In a sheltered glade on the outskirts of the Everwood a low hum fills the chill autumn air. The wind is still yet the leaves rustle uneasily. Boughs bend unnaturally, reaching towards the lone hut crouched in the center of the glade. Evening clouds writhe and swirl, encasing the sky above the glade.

This tension doesn’t go unnoticed by the forest’s residents. Small bobbling flames appear around the edge of the clearing. Tiny half-shaped humanoids of stone and wood poke their heads from the reaching boughs and gnarled roots. A man with bark-like skin steps from a tree at the clearing’s edge. All breath deeply of the old magics unknowingly enacted at the edge of their home.

Closer to the hut, the pounding of a hammer on an anvil can be heard. Primordial words resonate with the rhythm in the air. The hut’s sole occupant, Andra Broadbark, hammers away at yet another short sword, an old song flowing from her lips. Nineteen similar looking swords sit in a far corner, iridescent with magic. This one is no different, already shining with half finished magic.

But by sheer happenstance, the last hammer blow falls as the last note is sung.

The song is finished flawlessly.

Normally mispronounced words are spoken perfectly.

The purpose, to protect, is clearly hammered in.

An ancient ritual is unwittingly completed.

The tension spikes, then bleeds away, leaving behind an iridescence no different from the other swords, save a flash of emerald when it catches the light.

Andra begins inspecting her work, inordinately pleased to have finished the song at the same time as her forge work. Half a foot of hilt and over a foot and half of blade greets her eyes as she scans every inch. Her maker’s mark, seven overlapping circles in a flower shape, is proudly etched above the guard. Seeing no flaws, she happily stacks it with the other mostly finished swords and spends the rest of her evening relaxing.

---

The sprites and wisps mingle a bit before wandering back into the Everwood. They flicker, chirp, and rattle excitedly of the new life brought into this world. The spriggan waits, observing until dawn before returning to the heart grove to spread the word among the tree folk. A new life, sung into a form of violence and steel just as they were of wild and wood.

---

Andra spends the next three days finishing up the swords for the merchant. Singing a song passed down to her from countless generations of Broadbarks, she works to instill a bit of extra durability and strength into the handles and edges. She finishes up just in time to hear the clop of hooves and trundle of wheels pulling into her glade, a familiar voice calling out. ‘Ho, the hut in the woods! Ya still alive in there, Andy?’

‘More alive than you’ll be if you keep calling me Andy, boy!’ Andra rolls her eyes, fighting the smile on her lips as she exits her home and shouts back.

Standing atop the driver’s seat of his double wide merchant wagon is a four foot tall red haired man with bronzed skin. Dressed in well made but worn travel clothing of tan and green, Samuel C. Merchant looks no different than the last dozen times Andra’s seen him.

Climbing down from his wagon, Sam hurries over to Andra and gives his old friend a firm hug. Andra returns it gladly before stepping back and giving Sam a once over. ‘You look healthy, boy, and happy. Happier than you usually look when coming to visit me anyway.’

Sam’s smile practically split his face as he spread his arms wide. ‘I’m just eager to get this done! This’ll be my last trip before I settle down with Heather and the little one for a few years.’ He looks between Andra and her home. ‘You did manage to finish them, yea?’

With a grumble about impatient children, Andra goes back into her hut and returns with two wrapped bundles. She sets them down in front of Sam to be inspected but he waves them off to be put in the wagon. ‘No need for me to appraise your work, Andra. Your weapons are always high quality and I’ve never doubted your magic.’

With that, the weapons are formally purchased, various extras are bartered for, and a nights worth of rest and conversation is had. The next morning sees Sam mounting back up, wishing a fond farewell and promising to visit with his family for a summer in the next year or two.

Andra watches as the charismatic and lively young man drives his wagon down the overgrown path from her home, before heading back inside for a cup of tea. As she enjoys her afternoon tea she can’t help but wonder. Where have her weapons and armor ended up over the years, and is the world a better place for having them in it.

---

Sam excitedly makes the two week journey to Glintelm in just under twelve days. The trek is uneventful and the roads blessed smooth. Early afternoon sees him in the merchant’s line at the gates, watching as the priests of Lane, God of Travel, exit the city on their unending pilgrimage. Their hymns are ringing, energetic, and constant as they bless the roads smooth from one church to the next.

