Chapter 3: Brightshield

TRISTAN

Tristan could feel that his time alone in the forge was nearly over. His arm was sore, and his clothes were soaked with sweat. The first part of the day he’d spent learning about his freshly-Awakened Core, which had actually made his new hammer unusable until it was Soulbound, and that had been... tricky. His Core said it replaced a portion of the materials with soul. Figuratively speaking, a large part of himself had already gone into this hammer during its planning and crafting, but his Core was far more literal.

He’d tried different things, all of which failed, until he went back to the basics. “Items you craft,” it read. Somehow, he had to do enough to “craft” the hammer again. Since the overall form was done, the only things he could think of to add were flourishes.

In the end, he added a gold inlay to the handle and his initials to the top of the head. Once all that was finished, the hammer once again felt natural in his hand.

With it finally Soulbound, Tristan was able to move on to a different project. The lump of metal before him now was roughly sword-shaped, he supposed, but no one would call it one yet. Nor would they for many, many hours.

That’s not to say it hadn’t come a long way from the patterned-steel billet he’d pulled from his father’s supplies.

That deceptively simple metal bar had already been an impressive piece of craftsmanship in itself. Perfectly balanced, the length of his arm, and as thick as his thumb. Tristan wondered how long it had taken his father to forge. He could only imagine the hours of folding and balancing, creating layers upon layers of steel. Hundreds of layers, he had no doubt. All to even out impurities, making it stronger with each fold. More beautiful, too. Yes, he could (and probably should) have begun with easier or softer metals, but his father had said he could use any of the supplies below mithril. This was what he wanted; this billet had spoken to him.

It wanted to be his sword.

Tristan smiled. The difference in his craft after leveling just once was monumental. He could feel where the process had gotten a little easier. His strikes were a bit more precise, and the metal responded better. Leveling up clearly came with advantages.

Even making a sword blade, something he’d never tried before, Tristan could feel the progress. Inch by inch. His strikes weren’t guided, per se, but his instincts were better. How to narrow the two edges. How to preserve the point. He could see his own improvement. Even when it felt like he’d spent too much time reheating, he knew it wasn’t true. He quickly learned that this steel had to be yellow hot, not orange or pink, to be worked properly.

Tristan still made mistakes. He knew that. But the metal was strong, and so was he. Both would be forged until, eventually, they would become what they were meant to be. But even after his Awakening and the introduction of his new Skills, the process required patience. “Good smithing always takes time,” his father liked to say.

The tip might have already made for a great spear point, with some grinding. But that would have been a waste. This was going to be something special.

Eventually.

“Not bad for your first session,” his father said from behind him. “You chose your materials well.”

Tristan was shocked. He hadn’t heard or felt the man come in, and that had never happened before. Despite the surprise, he quickly replied, “It called to me.”

“I’d have chosen the same,” his father chuckled, leaning toward him and patting him on the shoulder. “But only if I wanted to waste time making weapons instead of the vastly superior armors that stop them!”

“Maybe you just haven’t found strong enough swords.”

The old man nodded. “Perhaps. I sincerely hope one day you’ll be able to show me the error of my ways.” He put his arm fully around his son’s shoulders. “But that day is not today. We’ve got to get you cleaned up. Your mother wants to celebrate your achievement, and obviously I do as well. Besides, your time was up an hour ago.”

Tristan blinked. “An hour! Wow, I guess time got away from me a little.”

“It happens. You’ll get faster as you level. Just get inside, clean off, and put on something respectable. I’ll take care of the forge.”

“Right. Thanks, Dad. Just, leave it on my bench?”

The older smith grunted and jerked his head back toward the door.

Tristan took the hint, though he couldn’t help cycling back to his lost time. How did I spend an entire extra hour? It hardly seems real. He was surprised the old man hadn’t come to get him sooner. Though, maybe he had.

Twenty minutes later, Tristan walked into the front room wearing the deep green shirt he’d chosen mostly because it was on top of his ‘clean’ pile.

Both his parents were waiting for him.

“I like that color on you,” his mother said. “And now that you've Awakened, maybe wear more of it. I'm sure you could attract--”

Tristan let out an exasperated sigh. “Mom, it hasn't even been a day!”

“No time like the present!” she replied. She might have continued to pressure him, but Marrik swooped in and asked if they shouldn’t be heading out already.

Tristan mouthed a quick, Thank you, to which his father winked back. The older smith took his wife's hand and then led the way into the brisk evening air.

It only took Tristan three turns to realize where they were going, and his stomach leapt in anticipation. His father never went to the Roadside Inn, mostly because, as the old man was fond of saying, "It’s too dignified for honest folks.”

Located off Woodsedge’s main road, just inside town, the Roadside Inn was the only restaurant for miles able to boast a Tier 3 Chef year round. They also kept everything obsessively tidy, which was what Tristan guessed upset his father the most. He wanted something a little more worn, with more character, like the scars on well-tested armor.

The Roadside Inn owners clearly felt the opposite, and who was to say they were wrong? Their business had gained a stellar reputation, with costs to match.

That this was where Marrik was leading told Tristan just how seriously he took this celebration.

