The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 5

Shelter. I need to find shelter. Damn bandits. Came out of nowhere. Left me for dead. The others... oh fuck, the others. Hopefully they died quick. There's nothing left. Bastards razed the cart once they took everything. No weapons, no food, nothing but the bloody clothes on my back. Damn them all to Baltevmt.

A trail of little red spots follows me through the snow, glistening in the midday sun. An occasional scarlet handprint lingers on the bark of a tree. The world, though already chilly from the kiss of winter, breathes an unrelenting cold onto my skin. Need to find shelter, make a fire, get some food. The edges of my vision blur in and out, teasing me with clarity as I trudge and stumble. The air is silent all around, the birds seeking warmer weather.

In the distance rings out the clash of metal striking metal. A battle, or perhaps a duel between some of my brethren soldiers. Yet it comes in a solid rhythm. Regardless, it could mean help. Despite the dizziness in my head and my unstable legs, I head toward the sound. Each strike beckons me, promising safety and food and a place to rest. Though it takes some time, the sound becomes louder and louder, morphing into more of a pounding echo. I run, desperate for its calling. The air grows warmer as I draw near, the snowy ground clearing with every step. Through the trees, a building takes shape. One level, small, but hopeful still. Soon, the snow is gone and the heat becomes tremendous. To the right of the hut sits an active forge, an orc hammering away on a red-hot blade. I break through the trees, my body no longer willing to move. Huge, shirtless, and streaks of gray running through his black beard and ponytail, the orc finds me. The scent of lavender trickles into my nose before everything goes black and I thud upon the ground.

A tune, hushed like a whisper and pitched low, stirs me out of the dark fog of sleep. Some heavy thing is on top of me, its weight a welcome comfort. My body aches all over, remnants of the lost battle. Yet the song sung in a language not of my own brings me a serenity. My eyes open to the hut full of animal skins and skulls, as well as beautifully crafted weapons. Sitting next to me, his song filling the small space, is the orc.

I made it. I found shelter and a kind soul. Thank the Novhina.

"Been a bit more than a week," he says, his tune coming to a close. Those he wears a serious look, his crimson eyes hint at the humor hidden underneath.

The hut, the forge, the lavender... the Smith.

"There ya go," he chuckles when he sees my recollection. "Started to wonder if you'd forgotten about your greatsword."

"Do you still have it?" I ask, eyes full of wonderful hope and excitement.

"Told you I'd hold onto it, didn't I?" The Smith rises from his stool and goes to the wall at the other end of his hut. Hung there, among other splendid pieces, is a long and wide blade made of steel. He removes it from its spot and carries it over. A wave of lavender washes over me as he lays it in my lap.

"Thank you." I try to sit up, but my muscles scream.

"Ease up, little man." A gentle hand sends me back to the bed. "Rest up here for a few days, then you can be off with your new toy."

For the next three days and nights, the Smith keeps a caring eye on me. Three hot meals a day, hours of conversation, and plenty of physical aid help fill our time. At dawn on the fourth day, my body has rested enough to walk with little assistance. I can even wield the new sword with relative ease. The Smith sends me on my way, promising to craft another weapon should I ever need it, and I head into the west.