After a short pass through inspections, Sam drives through the gates and into the crowded streets of the adventuring capital of the Erastine continent.

Most of the pedestrians Sam could see were wearing armor of some sort and everyone was carrying a weapon. Sam himself was wearing a lightly enchanted vest and sporting a mace. Both made by Andra. But where he was only armed for self defense, most of the crowd was armed to explore the Dungeon, the greatest source of money and magic in this half of the world.

After an hour of slow traffic and shooing away a dozen ‘horseshoe polishers’, Sam pulls into the alley of a shop. This shop is pushing well past two stories and painted a bright friendly orange. The sign above the door is massive, covering the entire second story face of the shop. It reads ‘Farwell’s Fantastic Finds’ with carvings of potions, swords, books, and ‘use your imagination’ scattered all around the name.

Upon entering the shop, Sam is hit with a deluge of smells and tastes that range from rancid to divine. Thirty seconds of trying not to inhale does nothing as the custom door enchantment tries to figure out what he likes the smell of most. Finally settling on slightly burnt cauliflower, the door ends its assault and Sam is freed to find his buyer of magical goods.

As Sam searches the emporium, his cart is left unattended but certainly not overlooked.

Two children in dirty clothes observe from separate street corners as a red haired halfling parks his wagon in the alley off of crazy John’s shop. The teen aged girl and boy watch as the man climbs down from his wagon and heads towards the front door.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

They look to each other before discreetly heading toward the wagon. In this crowd, they’re about as noticeable as grass in a field. The boy spots the halfling abruptly stopping in the doorway and starting to choke but doesn’t slow down to find out what crazy John did this time to ‘improve the customer experience.’

The girl watches as the boy enters the alley, waiting a half minute before following and meeting him at the back of their mark. Without words, the boy starts to work at the ties on the bundles, taking only one of whatever is in each package. The girl adjusts each bundle, retrying and stowing them as they were found.

Two minutes later the children have a sack full of assorted goods. The girl is finishing up with the last bundle as Sam turns the corner into the alley with crazy uncle John beside him.

‘Hey, stop! Thieves!’ is all he gets out before the kids are off at a sprint out the other end of the alley. Sam primes a tracking enchantment from one of his rings but a pale hand on his shoulder stops him from using it.

‘Save your magic, Sam. I’ll pay for whatever they took, and explain their situation. Their parents used to be friends of mine.’ Comes the somber answer to his questioning look.

Johnathan T. Farwell, eight and a half foot tall owner and proprietor of Farwell’s Fantastic Finds, removes his hand from Sam’s shoulder and gestures towards the cart.

‘Now, let’s see what’s missing and I’ll be more than happy to compensate you for your loss!’

---

‘Two magic short swords, half a dozen magic fruits of various kinds, two pairs of enchanted shoes, one magic belt buckle, and some sort of ensorcelled plate that makes bread slices.’

Elliot holds up the plate stacked with bread slices as he finishes the accounting of their ill gotten gains.

‘We made out pretty good this time! Think we have enough?’

A deadpan look is all he gets in return. ‘Yea, yea, I know, okay? But it’s not like we can go out and buy the kind of equipment mom and dad used. We couldn’t even afford our houOW HEY!’

Rubbing the sting out of his side, Elliot looks around the dusty shed. Their ‘home’ ever since their parents died and they couldn’t make rent in the upper district. They’d never be able to live in the middle district either but crazy John mentioned it to them and is always a bit too ‘friendly’ to anyone looking to buy it.

Finally dragging his gaze to his sister, Elliot can’t help but sigh at the look he gets back. With short dark blonde hair and light green eyes, Miranda is a beautiful young lady and the spitting image of their mother before she died. Her expression is both gentle and stern as she writes in the dust.

‘We’re very lucky to have a home at all, Ells. You know we’d be fighting for space in the lower district if it wasn’t for uncle John. Although that’ll probably change now that he’s seen us stealing from him.’

Both siblings grimace at the thought of losing the safety of their shed. Neither of them wanted to try to find a safe place to sleep in the crowded alleys and hostels of the lower district.

