When it comes to country folk, there is little demand for swords and armor. What would a peasant farmer need a sword for? Could they even afford the metal that went into it?

Not all ore is equal and the quality of one's resources matters more in the crafting of a weapon that could save your life than a tool for the farm.

Cid was not some illustrious master. His forge was little more than a bellows and anvil.

The people of the nameless village he called home needed nails, not arrowheads.

Finishing the day's labor was a relief for Cid. He was not a young man by any measure and his bones ached from pounding iron all day.

The work might be the best in the village, for a tradesman. But, he'd never managed to save any of his income.

Alcohol was a vice reserved for the rich, not that it ever stopped anyone else from indulging.

As he cooled his furnace and closed down shop for the day, Cid felt his hands tremor. He hadn't had a drink all day.

He took some pride in the fact that he never let his habit intrude on his livelihood. But, with every advancing year, his nerves grew increasingly frayed.

A smith who can't hold a hammer steady couldn't call him such.

Overcoming his appetite for booze, however, was something beyond him.

Departing the shop, Cid entered the adjoining office he'd made into his home.

He moved with haste to the backroom where he kept the drink. It was no fancy rice wine or swill beer. The blacksmith flavored whiskey. The brand didn't matter, just its effect.

The first cup went down as water.

For the first time all day, he felt alive.

"Hah," he sighed contentedly. But, a certain discontent took his heart. His relationship with the alcohol was a bitter one. But, once, it had been the only relief from the misery that consumed him.

Many years ago, he'd been happy. His wife and son had been with him.

One day, though, his son, barely a man, had been walking through the village. It wasn't a rare occasion, it's just what he happened to be doing that day.

Cid's son had been a good lad. Never caused trouble for the family. Always pitched in. He was gonna inherit the smith one day.

That was Cid's plan at least.

The specifics escape the old man, now. But, an immortal happened to come down off his cloud and into the nameless village.

No one knows why. But, the immortal cut down Cid's son before jumping on his flying sword and returning to his dammed cloud.

The tremors in Cid's hands stop as he pours himself another cup.

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With greedy gulps, he consumes the astringent liquid. This time it doesn't taste so much like water.

Suffice it to say, Cid's wife couldn't bear the loss and took her own life.

In such a short period, the smith had lost everything that mattered to him. And building a future no longer matters when the ones you would spend your life with are gone.

Tears don't fall from his eyes. He's long cried rivers. All that's left is melancholia and regret.

Cid thinks about how his story is not so special.

A boy had, only a few months past, gone missing.

Few wanted to say it. But, he would. It was the immortals. Those bastards.

The boy's body was never found. Which isn't uncommon.

The immortal sects "recruit" by abduction. It doesn't seem to matter who they choose so long as they have a body.

And, ascending into immortality is no guarantee. The chances of becoming one of the bastards are low.

Cid thinks mournfully for Jerol and his parents.

The blacksmith didn't know the young man, Rook. But, he knew of him.

A good kid, if a bit too soft.

Herbs weren't Cid's thing, he favored hard things. Things that wouldn't break with barely a tap.

Though, as he was growing older, Cid found his health deteriorating. And medicine was never something the village had in abundance.

Without Rook supplying the herbs to the local medicine man, the price of the man's services was going up.

Cid sighed, "Doesn't matter."

He didn't know what the afterlife entailed. Whether he'd be going to where his son and wife went, returning to the cycle of reincarnation, or just facing oblivion. It didn't matter.

The cups kept being filled and emptied at a regular rate as the night fell. And, eventually, Cid found peace through mindless slumber.

The next day, the furnace heated up and Cid worked on his orders.

A few customers came and went. They were friendly, but not friends.

As midday came upon him, the door to Cid's shop opened and a figure entered.

"Welcome," the blacksmith said without looking up from his work.

"Hello," the man said as he waited patiently.

"Just give me a minute to finish this."

Several minutes later, Cid turned to the customer and felt his eyes widen in surprise.

The figure before him had a regal bearing. His clothes stood out more than anything else. Orange, white, and brown silks seemed to shimmer in the light.

In a village like Cid's, Cotton was the best one could hope for. Yet, this stranger was dressed like a prince.

Why would someone like that come to his smith? Why even come to the village?

An alarm rose in Cid's mind as the realization came over him. It was an immortal.

Cid swallowed painfully as he began to feel fear and then anger.

Before the anger could manifest, he met the immortal's eyes.

"Rook?"

It was the young man who'd gone missing.

Cid didn't know him personally. But, in a village this small, you know the people.

"Hello, Cid," the figure said somewhat familiarly.

The fear fell away from the old man. But, the anger only continued to rise.

"You're one of them."

The blacksmith's hand tightened around the handle of his hammer.

Rook looked at him pensively for a moment before nodding.

Cid's face distorted in a complicated look.

"Go away, immortal."

The old man turned from his guest and returned to his forge.

The young immortal didn't turn to leave.

"I need something," came Rook's steady voice.

Cid felt himself swallow. Suddenly the fear that had subsided came back to replace his anger.

"And, what will you do if I say no?"

The man had lost his family and hope. He'd long been prepared to die.

Rook was silent for a moment before saying, "Rather than discuss what I'll do, how about we discuss price?"

Cid gnawed his lip.

Were it any other immortal, there would be no talk. But, this one had been his people once.

Tears threatened to fall from the old man's eyes as he fought with the dilemma of helping a bastard immortal and helping someone he'd, only the night before, mourned for.

"First," Cid said as he set down his tools, "tell me what happened. Then…. Maybe, we can talk price."

Even this concession took everything the bitter old man could muster.

Rook smiled slightly, "Of course."

Cid closed the shop and brought the immortal into his office/home.

Two cups of whiskey came out. One of which disappeared and was quickly replaced by another.

Feeling his nerves calm, Cid leveled an even gaze at the man before him.

"So, immortal, what's your story?"

The impeccably dressed young man smiled and began.