- - - - -

MARRIK

Marrik watched his son--his newly-Awakened-blacksmith son!--with immense pride. Not that he let it show much. He allowed his smile to rise a hair. More would risk his reputation. But, he admitted, the boy had worked hard these past months. His drive and determination had been clear. The hammer he’d made was proof of his growing skills.

Clearly the boy’s Path had finally agreed.

He even got a great Core, Marrik thought. Though that Soulbound thing could be troublesome. It all depends on how he grows. He could end up one of the greatest Professionals in the realm!

He couldn’t wait to work alongside the boy, to see his skills and levels grow. For now, all he could do was beam (internally) and praise his son. While tempering the boy’s talent with constructive criticism, of course.

No one could really know how the boy would progress, or how his Core would change. It’s possible he would be offered skills to support his “Soulbound thing” in later classes, but that didn’t always happen. It’s also possible Tristan would be offered an Inheritor class for being Marrik’s son, but he doubted the boy would accept it even if offered. He knew that everyone walked a different Path and that Core growth varied person by person.

Marrik would rather work metal and tell it what it would be. He could mold it, shape it, refine it... and then fix things afterward, if such efforts were needed. They often were.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

But with Tristan?

He could never deny Tristan anything. Except a broader smile. The proud smith had to draw the line somewhere! Appearances mattered.

Marrik reclined in his chair and grumbled. Now here he was sitting in an overly-padded, narrow chair. The kind that was clearly designed for smaller, softer people. The kind who hired people to do his type of work. His skin always seemed to itch around table cloths and too many forks. His life was fine without the frills and decorations. This entire place felt like it was looking down its nose at him. At the entire town.

Marrik preferred to just stay home, or, if he had to go out, to find a tavern where they weren’t afraid of a little dirt and grime, where people came to relax after they actually worked a full day.

But this was a BIG day. He knew what it meant to his son, so it meant a lot to Marrik too. No one could deny now that his son had truly achieved something. And not through mindless hacking and slashing of monsters, but with his own power. Shaping metal, the way it should be!

He sipped his water to hide his growing smile as his son speared the final bite of what had been a massive steak.

He hoped coming to the Roadside Inn made his feelings clear. Christa hadn’t even blinked an eye when he’d started walking here. If anything, her smile had crept that little bit wider, pinched just behind her rosy cheeks. She’d known. Of course she’d known. She knew him better even than he knew himself, he felt. Except...

He ignored the forever-blinking prompt in the corner of his vision and smiled. Family is always worth it, he thought.

The serving girl returned with the final course: three decadent slices of chocolate cake. But no sooner was Marrik’s placed before him than someone else snuck up behind him and lightly tapped his shoulder.

“I beg your pardon, Master Hammerson,” the man whispered in a tone Marrik was sure only he could hear. “I hate to interrupt, but there’s a certain friend of yours, in the back, that requests your presence immediately. Sir.”

The man had barely caught Marrik’s attention, which spoke to great skill in [Stealth].

Marrik looked at his son, diving into his second bite already. He loved seeing that boy smile. He saw Christa was watching too, though her smile was even more radiant. She’d always found her greatest joy in serving others, especially their family. She’d never failed to brighten Marrik’s days.

Clearly neither had noticed this man’s approach.

“We’re in the middle of something,” Marrik said as quietly as his deep voice could allow.

“Indeed, sir, and again, I do apologize, but...” he quieted a bit, especially as Marrik flattened his hands on the table, visibly angered. “You will want to speak with him, sir.”

The man did not look away but instead met Marrik’s eyes. There was a quiet power within. Marrik used [Identify] on the man and was impressed by what he saw.

[?, human, level 55]

The man bowed politely, clearly waiting.

Marrik raised his voice to normal levels. “Excuse me, Christa, Tristan, but I must deal with something.” He glared at the messenger and ended with a growling, “and quickly, I hope.”

The messenger bowed again, as if his agreement was obvious. Then he pulled Marik’s chair back smoothly. As soon as the blacksmith stood, the man began leading him in the direction of the building’s rear. Marrik frowned at all the “courtesy” he’d been shown. No one should bow that many times in a day. Quickly adding, unless it’s to the gods.

Marrik flexed his hands, trying not to be too annoyed as the messenger held the door--to the kitchen--open for him. How many eyes had followed his march? They better not bother Christa for details.

Whoever had interrupted his meal had better have an incredible reason for it.

He rounded the corner, passing by a server hoisting a tray of steaming soup bowls, and immediately understood.

Hesden blessed Brightshield.

The legendary paladin himself stood in the rear corner of a small town inn’s kitchen. Wearing only a common tunic and some leather breeches, none of his normal glimmering white mithril armor was there to steal any of the room’s light. Assumedly his weapons and shield were in storage as well.

Even without the man’s normal regalia, Marrik knew his friend immediately.

A full head taller, Hesden always kept his starkly white hair closely cropped, allowing it to outline his face and impossibly-square jaw with unflagging precision. The whiteness was not because of age, Marrik knew. The paladin couldn’t be over 300. But the power and duty that coursed through the man had left their mark upon him. His Path was a difficult one to walk.

