wide straw hat, almost like a wide, upturned bowl. He didn’t wear a tunic as the farmers did, instead he wore a large, loose poncho, with only his left arm extruding from it. And that hand, wrapped up in black cloth, was very visible, as it rested on the strange blade sheathed on his left hip. It wasn’t like the arming swords one would see across the countryside. It had a light curve, bending back towards the wielder, with only a single side made for cutting. The thing, buried under the wrapped scabbard, was thin, and perfectly edged. 

And so, this stranger in even stranger garb, wandered his way into the town, somehow managing to find the unmarked tavern. He finally took his hand off the handle of his blade, pushing the door open. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust before stepping inside, his soft-soled boots barely making a sound on the ruddy wooden floor. In fact, had it not been for the clattering of the door opening, the barkeep wouldn’t have noticed the Vagabond entering at all. 

The taproom was small, only a handful of tables with a small bar at the far end. Light spilled in from the windows, lighting the room quite well, though a collection of candles still flickered around the taproom, lighting the darkest corners. 

He took a seat at the short bar, placing his left arm on top of the counter. He didn’t make eye contact with the barkeep. The keeper could barely do the same behind the Vagabond’s bunch of unkempt hair, trailing down to his shoulders from beneath the straw hat. 

“I’ll take a mead, whatever you have on tap.” His voice was small, almost a whisper. There was gravel to it, underneath the quiet, like a trio of stones scrapping against each other. 

“We don’t have strangers here too often in town. You got a name?” The barkeep asked, ignoring the Vagabond’s request. 

“I’ll take a mead.” The wanderer reiterated. 

Barkeep sniffed and breathed deeply before walking towards one of the large barrels behind one, pouring a mug, and placing it in front of the Vagabond. He took the cup in his left hand and took a long drink from it. 

The door to the taproom opened once again. A trio of burly men entered, larger than the Vagabond by a head. They immediately walked up to the counter, right behind the strange man. 

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“We saw you come into town, but rude to not say hi to anyone.” the leader of the group said, a balding man with calloused hands. 

The Vagabond didn’t turn his head, instead taking another sip from the pint. 

“We don’t get many visitors,” one of the men asked with a sneer. “How much for the sword?” 

The Vagabond’s posture stiffened, though the movement was too subtle for the men behind him to notice. He placed his mug on the counter, slowly sliding his hand down the side of the cup until it rested on the wooden surface of the bar. 

“Never seen one like that,” the third man said, “Do you think it even works?” 

The lead man placed his hand of the Vagabond’s left shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your manners need some work, stranger. You got a name?” 

The Vagabond easily turned in the man’s grip, standing to face the trio. His hand fell back to its resting position on the hilt of his sword. He peered from under his straw hat into the eyes of the balding man, not speaking a word. 

The man’s mood quickly turned sour. “I asked a question. Answer before I lose my manners.” 

“Don’t harass the poor man,” The barkeep said behind the Vagabond. “And don’t make a mess.” 

“You heard the man,” the leader said, “We don’t want to make a mess. Answer my question.” 

The Vagabond’s hand slowly slid down the hilt, closer to the crossguard, his fingers slowly enveloping the handle. 

“Listen here you little-“ The man said, starting to step toward the Vagabond, his arm outstretched. 

He couldn’t manage to get an entire step in before the Vagabond sprang into action. 

The blade shot from its sheath, like a coiled spring. The flat of the hilt slammed into the man’s sternum, sending him stumbling backward, the breath knocked out of him. As quickly as it left, the blade slammed back into its sheath. 

The leader fell to the floor, coughing as he hit the ground. 

The poncho around the Vagabond had shifted during the movement, turning into more of a cape or cloak as the cloth moved away from his right arm, or at least where his right arm should have been. 

It was clear now, to everyone in the taproom, that the Vagabond’s right arm was missing. The shoulder simply terminated where the arm should have been. 

The other two began to step towards the Vagabond, their blood boiling, ready for a fight. However, the stranger quicky stopped them in their tracks. 

The sword flew from its sheath, the Vagabond’s left hand wrapped tightly around the hilt. The blade was unlike anything any of them had seen. Indeed, a foreign design for a blade, the curvature and the edge a far cry from the straight swords any of the local farmers might have seen. No, this blade was a katana, a blade of Northern design, meant to make up for the impurities of Northern iron. However, when made with quality steel and a master at the forge, the blade became something to rival some of the greatest swords produced by local smiths. 

This sword was something even past that. The steel of the blade seemed to be brighter, nearly white in its coloration. Even past that, the metal almost looked like a slab of marble, with black veins running up and down the sword that shone almost as brightly as the white of the blade. 

The two men slowly backed up, their hands held up in surrender. They backed past their leader, who was slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position, still struggling to fill his lungs with air. 

The Vagabond fell back into a relaxed stance, sheathing the blade once more. His movements were precise, not even a hair breadth off from where they should be. He pulled the poncho back to hist front, covering his missing right arm, and turned to leave. 

“Hey!” The Barkeep shouted, “You still need to pay!” 

The Vagabond turned, looking at the assailant who was nursing his chest. 

“I think my ‘friends’ here would be happy to pay.” 

He turned and left the bar, as quickly as he had arrived.