Of Blood and Steel

Erador

Erador had first witnessed his father slay his man when he had seen but seven winters.

The night was bitter cold, the wind outside howling, the inn bustling with villagers and travellers alike, seeking shelter from the elements outside. He and his father sat at their own table, warming their hands over a nearby fire and their hearts with a warm mug of buttered rum. A fiddler played in the corner, and talk wafted through the air like mist on a frosty morning: quiet and careful. With strangers in the inn tonight, the atmosphere was less than lively.

Erador's father, Virion - Virion Strongbow, as known by some - was what the people called a Wanderer. He was a man without home, a man whose purpose was defeated long ago, who took up arms in the never ceasing fight against evil. He lived with Erador in a lonely farmhouse on the outskirts of the Shadowed Forest, some miles from this inn in Fovendrost. The townsfolk never trusted him, never would, not after Malea's death.

Virion wore a black tunic, black pants, a black jerkin and a black cloak. His long sword was slung to his back, along with his quiver and longbow, - a bow of unbelievable strength, of yew and ram's horn, stained a dark brown. His face was hard, scarred, and gaunt. Unshaven, hair long and unkempt. His eyes were dark, but held the bright flame of life within, and his brow was heavy, nose large but fair to the eye.

Erador, on the other hand, was a wiry lad (expected at the age of seven). His hair was long, but well-kept, braided back, chestnut. His face was smooth, fair, marked by a single scar along his left jawline. His eyes were black, brows thin and arching. He wore a ash-grey cloak, emblazoned with a silver tree before a rising sun - said to be the family crest - and beneath that a simple tunic of pine green.

A townsman, Beoric, had approached them, cheered on by a group of his friends at an opposite table. He was a fit man. Tall, handsome, with dark hair and bright eyes. Yet always had he been quick to a fight, and now - a consequence of his intoxication - he seemed to be wanting to pick one. "Oi! Strongbow! 'Ow many times do I 'ave to tell ya that yer not welcomed 'ere. An' yet 'ere you are with that blasted son of yers, wastin' some good drink and emptyin' the inn with yer presence." He spat at Virion's feet, wiping any hanging saliva with his sleeve.

Virion rested a calloused hand of his on Erador's, a signal not to speak or otherwise get involved, and stood from his chair. He rose to a height greater than most men, and had to stoop not to hit his head on the roof of the inn (albeit, the inn was notorious for having a low roof). "Beoric, son of Rowan, my business is not your business, and it would be better for us all if you were to leave me and my son alone to our drinks. We mean no harm."

Beoric stumbled backwards in order to meet Virion's eye, stuttering over his next words, "Y-ye can't frighten me like ye do th' others, Strongbow. I-w-we don' wan' you an' yer son 'ere, so get out or we'll force you." The inn had fallen silent, and everybody was staring at the two parties. The innkeeper had conveniently been absent from the room when the fight started.

Erador stared in silence as Virion raised a brow and crossed his arms, "You cannot frighten us, Beoric. Your meager threats are nothing compared to the howling of wolves that plague Erador and I on a nightly basis. There is no threat that you can make to me that would change my mind. Go back to your friends, and trouble us no more."

The man shifted uneasily, his eyes glancing between Erador and Virion several times before he spoke his answer, "There may be no threat I can make t' ye, but to yer son. . ." He drew a knife and stepped around Virion, towards Erador.

Erador himself had not time to move. Before Beoric had taken even two steps Virion had drawn a long, thin, black-bladed knife and driven it through the man's heart, the tip protruding from his breast. Blood welled up from the wound and the man sputtered, dead.