Marrik used [Identify] anyway, just to be sure. He’d never met a mimic good enough to copy a person this well, but the world was growing stranger all the time with the Frontier always expanding.

[Hesden Brightshield, Human, level 103]

{{Beacon of Hope}}

Marrik’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Trying to blend in?” he said with a subtle grunt. What he meant was clear: Why are you here?

The paladin was slouching against the counter, though he tried to straighten up upon hearing Marrik’s voice. His hands wrapped around the edge, knuckles white with strain.

Then Marrik noticed why. His shirt stuck to his left side before he plucked it free. Even still, it was discolored slightly. Possibly bleeding, Marrik worried, though it seems too dark. It looked bad enough that any healers in the next room should have felt it. But no one had so much as noticed.

Marrik caught his friend’s eyes, questioning silently.

Brightshield did not respond, instead dismissing the messenger by tossing him a heavy-sounding coin pouch. “I must now beg your leave, young sir, but hope these few tokens show my thanks.”

The messenger’s smile was immediate, especially upon hefting the pouch. At least he had enough sense not to count the coins before leaving.

“Master Hammerson--"

“Just call me Marrik, Hesden. We’re well past formalities.”

The paladin winced, nodding, and a hand went to his side briefly. “As you say, Marrik. First of all, I beg forgiveness for the abruptness of my summons, and I implore--"

“You didn’t call on me for pleasantries,” Marrik interrupted again, crossing his arms. “What’s happened? Be plain.”

“I, or rather, my party...” The paladin leaned his head back slightly and closed his eyes as pain danced across his features. Marrick caught sight of black veins stretching up his neck from his chest.

“They’re gone,” Brightshield continued, coughing. “They’re all... I’m all that remains.”

Marrik dropped his arms to his sides. “How is that possible?”

“I know not, only that ‘tis so.”

Marrik pointed at the man’s clearly-wounded side. “How bad is it?”

The paladin grimaced, removing his hand and lifting his shirt to show the necrotized flesh beneath. “Never have I been so cursed. It fucking hurts all the way into my blessed soul.”

Marrik blinked at the uncharacteristic language. “Took a curse to finally loosen your tongue, eh?” He gave a half-hearted chuckle before turning away, looking back toward the doorway, beyond which his wife and son were hopefully still enjoying their stupidly-expensive dinner. “If you can’t handle it, how can my little town? What sort of trouble are you bringing to my doorstep?”

“Such is not my intent,” the man began, trying to smile reassuringly, “though I fear I may fail in that endeavor. ‘Tis why I must be off, and post haste.” He leaned forward, voice growing softer. “Have you mended it yet?”

“Not entirely,” Marrik admitted. “It’s a magnificent piece of smithing, as I told you before, and the magic coursing through it is powerful, too. I must be careful not to diminish it in any way, certainly not with the rarity of white mithril, but I do believe I could--” Marrik caught himself before running on too far into the process he could see his friend cared nothing about. “The thing still needs days, Hesden.”

The paladin sighed. “I haven’t days to give, Marrik. I have hours, if my guess be true. Without Celeste, I thought to ride to Midkeep, as Cleo is all the way in Rockmoor..." he coughed again, interrupting his explanation. “Marrik, I cannot see the future, but I have prayed on mine, and every sign has brought me here.”

Marrik frowned. “It’s my son’s Awakening day.”

“Then I beg for both your forgiveness and my life. I need it mended, or I will assuredly fall. I saw not what took the others, but without my full regalia, I fear I will fare no better.” His elbow tucked into his side protectively, as he produced another coin pouch from seemingly nowhere. “Might additional motivation shorten your estimate...?”

Marrik tried not to be insulted by the question. “Hesden, we’re friends, and we’ve already agreed on payment. I won’t take more.” Then he sighed. “Even if I must work through the night to help you. And I will, Hesden. For you, I will.”

With tears welling up in the man’s eyes, the coin purse vanished. Then Hesden Brightshield clasped Marrik’s hand with a strength and need that was almost concerning. Marrik feared he would be pulled into an embrace by the paladin’s strength. “Thank you, truly, my friend. You may have just saved my..."

He trailed off, likely for the same reason Marrik turned his head toward the kitchen door.

They both felt the approach of the raw energy radiating from his newly-Awakened son.

“He feels strong,” Brightshield whispered to his friend with a smile.

Then the door opened just a crack, not even making much noise, though clearly neither man relied on that to know the boy had slipped into the shadows just within.

“I hope so,” Marrik replied. He shook his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. Some arrogant paladin just put a rush on my queue.”

Hesden pulled him into a long, stoic embrace. “May I call upon you tomorrow then?”

“Won’t be done sooner,” Marrik said, looking down at his hands. Could I get it done tonight? He genuinely wondered. The blinking icon in the corner of his eye tempted him, but he ruled it out just as quickly. He had been pushing his limits for years. Why stop now?

Hesden nodded before dipping into a full bow. Then he walked toward the door, where he paused next to where Tristan hid.

“Congratulations, young Hammerson, and you’ve no need to hide from me. May your future be blessed and your Path as prolific as your father’s.”

Marrik smiled to himself as his friend walked out.