Clive was having the best day of his life. He honestly thought he wasn't going to get this far. Agnes and Levin were always going to be up for a little more chaos, and the kids were never going to turn down their first certified quest scroll, but Saul was usually a lot tougher to crack. Clive had originally wanted to wait until the end of the five-year retirement period, give Saul more time to get bored of the normal life, but Vugulis had provided a once-in-a lifetime opportunity. Now that Saul's focus was split between keeping up appearances and protecting his niece, Clive wouldn't need to explain anything for a while. Keeping the mystery was crucial, since it could quite possibly be the difference between success and failure.

"Hey, Saul?"

"Yes, Clive?"

"Could we stop over by that cave?"

"I hesitate to ask, but why should I stop when we're not fourty minutes from Southward?"

Saul looked back at Clive with his particular brand of composure, but Clive could see the grudge brewing behind his eyes. Rather than give him an answer, Clive turned toward the back of the cart, where Harold was sitting to the side.

"Harold?"

Harold started at his mention, and turned his face up to meet Clive's. Clive took a few moments to get a read on him. Harold's expression would suggest either guilt or shame. About what, he couldn't be sure, but he would find out at one point or another.

"Harold, how much experience do you have with that shield?"

Harold looked back at Clive with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. Clive wanted to slap himself then and there. All his attempts at Southward diplomacy had led to becoming the man you avoided, if not feared. Harold only met Clive's eyes for a moment before looking away warily.

"Uh... you mean this specific shield or-"

Clive turned back to look as Saul, doing his best not to let his shame show through.

"Well, there you have it! I assume we'll be wanting them in fighting shape sooner rather than later."

Clive could see that Saul was trying to find a whole in his argument, but struggling to do so. After a few moments, Saul simply directed the cart to stop next to the mouth of the cave. Before the cart had stopped moving, Clive was already dragging a large sack of stones towards a hill in the distance.

"Come along, Harold! We have work to do!"

***

"Alright, show me a fighting stance."

Harold did his best to mimic the way his grandfather looked in the portrait back at home. It was a little awkward spreading his legs that far, but he would need to get used to it if he was going to be a sucessfull {Shieldbearer}. As Harold peered over his shield, however, his mentor was looking on with a focused glare.

"D-did I do something wrong?"

"Hm?"

Clive's face wrinkled in confusion before straightening out in a placating smile.

"Oh, no, you're fine. That's actually a fairly decent defence. Self-taught, too?"

Clive had phrased it as a question, but something told Harold that he already knew the answer. Even so, it seemed better to respond, in case there was some lesson he was supposed to be learning.

"Yeah, I- well, mostly..."

Harold wanted to take credit for his abilities, but he would still be flailing around with a broadsword if Gramps hadn't steped in. Gramps had shown Harold how his stockier frame could help him ward off even the srongest attacks. He still had a long way to go, his sore arms were a testament to that, but Harold suspected he was likely better off than most new adventurers. Besides, Harold thought, this may be a lesson in humility.

Clive clapped his hands together excitedly. "Great! Guess that means I can skip the basics. How do you feel about letting me practice my aim?"

Harold nodded, preparing himself. This was one of the few training exercizes Gramps drilled into him, and the thud of pebbles making their mark felt like much more familiar ground. Harold allowed himself to fall into his old routine, making slight adjustments at each hit to let his sore arms take less of a beating. He could almost pretend like it was his gramps on the other end of those throws, passing the hours with more tales of his time on \The Path/. It was almost comforting, knowing that even if Gramps was beyond the grave, perhaps he could still live on in the same old routines.

Then the world was blue and yellow.

Harold was still trying to process what had happened when the side of his head flared up in pain. It was only then that the blue and yellow registered to Harold as the sky and grassy hill he was sprawled out on. Another moment passed before he could connect what had just happened. He didn't want to believe the side of his head had been targeted, that broke every rule of Gramps' old training, but as he sat back up and felt his head, a lump was already forming behind his ear.

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

"What was that, Harold!?"

Harold turned to meet Clive's glare with one of his own. It came as a shock to Harold, then, that Clive seemed ready to burst out laughing. Harold was only made more confused when Clive actually followed through with roaring laughter. Harold was certain he had done something wrong. Normally, Gramps would have charged over to explain some new lesson about the way of the {Shieldbearer}. At the same point he would usually be back to training, Clive had flattened himself on the dirt with giggles, staining his sandy robes in the process.

"I... I'm sorry Harold. It's just-"

Clive fell back into fits of laughter, leaving Harold absolutely baffled. Gramps may have done some questionable things during training, but he had never apologized. There had always been an understanding, for Harold, at least, that mentors were wisened veterans who always did things with purpose. Clive was acting like a kid who just learned what profanity was. The worst part was that Harold couldn't help but join in. Clive just seemed so honest about who he was. For a moment, Harold was able to forget about how wrong it all felt. Besides, this was all probably part of some new lesson Gramps hadn't gotten the chance to teach.