‘We weren’t stealing from crazy John though, just that halfling!’ Elliot disagrees.

His hopes are quickly dashed, however, as Miranda continues to write.

‘That merchant will probably blame uncle John and want him to pay for what we stole. We should gather the rest of what we’ve ‘collected’ and prepare to leave quickly if we must. Best case scenario we can stay another month until we can dive but we might also have to leave tonight.’

The mood is dim as the siblings swiftly dig up areas of their ‘yard’, pull boards from the floor, and even remove several of the wooden shingles. Soon enough there is a pile of mildly magical equipment almost as tall as Elliot sitting in the center of the shed.

Miranda goes to move the short swords to the pile, distractedly picking one up and immediately dropping it as she slices her palm on the exposed blade. The whole sword flashes and magic floods the room from the thaumaterium, suspending everything in the primal magic of the first plane.

The blood spilled quickly forms a tether from Miranda’s palm to the center of the maker’s mark on the blade, its etchings filled with emerald fire. Words come unbidden to her mind, a short binding and blood oath. The oldest of familiar contracts and never used today for the dangers that come from binding souls together.

The primal magic demands the ritual continue, forcing Miranda to speak her oath. Her lips move but, as all the times before, no sound comes out. Her eyes grow frantic as the magic doesn’t stop or continue, the pressure simply building with every moment.

The air crackles with wild power as Miranda desperately tries to figure out how to continue the ritual. She silently screams as Elliot collapses to the floor, unconscious from the building pressure.

The pressure continues to build, every object in the room starting to shake itself apart from the strain. Miranda’s vision tunnels as something from the thaumaterium wanders through the wide open door. And all at once, the pressure is gone and both Miranda and Elliot gasp, though for different reasons.

Elliot can move his lungs again. Miranda’s vision expands back into the face of a giant barn owl. She immediately begins to struggle violently against the ritual’s hold. The owl backs up a step, resolving itself into a masked man in a void black full bodysuit. The mask is an uncomfortably bright white with details the same black as the suit and sized a bit too large for the body it sits on.

The man stares at Miranda silently for several moments. Miranda tries to signal her lack of voice but accomplishes little more than gaping like a fish and wiggling a little bit. Several more awkward moments pass before the man finally speaks, his voice a thousand grains of sand in a blender, each grain shouting secrets and lies in equal measure.

‘Oh! You’re unable to speak! How pleasant.’ The man exclaims while starting to circle Miranda.

‘I’d give quite a bit to make that a reality for lots of people! But you’re in a bit of a bind here I’d say, and I will say it. Because you can’t.’

He stops in front of her and another minute of silent staring ensues before.. ‘You’re in quite a bind young lady.’

Pause

‘sigh’

‘Generally, when I banter at people they banter back, or at least attack me. Maybe I don’t like quiet people very much…’

The man winds down like a toy out of tension. Miranda starts to doubt her sanity as minutes pass and the bird man remains motionless, only to start back up again as if nothing happened.

‘But that’s neither here nor there!’ He gesticulated wildly. ‘You, my silent but stuck friend, have helped me a great deal by leaving the door WIDE open. Thanks for that! It’s awfully dangerous. I’m so chuffed about it in fact that I’ll share a capital S Secret with ya!’

The man hops up to Miranda and leans into her ear. She gets a whiff of rotting wood and fresh ink as his words barely make it past his lips and into her mind.

‘All magic has three requirements. Power, Intent, Form. In that order, each is greater than the next. Thank you for the freedom, Miranda.’

Miranda blinks and the man is nowhere to be seen but his words hang bright in her mind as the primal magic once again threatens to consume everything in the room. The words expand as she thinks on them, from a few whispered words to a litany of facts on the basics of magic. She understands now that the binding ritual had all the power she could need but didn’t have enough intent to overcome the form of speaking the oath.

So she centers her thoughts on the sword and the words of the oath.

Protection.

Guidance.

Fellowship.

Miranda focuses entirely on the oath and pushes her thoughts down the blood tether to the sword, wondering a bit too late if a sword can have a soul.

The sword sends back a single thought, direct and sharp. ‘Accepted.’

Neither the sword or Miranda have time to discuss their new bond as the excess primal magic rushes into them, rendering both unconscious.