Ah, the village. My little hometown village. Like most villages, I presume—because I've never been to any other village, or any place else really, except the woods and hills surrounding this one, where my dad picks his herbs and mushrooms.

I've seen the mountains but only from a distance, the same way I have seen the sky, as if it's unreachable, merely to-be-looked-at, a flat background, a place perpetually there that never becomes here, a location that doesn't exist on the overworld map.

(Or so I've read. I've never actually seen the overworld map, either. You don't get to view it until you get your first quest.)

Anyway—

I've left my parents’ house with my dad's old rusted short sword, and I'm on my way to visit Eduard, the blacksmith, to get the sword repaired in time for my dad's birthday tomorrow. He'll be forty-eight (I think.)

“Hello,” I say to a few people I pass. Old people mostly. Not many young ones around. Just kids, then nobody, then me, then adults, then old people. Such are our demographics.

Eduard has been in the village for just a few months. We'd gone without a blacksmith for years before that (I barely remember white-haired Aleric, who passed when I was still in diapers) so he has been very welcome. He does steady business because everyone, from craftsmen to farmers, has metal tools that need repair, and he makes nails and furniture, and fine weapons too, for the hunters to use.

There’s no doubt he’s skilled.

That said, no one knows much about him. He came from the west. His speech is strange and accented. He doesn't volunteer information about his past except what he can't hide, like the scars on his arms and face. Those he explains away as hazards of his trade. It’s a likely explanation for sure. What’s certainly true is that the wounds are old, weathered and bronzed, as healed as they’ll ever be.

He's never been anything less than kind to me, however. I'm an easy target for caustic tongues—and I've yet to feel the lash of his. For a man of his size and appearance, he is surprisingly kind, even gentle.

I appreciate people who are kind to others when they don’t have to be.

“Greetings, Eduard,” I say, entering his smithy.

The air inside is hot: heated by the forge, and Eduard is hammering a tool upon an anvil.

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Clang! Clang! Clang!

He’s wearing his leather apron.

His finely carved walking stick leans against the door. His evergreen traveller’s cloak hangs from a hook, no doubt of his own making.

When he sees me, Eduard wipes the sweat and concentration from his face. “Greetings, young Grom!”

“I wonder if I may borrow a few minutes of your time,” I say.

“Always,” he replies, laying down his hammer. “What is it you need—and what is it you have there under your arm?”

“This,” I say, unrolling the rusted short sword, “is an old weapon of my father’s. Tomorrow is his birthday, and I wanted to ask if you would be able to repair it. Not, of course, for use, merely so it looks nice, perhaps hanging above our fireplace.”

Eduard takes the short sword and inspects it. He holds it one way, then another. He touches it, smells it. He holds it against the light flickering from the forge, then walks toward the window and carefully examines it in daylight. “The sword has seen better days, but beneath the rust is a fine weapon. It would be my honour to mend it to the best of my abilities.”

“How much?” I ask.

He looks me over (much less carefully than the sword), before saying, “It has been several years since I have worked with a weapon as refined as this, so let us say the privilege recompenses the work.”

“That’s very kind—but I couldn’t.”

“You can and you will.” He laughs heartily. “Leave the sword with me and come back after nightfall. I shall have it ready.”

I hand the sword over to him. “Thank you, Eduard.”

“The pleasure is my own,” he says, before picking up his hammer and returning to his work. I hear the clanging resume as I exit the smithy.

Nightfall. That gives me many hours to wander, first through the village, stopping at the inn (no visitors from far away) and the shoppe, before heading beyond the village boundaries, into the wilds. Not far, mind you; not without a world map, but far enough until I can no longer see the houses and huts, until I feel I am somewhere distant and exotic, and when I lie on the tall grasses and close my eyes, I can imagine myself as the world’s greatest adventurer, resting now between the successful end of one quest and the exciting beginning of another.

I lie like this and walk and lie and touch the trees and watch the sky for birds, and the sun keeps me company, on its ponderous route down from the heavens to the horizon. When it disappears finally behind the looming treetops and its light begins to varicolour and to dim, I return to the village, now dark except for fire and candlelight, and enter Eduard’s smithy once again.

This time the place is shadowed and empty.

The forge has cooled.

Eduard’s walking stick and traveller’s cloak are gone.

I say his name—there is no answer.

I search briefly to see if maybe he has left a written note for me, but I find nothing. I search again: this time for my father’s sword. But I do not find that either.

At this point I am confused. Eduard lives in a bedroom attached to the smithy, so he should be here.

“Eduard!” I try again, louder.

Silence. Plainly, he’s left. Hopefully just for a few minutes.

I wait.

Darkness descends, fuller and more absolute than before. It is no longer evening. The deeper part of night has fallen.

And then, as my mind begins to panic, because not only do I not have a gift for my father—but I have managed to lose his sword!—it happens…

The words appear to me:

(Only to me!)

> QUEST: Retrieve your father’s short sword.