Once he was able to compose himself, Harold noticed something had changed. It was as if a knot he didn't know was there had suddenly unwound. Harold spared a glance at Clive, still sprawled on the ground. Before, Harold had felt more than a little nervous around Clive; it was hard not to see him as a walking disaster. Now, however, Harold had been able to see Clive as a person. Realizing this brought a twinge of guilt into his chest. For all his eccentricities, Clive had always solved any problems he caused, almost always solving something else in the process. It was like Systro, the way he always seemed to turn things around.

"I guess... we need to go over the basics after all..."

That was enough to break Harold out of his musings.

"Basics? I thought you said we could skip the basics?"

Clive pushed himself into a sitting position with a knowing smile. "I think that lump on your head would claim otherwise."

Harold grimaced. "That's not permanent, right?"

"It won't be if you can learn quick."

This time, Harold saw the rock coming. He was barely able to lift up his shield before the stone crashed into it. When Harold looked back toward Clive, he was already standing up again.

"Come on, then." Clive said, grinning. "I've still got a lot to teach you."

Harold couldn't help but give a sheepish smile back.

***

"Pop quiz! What's your job, Harold?"

Harold tried to give Clive an inquizitive glance, and got a rock to the face for his trouble.

"A pop quiz does not mean you get to slack off."

Harold continued to do his best at defending against the onslaught. Ever since they had started up again, Clive had been using bigger and bigger rocks to keep Harold on his toes. In fact, two of the largest stones yet were hurtling toward him in opposite directions. Seeing no other options, Harold blocked the one from the right, taking the other to his shoulder.

"You haven't answered the question, Harold."

For Harold, the answer was almost too simple.

"I'm a {Shieldbearer}. I defend the team."

Another pair of stones flew trough the air, and the right shoulder joined it's partner in agony.

"Wrong answer, try again."

Normally, Harold would have taken this as a test to see if he would hold his conviction, but something in Clive's voice made him reconsider. That tone was competely foregin to Harold, yet it felt familiar, in some strange way. As Harold tried to figure out something to say in his head, the rocks continued to pelt him, only making it harder to concentrate. Soon, all thoughts of forming a reply had been quenched in favor of just trying to stay upright under the bone-rattling attacks. That only seemed to make the attacks stronger and faster. Before long, Harold was back on the ground again, barely able to move at all. From his vantage on the ground, however, he could still see Clive marching over to him, stone in hand.

"This," Clive said, holding out the stone, "is your head."

Clive punched the rock, scattering it into dust.

"That," Clive continued, "was you getting hit in the head. How do we prevent that from happening, Harold?"

"I d-defend?" Harold stammered out, unsure of himself.

"And if you can't 'defend'?"

Harold steeled his resolve. Clive was treading on old lessons now, and that was something Harold knew by heart.

"If I can't defend," he replied, "then I've picked the wrong line of work."

Clive's scholarly gaze transformed into one of exasperation. As he ran a hand trough his hair, he started to grumble under his breath.

"You're Bill's grandson, alright..."

Harold was more than a little suprised by the frustrated mention of his Gramps. Everyone had always tread lightly around Bhalun after he had come to Southward for 'money reasons'. Not even Harold's pa had been willing to argue when Gramps and Gram had decided to move in. To Harold, the idea of disagreeing with Gramps, let alone voicing it, seemed as fruitless as spitting in the wind.

"Wha- you... you knew my gramps?"

Clive let out a breathy laugh. "What, are you crazy? Bill was out of the game before I was even out of the slums! All I know about him is legend spoken around the hearths."

Harold was already confused, now he was outright incredulous.

"Then why would you call him... that!?"

Clive left an eyebrow raised as he replied, "You never heard the tale of Brashfull Bill?"

It was then that the knot in Harold's stomach returned, and this time he was all too aware of it. Clive was challenging the core values that Gramps had trained him on. More than that, Clive's words clashed with everything Harold knew about being an adventurer. Harold wanted to object, to remind Clive of every word ever written by masters of the craft, but before he could get a word out, Clive was already walking away, empty sack in hand.

"I think that's enough for today. Let me know how that 'eternal stone' works out for you."

Once again, Harold was left with more questions than answers.

How does he know about Gramps' Eternal Stone Technique? Was there really a story Gramps didn't tell me? Just how many stories can one old man have?

As Harold staggered back toward Clive, another thought creeped into his mind. He wanted to shut it out, to pretend like it was as impossible as falling up, but too much had happened that day for him to ignore the possibility. Thus, as the thought took root, it soon became indisputable as fact. That fact then reared it's ugly head as the question Harold would dread to ask.

Gramps always had a verse of one adventurer's manual or another memorized, yet Clive never spoke a single one of them. Has Clive even read one of those before?